Whispers in the Dark

This is an anonymous confession submitted to SpicyRaaz. Names and locations have been changed for privacy.

It started with a storm. A sudden downpour that brought Rhea and Ayan under the same roof — stranded at a mutual friend’s farmhouse during a power cut. The only light came from flickering candles and the glow of their eyes locked in silence. She was draped in a damp red saree, the fabric hugging her curves like it knew every secret she ever tried to hide.

He offered her a towel. Their fingers brushed — a spark lit the room more than the candlelight. Time didn’t matter anymore. Her breath quickened, and so did his, as she clutched the cotton against her chest. The storm outside had nothing on the storm building between them.

“You look like a poem left unfinished,” he whispered.

And then, like the universe conspired for them, thunder roared again — loud enough to drown the sound of her first moan when his fingers lightly grazed her waist.

He lifted her gently and placed her on the couch. The towel dropped. Their kisses turned into hungry gasps. Her nails dug into his back while he traced her collarbone with slow, deliberate passion. The scent of jasmine candles and her warm skin filled the air.

He unwrapped her one layer at a time — not just her saree, but her fears, her inhibitions, her pain. And she let him. In that moment, there was no world, no noise — just skin on skin, breath on breath, heart on heart.

She whispered something. He smiled. And they moved together like poetry that had waited too long to be written.

As the storm faded, so did their urgency — replaced by soft sighs and whispers... in the dark.

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