The tremor in Aarav’s grip was the only permission Meera needed. She didn’t wait for him to bridge the gap; she erased it herself, stepping flush against the rigid line of his body. The heat radiating from him seared through the thin cotton of her kurta, a sudden, scorching contrast to the air-conditioned cool of the living room. Her breasts, heavy and aching, crushed against his chest, the friction sending a sharp jolt of pleasure straight to her clit. She looked up, her kohl-rimmed eyes locking onto his, seeing the war raging behind his dark irises—the duty to her brother warring against the primal urge to possess her.

Meera let her hands roam, her fingers tracing the hard planes of his pectorals through the fabric of his shirt. She found the top button, her fingers deft and sure, and popped it open. Then the next. Her knuckles grazed the skin of his chest, feeling the coarse hair and the frantic thud of his heart beneath. She leaned in, her lips brushing the sensitive shell of his ear, her breath hot and ragged.