Seattle felt colder than it should in May.
It wasn't the kind of chill that lingered in weather forecasts--it was something deeper, the sort that slipped beneath my skin, lingered beneath my clothes, and refused to leave. Quiet. Controlled. Restrained. It was as if the city itself was telling me to behave, to hold back the fire that had started quietly burning inside me.
Shaurya and I had been here just shy of eight months. Married two years, yet somehow it felt different here in the cool, rainy calm of Seattle compared to the frenetic warmth of Bangalore. Back home, we barely had time to breathe between engagement, family gatherings, late-night dinners, and early-morning commutes. Everything was fast, urgent, crowded.
Here, it was different. Life was quieter, more spacious, almost unnervingly peaceful. At first, I had relished it. We had more room to explore each other slowly, more nights of quiet intimacy, deeper conversations under blankets, laughter spilling through an apartment that finally felt like ours alone.
Most mornings I drifted from bed in one of Shaurya's oversized cotton tees--nothing underneath but a pair of soft boy-shorts that skimmed my hips. He loved teasing me that I should go "properly naked at home," but practicality (and the draft in our old windows) won out; braless was my compromise. My breasts--a comfortable full C-cup, just generous enough to stretch the fabric--felt deliciously unconfined beneath his shirts. I liked the way the hem brushed the tops of my thighs, a secret promise of skin that made even pouring coffee feel faintly illicit.
I was genuinely happy--no tragedy, no void to fill. Shaurya was everything I'd dreamed of: attentive, caring, and surprisingly adventurous in bed. Yet beneath all that comfort, something had begun to stir quietly inside me. A restless ache, gentle at first, easy to ignore--but lately it had sharpened into something more urgent. It whispered to me at night, kept me awake after Shaurya drifted into satisfied sleep beside me.
I wasn't unhappy, just... hungry.
My days started early, mornings that often left me shivering beneath the soft linen sheets, my skin still sensitive from Shaurya's lingering touch. I worked as a UX researcher at a mid-sized design consultancy downtown. My role involved more than wireframes and interviews--it was about people, feelings, subconscious triggers, desires unspoken yet vividly felt.
Perhaps that's why I sensed it in myself so acutely.
I dressed with intent for the office: high-waisted charcoal trousers, a dove-grey silk blouse tucked in neat, delicate gold hoops, low block heels that lengthened my legs without slowing my stride. Under it all, a slate-blue lace bralette and seamless panties--tiny luxuries only I knew about--and a single spritz of fig-and-sandalwood perfume that clung close to my skin. The effect was professional, almost austere, yet every button and soft seam reminded me there was far more beneath the surface than the polished image I presented.
My office was my haven, a glass-walled corner cabin that afforded just enough privacy to think, yet left me exposed enough to feel constantly watched. Maybe I liked that subtle vulnerability, though I'd never admit it openly.
Especially now.
Reid had moved into the office directly across from mine just three weeks ago, transferring from the London branch. He was our new project lead, tasked with overseeing a high-profile fintech prototype--a sleek AI-driven platform demanding ruthless clarity and keen emotional intelligence. He had both, in spades.
When Reid spoke, it was deliberate and measured. His voice carried an undercurrent of quiet authority that left rooms breathless, even though he barely raised it above a whisper. He wasn't handsome in the conventional sense--his beauty lay in quiet intensity, strong shoulders beneath tailored shirts, eyes so sharply observant they left you feeling stripped, yet oddly thrilled.
I'd tried not to notice.
But then came the Tuesday when I couldn't ignore it anymore. I was deep into user session notes, lost in diagrams and behavioral patterns, when I felt his presence at my office door--a faint yet undeniable pressure at the periphery of my senses.
"Tanvi?"
His voice, a low, controlled rumble, sent a faint shiver down my spine. I glanced up, startled to find him leaning lightly on the doorframe, his eyes already holding mine in a gaze too steady to feel casual.
"Mind if I step in?" he asked, gently authoritative.
"Sure," I managed, suddenly self-conscious at how quickly my pulse had spiked. He stepped forward, each movement calm, controlled, utterly deliberate. He settled against the edge of my desk, arms folded loosely across his chest, subtly drawing attention to the quiet strength in his forearms.
"I read your insights report," he began softly. "That observation about eroding user trust--it was sharp. I don't know how many people would've noticed it."
"Thanks," I murmured, voice tighter than I intended. "Just doing my job."
"No," he countered gently. "You see things others miss. It's rare."
His gaze lingered a fraction too long, heavy, knowing, causing my heart to flutter unevenly. It wasn't flirtation--not quite--but the intensity carried something else entirely. Heat pooled suddenly deep in my belly, raw and unsettlingly intimate.
"I appreciate that," I whispered, my voice betraying the tremor I struggled to suppress.
He nodded once, a faint smile tugging at the edge of his lips--barely there, yet entirely knowing. Then he left, his presence replaced by the faintest scent of bergamot, something sharp and compelling that lingered long after he'd vanished from view.
My breath shuddered as I exhaled slowly, forcing my attention back onto my notes. But the screen blurred; my body felt strangely heavy, alert, sensitive. I squeezed my thighs together beneath the desk, cheeks flushing as a quiet, guilty ache stirred between them.
That evening, Shaurya greeted me at home, his easy smile making guilt twist sharper beneath my ribcage. He'd cooked dinner, a comfortable routine that only deepened my shame. How could I feel this? How could I want what wasn't mine to desire?
"You look tense," Shaurya murmured softly when he hugged me, his hands warm against the small of my back.
"It was just a long day," I lied, letting my lips find the familiar hollow of his throat, breathing in his scent--so different from Reid's sharp, unsettling aura.
I'd slipped back into comfort clothes: the same oversized tee, bare legs, no bra. In the kitchen the hem swished high on my thighs whenever I reached for a pot, and Shaurya's palm kept finding my hip, a silent reminder of his perpetual preference for me totally naked. I laughed him off with a playful swat, secretly loving how the thin cotton clung to my still-tender nipples.
Later, in the kitchen, we moved around each other with practiced ease, the familiar brush of his arm sending tingles through my skin, a comforting yet troubling contrast to how Reid had made me feel earlier. Shaurya kissed my shoulder as we finished cooking, and my breath caught unexpectedly--his lips familiar, loving, yet now echoing another quieter tension.
After dinner, we curled up together on the sofa, my body molded against his warmth, Shaurya's fingers tracing idle circles on my shoulder. I closed my eyes, basking in our shared comfort, but beneath my tranquility simmered something hotter, forbidden--a flame ignited not by neglect but by dangerous curiosity.
When bedtime came, Shaurya pulled me gently toward our bed, his fingers warm on my wrist. As we lay down, his hands moved familiarly beneath my shirt, skimming across my ribs until they reached the soft swell of my breasts, teasing gently.
I arched involuntarily into his touch, warmth spreading through me, pulse quickening. Shaurya's lips brushed my throat, his breath hot against my skin as he whispered soft, seductive words I'd always loved. My eyes fluttered shut, lost momentarily in pleasure--
And suddenly, vividly, I imagined Reid's hands instead, strong fingers teasing my nipples, eyes holding mine, whispering those same words in that low, steady voice.
My entire body jolted at the fantasy, guilt crashing through pleasure. Shaurya mistook my gasp for eagerness, his touch deepening, intensifying, pulling me fully into a whirlpool of conflicting desires. My body responded eagerly even as my mind spiraled helplessly away.
How could I want someone else? How could a few quiet words--just one intense gaze--ignite this raw hunger?
I clutched Shaurya tighter, seeking refuge in familiarity, pressing myself shamelessly against him as if he could erase Reid's unsettling presence from my body. But beneath the desperate passion I poured into Shaurya's embrace, beneath the aching rhythm of our bodies, lingered Reid's gaze--a persistent shadow burning behind my closed eyes.
And I hated myself for how badly I wanted it.
Shaurya's lips seared my neck, his mouth hungry, teeth scraping softly against my skin as he pushed my loose t-shirt up, exposing my bare breasts to the cool air. I wasn't wearing anything else beneath--no panties, no bra--and his breath hitched sharply when he realized it, cock stiffening instantly against my naked thigh.
