Vikram Mehra stepped inside the apartment, shaking the rain from his broad shoulders, his eyes never leaving Ananya’s half-naked, dripping body. The fifty-year-old businessman was tall, muscular, with a thick chest and a predatory smile that made women weak. He had always been the more experienced, wilder one between him and Rajesh — the one who enjoyed sharing his conquests in graphic detail over drinks.

“Close the door, yaar,” Vikram said, his deep voice laced with amusement and raw hunger. “Looks like the monsoon isn’t the only thing flooding tonight.”