The front door opened.
"I'm home!" Rohan called out, kicking off his shoes in the hallway. "My meeting got cancelled. The client didn't show up."
He walked into the kitchen, loosening his tie, looking irritated. Priya stood at the counter, chopping onions with trembling hands, her face flushed, her chest heaving, her p***y dripping and throbbing, still stretched and empty. She could feel Vikram's c*m—no, he hadn't come yet, thank God—but her own slick sliding down her inner thighs.
Vikram was sitting at the kitchen table on the other side of the room, the tablecloth draped over his lap, hiding the massive tent in his lungi. He had picked up the newspaper and was holding it in front of his face, his jaw tight, his breathing controlled. But his eyes—his dark, burning eyes—were fixed on Pr
