The city’s neon veins had long faded into the rearview mirror, replaced by the twisting black ribbon of a mountain road that clawed its way up the Aravalli cliffs. Priya’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel as the hatchback hugged hairpin turns, engine straining against the incline. The clock glowed 5:23 a.m.—dawn still a bruised purple on the horizon—but the night clung stubbornly, wind howling through open windows like a banshee’s wail. Arjun’s hand was a constant weight between her thighs—fingers buried deep in her pussy, stirring the thick, congealing mess from the club alley. Each curve in the road jolted them deeper, making her clit throb against his palm.

“Faster,” he murmured, voice cutting through the roar like a blade. “I want to feel this pussy clench when we almost fly off the edge.”