Silken
Compulsion

In the hushed, dust-scented storeroom of a crowded Mumbai joint family, Neha knows she should push Devraj away. His hands are fast and certain, lifting her saree's fall before she can breathe his name — and the way he bends her over the sacks of grain, one palm clamped over her mouth, turns her half-hearted protests into a soaking, shameful ache that begs for more. Every time the house empties, she finds herself drifting back to that room, heart pounding, already picturing the hard line of his jaw and the low sound he makes when he spills inside her.