SMUT

Slow drag

_Wednesday_
_8:20 AM_
_Penthouse. Mumbai_
_Sun bright. Coffee smell. Rohit in a suit._

Rohit was ready.

Black suit.
White shirt.
Tie loose at his neck.
Watch on.
Phone in pocket.
Shoes shined.

The Devil of Mumbai.
On paper.

But his eyes?
His eyes were on Virat.

Virat was standing in the middle of their bedroom.
In front of the mirror.

Wearing only Rohit's shirt.

Rohit's white dress shirt.
The one Rohit wore yesterday.
It hung off Virat's shoulders.
Too big.
Sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
Hem stopping mid-thigh.

And the buttons.
God, the buttons.

The top three were undone.
Showing collarbone.
Showing marks.
Rohit's marks.

The bottom three were undone too.
Showing stomach.
Showing hip.
Showing the curve of Virat's thigh.

The middle buttons were done.
Barely.
Straining.

Virat was bare underneath.
Rohit knew.
Because Rohit had checked last night.
Because Rohit had been there this morning.

Virat was looking at himself.
Turning.
Fixing his hair.
"Does this look okay?" Virat asked.
He didn't look back.
"...for breakfast?"

Rohit didn't answer.

He couldn't.

Because his cock was already hard.
Painfully hard.
In his tailored pants.

Because his little wife was standing there.
In his shirt.
In his marks.
In his smell.
And looking sinful.

Rohit crossed the room.
Slow.
Like a predator.

He stopped behind Virat.
Close.
Not touching.
Yet.

Virat saw him in the mirror.
And froze.

"Rohit?" Virat whispered.

Rohit reached out.
One hand.
To Virat's waist.
Under the shirt.
Skin to skin.

Virat gasped.
"Rohit, you're late-"

Rohit hummed.
His other hand came up.
To the top button.
The one Virat had undone.

He buttoned it.
Slow.

Then undid it again.

"Rohit-"

Rohit leaned in.
Mouth at Virat's ear.
"You look like sin," Rohit whispered.
His voice was wrecked.
"In my shirt."
He tugged the collar down.
Exposing Virat's shoulder.
Kissed it.
"With my marks."
He kissed lower.
"Looking at yourself."

Virat shivered.
"I was just-"

Rohit's hand moved.
Down Virat's stomach.
Under the shirt.

Flat palm.
Warm.

Virat arched.
Automatically.
Into Rohit's touch.

Rohit groaned.
"You like that?"
He asked it soft.
Dangerous.
He moved his hand.
Higher.
Lower.
"You like when I touch you?"

Virat nodded.
"Yes-"

Rohit's other hand went to his belt.
Undid it.
One-handed.
Because he wasn't letting go of Virat.