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Everyone in the house had finally drifted off to sleep, exhausted from the day's chaos. But not her. Not Aarohi.
Sleep had abandoned her the moment she closed her eyes and saw him—his hands on her skin, his breath fanning her lips, the memory of their kiss burning on her mouth like an imprint. Her heart hadn't stopped racing since.
She stood in her room, lost in a haze of memories. Her fingertips brushed the base of her throat where his lips had lingered. A soft gasp escaped her lips as she tilted her head, her skin tingling under her own touch.
She leaned against the cool wall, eyes fluttering shut. The dim neon lights painted the room in soft hues, casting shadows that danced like ghosts of the night they shared. Her hand slid up slowly, almost hesitantly, tracing the path he once did—with reverence, not desperation.
She cupped her breast over the thin fabric of her tee, a breath catching in her throat as her thumb grazed her nipple. She wasn’t thinking—just feeling. Letting her body remember what her mind couldn’t stop replaying.
A quiet, broken moan slipped past her lips.
Her knees bent slightly, her thighs pressing together. She didn’t even realise when her hand moved downward, resting over the waistband of her shorts, just hovering. There was no rush. No shame. Just her, surrendering to the echo of his touch, of how alive she felt in his arms.
Every stroke was slow, uncertain, like a secret confession. A soft whimper. A shiver. Her back arched slightly as her body responded to the ache blooming deep inside her.
