The monsoon had turned the city into a shimmering maze of rain and neon, the kind of night that begged for reckless decisions. My loft apartment was a haven, its high windows rattling with the storm outside, the air inside thick with the scent of sandalwood candles and unspoken promises. Priya and I had been flirting with danger for weeks—coworkers who’d crossed lines at after-work drinks, our banter laced with heat that promised more. Tonight, she’d shown up at my door with a proposition: One night, I’m yours. Your girlfriend, your fantasy, till the rain stops. The words alone had my blood roaring, and now she was here, ready to burn the world down with me.
Priya stood by the couch, her black dress a second skin, hugging every curve—her breasts full, her hips a sinful sway, her gaand round and perfect under the tight fabric. Her hair fell in dark waves, catching the candlelight, and her eyes held a wicked spark as she kicked off her heels, bare feet padding toward me. “So, lover,” she purred, voice dripping with intent, “what’s a one-night girlfriend supposed to do?”
I stepped closer, my pulse a drumbeat. “Everything,” I said, voice low, raw. “Starting with this.” I cupped her face, pulling her into a kiss that was all fire—lips crushing, tongues clashing, a chudai of mouths that left us both gasping. She tasted like wine and desire, her moan vibrating against my lips as her body pressed closer, her choot grinding against my thigh through her dress. My land was rock-hard, straining against my pants, and she knew it, her hand sliding down to stroke me, teasing through the fabric.
“Fuck, Priya,” I groaned, my hands gripping her hips, feeling the heat of her gaand as I pulled her tighter. She laughed, sultry and bold, her fingers undoing my shirt, nails scraping my chest as she bared me. “You’re packing, huh?” she teased, her palm cupping my dick, stroking slow, deliberate, until I was cursing, my control slipping. I yanked her dress up, the fabric bunching at her waist, revealing lace panties that did nothing to hide her choot—wet, ready, begging for attention.
“You wore these for me,” I growled, my fingers hooking the lace, tugging it aside to tease her, circling her heat until she gasped, her head falling back. “Maybe,” she panted, her hands fumbling with my belt, freeing my land, hot and pulsing in her grip. She stroked me, her thumb circling the tip, and I groaned, kissing her harder, our breaths ragged. “Fuck me, Arjun,” she whispered, voice raw, and that was it—the leash snapped.
I spun her, bending her over the couch, her gaand arched perfectly, the lace panties no barrier as I slid them down. My hands roamed, squeezing her curves, my lips brushing her spine as she shivered, moaning my name. “You want this?” I asked, my land brushing her choot, teasing, testing, my fingers slick with her need. “Yes,” she begged, pushing back, “chod na, now.” I didn’t make her wait. I thrust in, slow at first, filling her inch by inch, her tight heat pulling a groan from deep in my chest. She was perfect, her moans loud, unashamed, as we found a rhythm—hard, deep, the kind of chudai that shook the soul.
Her nails dug into the couch, her body rocking with every thrust, her gaand bouncing as I gripped her hips, driving faster. “Harder,” she demanded, and I gave it to her, my hand sliding to tease her clit, circling until she was trembling, her cries sharp, desperate. “Fuck, yes,” she screamed, her choot clenching around me as she came, her whole body shaking. I wasn’t far behind, the heat of her pulling me under, my land pulsing as I groaned, spilling into her, both of us collapsing in a sweaty, breathless heap.
We lay there, tangled, her head on my chest, the rain still falling outside. “Some girlfriend,” I murmured, kissing her hair, and she laughed, soft, sated. “Only for tonight,” she whispered, but her eyes said we’d break that rule again.