“You are my son,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “I held you when you were born. I wiped your—your bottom. I—”
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She stopped wearing a bra at home because he had once mentioned, in a moment of terrible honesty, that he loved the natural sway of her breasts under her cotton saree. He stopped locking the bathroom door because he knew she would sometimes "accidentally" walk in when he was stepping out of the shower, her eyes tracing the water droplets on his shoulders before she looked away, too fast, too guilty. “You are my son,” she said, her voice barely a whisper
He crossed the room in three strides. She felt his presence behind her—the heat of him, the smell of sandalwood soap and sweat and something else, something that made her thighs press together involuntarily. I—” Would you like to know more about