Dr. Vikram had always been the picture of professionalism in the upscale Mumbai neighborhood, but to his next-door neighbor, Priya—a fiery 28-year-old graphic designer with a rebellious streak—he was something far more intoxicating. She'd been chain-smoking for years, ignoring his stern lectures every time they crossed paths at the building's rooftop parties or in the hallway. "It's killing you, Priya," he'd say, his deep voice laced with concern that masked a darker hunger. But she loved the rush, the defiance, and secretly, the way his eyes darkened when she blew smoke in his direction.

Tonight, after a "routine check-up" he'd insisted on at his home clinic—faking it as a neighborly favor for her persistent cough—she lay on his examination table, naked and exposed under the harsh fluorescent lights. The room smelled of antiseptic mixed with her arousal, her body already trembling from the "preliminary tests" he'd conducted: cold metal speculums he'd warmed against her skin, probing fingers gloved in latex that lingered far too long.