The ceiling fan clicked in lazy circles overhead, stirring hot July air across Sarita’s collarbones while she stretched along the cracked leather couch. Sweat dewed between her breasts, but the warmth felt delicious, a match for the molten throb that never quite left her cunt these days. Twenty-five, perpetually single, and insatiably curious, she had spent the past week replaying ways to corner her cousins—Rohan, Dev, and Aarav—into admitting they wanted her too. They were twenty-five as well, old enough to know better, young enough to risk it.

That afternoon their parents had driven to the district court for some land paperwork, leaving the four of them alone in the cool tile living room with nothing but whirring fan blades and a PlayStation menu flickering on mute. Sarita wore a linen kurta whose top two buttons had “accidentally” come undone; the soft cloth framed the inner curves of her tits, nipples already peaked from the friction of fabric each time she breathed. She pretended to page through a fashion magazine, but her gaze kept flicking to the trio sprawled on carpet and loveseat.