Steamy Mumbai Affair: A True Tale of Passion and Desire

“On a business trip,” she replied, a hint of loneliness in her voice. “He’ll be back in 15 days.”

“Fifteen days alone?” Rahul said, half-teasing, half-concerned.

She shrugged, a small smile playing on her lips. “What else can I do?” She fetched the check for the bill, her movements deliberate, like she was drawing him in. Then, out of nowhere, she said, “Come over for dinner tonight. It’s just me, and I could use the company.”

Rahul’s pulse quickened. “Sure, bhabhi,” he said, his voice steady despite the heat creeping up his neck.

That night, at 9 p.m., he knocked on her door. Neha answered, and time slowed. She wore a sheer black nighty, the kind that hinted at everything and hid just enough. The fabric caressed her curves, and the soft glow of the lights made her skin shimmer. Rahul stood frozen, his eyes tracing the outline of her body before he caught himself. “What’s wrong?” she teased, her voice a velvet whisper.

“Nothing,” he stammered, stepping inside. They settled in the TV room, juice glasses in hand, her sitting close—too close. Her thigh brushed his as she leaned in to pour more, and the air thickened with unspoken tension. They talked—about his family, her life in Delhi, the loneliness of her husband’s absences. She asked if he had a girlfriend. “No time for that,” he laughed, but his eyes lingered on her lips.