Karan spent the rest of the afternoon in a haze of paranoia and persistent erection. Every email notification made him flinch. Every time someone passed his door, he expected Vikram to barge in, phone in hand, showing security footage from the 28th-floor atrium cameras. He’d wiped the windowsill with his own handkerchief—pathetic, really—smearing the drying cum into invisible streaks before anyone could notice the shiny patches reflecting the afternoon sun.

By 7 p.m. the office had emptied. Karan stayed late on purpose, pretending to review decks while his mind replayed the photo Saanvi sent from the elevator: her legs spread, his thick white ropes still glistening on her inner thighs like obscene war paint, the red crotchless lace soaked and clinging to her swollen lips. The caption burned behind his eyelids: Don’t jerk off. Save it all for my ass.