Teena stood with her back to him, the door still open behind them, a rectangle of hallway light bleeding across the carpet. She didn't turn around when she spoke.
"You want to go rest? Your room's closer." Her voice was soft, careful. A test disguised as consideration.
Raj didn't move from where he'd stopped, three steps into the room. "I'd rather finish this first."
She nodded, finally reaching to push the door closed. The lock clicked. The sound sealed them in together. She crossed to the small desk by the window, pulling out the chair, opening her laptop. The screen glowed to life, casting pale light across her face.
"Bulky one," he said, settling onto the edge of the bed, pulling out his own slim work laptop. "Training files loading?"
"Yeah. They sent a massive data dump." She clicked, waited. The cursor spun. "Of course. Forced update. It's going to take forever."
The room settled into silence. The laptop whirred. Somewhere in the distance, a tram bell chimed. Through the thin curtains, Amsterdam's evening glow bled orange across the ceiling.
"At least we're in Amsterdam," she said, not looking at him. "You, me, Vikram. Not stuck in Kochi doing spreadsheets."
He heard the crack in her voice. The one that meant she was happy, or nervous, or both. "Yeah."
"I'm glad it's you, Raj." She turned to face him now, fingers still resting on the laptop. "My old friend. That I'm here with."
The words landed in his chest. Old friend. He was her old friend. That was what she needed him to be. He watched her thumb find her wedding ring, twist it once, twice.
"You've been quiet. The whole trip." She leaned back in the chair. "Something bothering you?"
He looked at his own laptop screen, the blinking cursor waiting for him to do something productive. "Just tired. Long day."
"Raj."
Her voice, soft but insistent. The way she used to say his name when they were friends. Before. When they'd stay late at work and she'd tell him about her day and he'd listen and it was enough. He felt something crack open in his chest.
"Why are you doing this?" His voice came out low, rough. "Creating distance. Acting like we're strangers."
"I'm not—"
"You are." He stood up. The laptop slid off his knees, landed on the duvet. He didn't pick it up. "You barely look at me. You took Vikram to buy clothes. Vikram."
"How can you be so unreasonable?" Her voice sharpened, the softness gone. She stood, the chair scraping against the floor. "Vikram is a good friend too. He was just helping me."
"Helping you." Raj's jaw tightened. "He took you to the lingerie section. He picked up a bra and—"
"I heard you." Teena's hands found her hips, her eyes bright with something between hurt and anger. "In the changing room. I heard you fighting with Vikram outside."
He blinked. The air left his lungs.
"You think I didn't notice?" She shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping her. "You think I don't know what you were doing? Fighting over me like I'm something to be won?"
"Teena, I wasn't—"
"I don't need a knight to save me, Raj." Her voice cracked, the sound raw and honest. "I'm a married woman. I can make my own choices. I can choose who I go shopping with."
He stared at her. The wedding ring on her finger caught the lamplight, a small golden accusation.
"You took him because you didn't want to be alone with me," he said, quieter now. "You've been avoiding me since you got married."
"And whose fault is that?" She stepped closer, her chest rising and falling faster. "You think I don't know why you've been distant? You think I didn't notice you pulling away first?"
He opened his mouth. Closed it. The words he'd carried for five years sat in his throat, thick and impossible.
Teena's face went pale. She stepped back, her hand finding the edge of the desk.
"Go ahead and show him your lace bra, Teena." His voice was flat, humorless. "Since he's so desperate to see it."
The room went still.
Teena's face drained of color. Her hand dropped from the desk. Her eyes, wide and wet, found Raj's for a single, broken second before her chin trembled and tears spilled down her cheeks.
She didn't make a sound. The tears just came, silent and helpless, tracing paths down her face as she stood frozen in the amber lamplight.
Raj felt something shatter in his chest. The anger, the jealousy, the five years of wanting—it meant nothing. Nothing compared to the sight of her crying.
"Teena." He stepped forward, his voice barely a whisper. "Teena, I'm sorry."
She shook her head, not looking at him, her hand pressing against her mouth to hold in a sob.
"I got carried away." He reached for her, stopped himself. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—" *
Raj didn't look up. He couldn't. His eyes were fixed on her—the tear tracks on her cheeks, the way her hand pressed against her mouth, the trembling in her shoulders. He had done this. He had made her cry.
His knees hit the carpet.
The thud was soft, absorbed by the cheap hotel weave, but Teena flinched like he'd screamed. She stared down at him, her eyes wide and wet, her hand still pressed against her lips.
"Teena." His voice came out raw, broken. He reached for her hands, and she didn't pull away. Her fingers were cold, trembling against his palms. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
She shook her head, a small, helpless motion. More tears spilled down her cheeks.
"I was so hurt." The words came from somewhere deep, somewhere he'd buried for years. "That night. At the bar. Uday—he was saying things about you. Dirty things. About your character, your marriage. About what you might be like in—" He stopped, his throat closing. "I couldn't stop him. I just sat there and listened."
Her hand dropped from her mouth. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
"And then I saw you with Vikram. At the store. And all that hurt came out wrong." His grip on her hands tightened. "You're the most important person in my life, Teena. You've always been. And I've been watching you slip away for a year, and I didn't know how to stop it."
She pulled her hands free. Turned toward the bathroom.
His hand shot out, caught her wrist. Not hard. Just enough to stop her.
"Please."
She froze. Her back to him. Her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
"Please don't walk away from me."
She turned. Slowly. Her eyes met his, red-rimmed and glistening, and something in her face cracked open—hurt, confusion, the ghost of the girl who used to stay late at work just to talk to him.
He didn't let go of her wrist. He rose onto his knees, his arms finding her waist, his face pressing into the fabric of her shirt at her stomach. The tears came then, hot and silent, soaking into the cotton as his shoulders shook.
Her body went rigid. Then her hand found the back of his head, her fingers threading into his hair, and she held him there while he cried, the lamp casting their shadows long and tangled against the wall.
Teena sank down, her knees finding the carpet beside him. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him close, her fingers finding the back of his head again. She held him against her chest, his face pressed into the curve of her neck, his breath hot and uneven against her skin.
He lifted his head. His eyes were wet, his lashes dark with tears. He looked at her—really looked, like he was seeing her for the first time—and something in him broke open.
His mouth found her cheek. Soft. Questioning. She didn't pull away.
He kissed the corner of her eye, tasting salt. Her breath hitched, a small, broken sound that wasn't quite a sob. His lips trailed down, grazing the curve of her cheekbone, the soft skin beneath her eye.
She closed her eyes.
The surrender in that single gesture undid him. His mouth found her other cheek, her temple, the sensitive skin below her ear. He couldn't stop. Each kiss fed the next, a hunger he'd buried for five years rising through his chest like floodwater.
Her hands tightened on his shoulders. She didn't push him away.
His fingers found the hem of her blazer. They slipped beneath the fabric, finding the thin cotton of her shirt underneath. His palm pressed flat against her lower back, feeling the warmth of her body through the layers, the slight curve of her spine.
She gasped. Soft. Her eyes stayed closed.
His hands moved up, tracing the line of her back beneath the blazer. The fabric bunched at her shoulders. He felt the strap of her bra through her shirt, the sharp line of her shoulder blade, the soft dip of her waist. His fingers spread wide, greedy, memorizing.
His mouth found her jaw. Her throat. The pulse point at the base of her neck, fluttering like a trapped bird. He kissed her there, felt her heartbeat against his lips, and thought he might die from it.
Her head tilted back, exposing more of her throat. An offering.
He took it. His lips traced down her neck, slow and deliberate, tasting the salt of her skin, the faint floral scent of her shampoo. His hands slid up from her back, fingers finding the collar of her blazer, pushing it aside to bare her shoulder.
She trembled. Her fingers curled into his shirt, gripping the fabric at his chest.
His mouth followed the curve of her shoulder, kissing the skin where her neck met her collarbone. She smelled like hotel soap and something deeper, something that was just her, and he couldn't get enough of it.
"Raj." His name on her lips. Not a protest. A question.
He pulled back just enough to look at her. Her eyes were still closed, her lips parted, her chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. The lamplight caught the tear tracks on her cheeks, the flush spreading across her chest.
His thumb found her chin. Tilting her face up. Her eyes opened, dark and wet and full of something she couldn't name.
"I've wanted this," he whispered. "For so long."
She didn't answer. But she didn't look away.
His mouth found hers.
Teena's eyes fluttered open. The kiss was still warm on her lips, his mouth a breath away, and she felt his fingers working—small, precise movements at the center of her blazer. The top button. Then the second.
"Raj." His name came out soft, uncertain. Her hand found his wrist. "We shouldn't."
His fingers paused. His forehead rested against hers, his breath uneven against her skin. "I know."
"I'm married." The words felt hollow in her mouth, a door she was holding open but couldn't quite close. "George. I made a promise."
"I know." His voice cracked on the second word. His thumb traced her collarbone, feather-light, and she felt the touch everywhere—her chest, her stomach, the space between her thighs.
"Then stop." She didn't sound convincing. Neither of them believed her.
His fingers resumed their work. The third button slipped free. The fourth. The blazer fell open, the white shirt beneath it exposed, and she saw the hunger in his eyes when he looked at what he'd uncovered.
Her hands came up to push him away. They landed on his chest instead, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, holding him there instead of pushing.
He kissed her again. Deeper. His tongue found hers, and she made a sound—small, helpless, lost—that she'd never made before. His hands moved to the buttons of her shirt, and she felt them go, one by one, the cool air of the room touching her skin where fabric had covered her a moment before.
"Raj—"
His mouth left hers. Traveled down. His lips found the hollow of her throat, the curve of her breast above the lace of her bra. She wasn't wearing the black set. Simple white cotton. Practical. Modest.
He didn't care. His fingers hooked into the center clasp of her bra, and it gave way with a soft pop.
Her breasts spilled free. Small. Perky. Her nipples hardening in the cool air. She gasped, her arms crossing to cover herself, but he caught her wrists and gently pulled them apart.
"Don't," he whispered. "Please. Let me see you."
His mouth found her breast. His tongue circled her nipple, slow and deliberate, and she arched into him before she could stop herself, a sound escaping her throat that was half-protest and half-prayer.
He suckled her. Gently at first, then harder, drawing her deeper into his mouth, his tongue working her until she was gripping his shoulders, her head thrown back, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Oh God," she whispered. The words were meant for heaven. They landed somewhere between them, swallowed by his mouth on her skin.
His hands found her belt. The buckle gave way with a metallic click. His fingers worked the button of her trousers, the zipper descending with a sound that seemed too loud in the quiet room.
She should stop him. She knew she should stop him. But her body was moving without her permission, her hips lifting as he pulled her trousers down, the fabric sliding over her thighs, her knees, pooling at her ankles.
Her panties went with them. White cotton, same as her bra, damp at the center. He saw it. His breath caught. His thumb found the wet spot, tracing it through the fabric before pulling it down, baring her completely from the waist down.
She stood before him. Blazer open. Shirt undone. Bra hanging loose. Trousers and panties around her knees. Exposed. Vulnerable.
And she had never felt more alive.
His eyes traveled over her—her small breasts, her flat stomach, the dark triangle of hair between her thighs, the flush spreading across her chest and up her neck. He looked at her like she was something sacred.
"Teena." Her name on his lips. A prayer. A plea. "Tell me to stop. Tell me right now."
She looked at him. The man who had been her friend for five years. The man who had cried into her stomach. The man whose mouth was still wet from her breast.
She didn't tell him to stop.
Her hands found the hem of his shirt. She pulled it up, and he helped her, lifting it over his head and tossing it aside. His chest was lean, brown skin stretched over muscle she'd never seen, never imagined. A thin line of hair ran down his stomach, disappearing into his trousers.
She reached for his belt.
Her fingers found his belt buckle, cold metal under her trembling hands. She worked it open with the same careful precision she used on spreadsheets—one motion, then the next, not thinking about what came after. The leather gave way. His trousers hung loose, and she felt him hard beneath the fabric, a ridge pressing against her knuckles as she pushed the waistband down.
His cock sprang free, thick and dark against his brown stomach, the tip already glistening. She stared at it, this part of him she'd never imagined seeing, never allowed herself to picture. Her hand moved before her mind could stop it, fingers wrapping around the shaft, feeling the heat of him, the pulse beating against her palm.
Raj groaned. His head fell back, his hips pressing into her grip. "Teena." Her name torn from somewhere deep. She tightened her hand, pulled down, felt him throb against her fingers. His hands found her waist, pulling her closer, his mouth finding hers again, hungry and desperate.
He groped her all around—her breasts, her hips, the curve of her ass, his fingers digging into her flesh like he was trying to memorize her shape. His palms slid down her thighs, spreading them apart, his cock pressed against her belly, leaving a wet trail on her skin.
She dropped to her knees. The carpet bit into her shins, but she didn't feel it. She looked up at him, this man who had been her friend for five years, and then she leaned forward and took him in her mouth.
His taste hit her tongue—salt, musk, pure male. She closed her eyes and focused on the weight of him, the way his hips jerked when she swallowed him deeper. Her tongue traced the vein along his shaft, circled the head, tasted the pre-cum beading at the tip. She licked his balls, one then the other, felt them draw up tight against his body.
His hands tangled in her ponytail, pulling the hair free so it fell around her face. "God, Teena. Your mouth." His voice broke. She took him deeper, her throat opening for him, and she felt the vibration of his moan through her whole body.
He pulled her up, lifted her to her feet, his mouth finding her nipples again. He suckled hard, drawing her breast deep into his mouth, his tongue rough against the sensitive peak. She gasped, her hands clutching his shoulders, her knees threatening to buckle.
He lifted her. Wrapped her legs around his waist and carried her to the bed, laying her down on the damp sheets. The lamp cast shadows across his face as he positioned himself between her thighs, his cock resting at her entrance, the tip sliding through her wetness.
He rubbed against her, back and forth, the head catching on her clit with each pass. She whimpered, her hips lifting, trying to pull him in. But he held back, watching her face, watching her need build.
"Please," she whispered. The word escaped before she could catch it. "Raj. Please."
He pushed inside. Slowly. The stretch burned—she was tight, her body resisting even as it craved him. He filled her inch by inch, watching her eyes, waiting until she relaxed enough to take more. When he was fully sheathed, he stopped, both of them breathing hard, joined in a way they'd never been.
"Move," she breathed. And he did.
His thrusts started deep and slow, each one pushing her further into the mattress. She felt every inch of him, the way he reached places inside her that George never touched. Her moans came unbidden, loud and raw, filling the room with sounds she'd never made before.
He sped up. His hips slapped against hers, the wet sound of their bodies meeting mixing with her cries and his grunts. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him deeper, her nails raking down his back.
"I'm going to—" He couldn't finish. His thrusts became erratic, his body tensing above her. "
He groaned her name as he spilled into her, hot and pulsing, his body shuddering through the climax. She felt him filling her, felt her own body clench around him, dragging out his pleasure until he collapsed against her, spent and trembling.
"We shouldn't have done that," She pulls away, guilt wins and Raj walks out with lots of guilt. They are not old care free friends anymore. A part of him is inside her now.