Dawn crept into the penthouse like a thief in silk, painting the king bed in hues of rose and gold, the sheets a twisted testament to the night's denied fires. Ishani stirred at 23, body languid with the ache of unfulfilled promises—thighs slick from dreams where Virat's cock had plunged deep, stretching her virgin walls in brutal rhythm, his teeth sinking into her neck as she clawed his back, screaming "Mama" like a profane prayer. She leaned back instinctively, seeking his heat, the solid wall of his chest to press her ass against, his morning erection nestling hot between her cheeks through lace. But the bed yawned empty, cool silk mocking her solitude, the indent of his body a ghost that made her core clench around nothing, nipples tightening to painful peaks against the sheer nightgown—black lace that barely veiled her curves, the hem riding high on her thighs, thong damp and clinging to her swollen folds like a lover's tongue.