𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐬 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥 : 𝑨 𝑴𝒂𝒇𝒊𝒂 𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝑹𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆

{34}•sᴜᴄᴋs ʜᴀʀᴅ•(🌶️)

(Disclaimer: This part contains elements that might not align with everyone's preferences. If you find any part uncomfortable, feel free to skip it. This story is crafted with dedication and passion, so please be respectful and refrain from reporting. Thank you for understanding.)

BONDITA

I...

Well...

Fuck.

I looked down at my chest, staring at the glaring red mark that seemed to make me uh.... Wet?. My fingers hovered over it, not daring to touch the sensitive spot. The memory of how it got there made my legs feel like they'd give out any second. And, oh dear god, there was a tingling sensation down there that I couldn't ignore. How can I feel like this?

Oh, my fucking goodness!

Did he really smack me?

Right there? Right on my cuties?

Oh, hell yes, he did!

And what's worse-or maybe better?-Anirudh Roy Choudhury had looked me dead in the eye and said he'd make the pain go away. His voice was so deep, so confident, it sent shivers down my spine. Was I hallucinating? Was this some bizarre fever dream? I glanced at the pool water beneath me, the coolness of it lapping at my legs.

Nope, not a dream.

This was real.

I was still reeling as I forced myself to climb out of the pool. My limbs felt heavy, not from the water, but from the weight of... whatever the hell this was. A whirlwind of emotions twisted inside me-shock, embarrassment, and something dangerously close to desire.

There was a large mirror to the side, and I made the mistake of glancing at my reflection. My cheeks were flushed a deep crimson, matching the hue of the mark on my chest. My eyes looked wide, almost dazed, as if I couldn't believe what had just happened. And then, like an idiot, my gaze dropped lower, to the bare skin that was still exposed.

Oh, god!

I snapped my eyes away from the mirror so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash. My heart was pounding so loudly I was sure anyone nearby could hear it.

I gulped, my throat dry as I reached for a towel. But first, I had to do something about my drenched clothes. My hands trembled as I unwrapped my soaked sari skirt, carefully setting it aside. The fabric felt heavy in my hands, the water dripping onto the tiles with soft plinks. Then came my underwear. My cheeks flamed hotter, if that was even possible, as I slid it off and added it to the pile.

I didn't dare look at the mirror again. I couldn't bear to see myself like this-exposed, vulnerable, and flushed with emotions I couldn't even name.

Wrapping a large towel around my body, I pulled it tightly, tying it securely at my waist. The soft fabric felt like a shield, covering the parts of me that felt too raw, too exposed. I grabbed another towel and began drying my hair, the repetitive motion calming my nerves little by little.

But even as I stood there, trying to compose myself, the memory of his touch lingered. The way his hand had landed on my chest-not too hard, not too soft, but with just enough force to make me gasp. And that look in his eyes afterward, the one that seemed to say he knew exactly what he was doing.

Damn him.

Damn his arrogance.

And damn me for feeling this... this thing.