The sun was already dipping low when the auto-rickshaw rattled to a stop outside the modest two-storey house in the quieter part of the colony. Pari stepped down carefully, adjusting the thin cotton salwar-kameez that clung a little too warmly to her body after the long journey. At twenty-one she still looked almost too young for the soft, heavy curves she carried—five feet of milky honey-white skin, a round face that could switch from wide-eyed innocence to something darker in a heartbeat, and a body that had bloomed early and refused to stop. Her breasts sat high and full, straining the fabric of her blouse even when she tried to keep her posture modest. The round swell of her ass filled out the salwar in a way that made walking feel deliberate.

She had been counting the days until this vacation at her mausi’s house. Not because of the city, or the food, or even the relative quiet. Because of him.