Stood Up By Her Husband

India’s heels hit carpet. The hotel room’s too clean—too cold. She sets chocolates on the pillow, lines up the roses like it’ll patch over another empty night. Minutes drag until the truth sinks in: he’s not coming. Again. She punches Reagan’s number before the thought can cool. Reagan hears it in her voice, that cracked laugh India always uses when she’s lying to herself. Within the hour she’s at the door, heels still clicking when India lets her in. Reagan doesn’t waste time on speeches. She catches India’s wrist, pulls the lie out of her mouth, and tastes raw want instead. India drops to her knees first—hungry, clumsy—tongue sliding over Reagan’s nipple, then lower, greedy for the first sweet slick she’s ever tasted from a woman. Reagan moans, fists in India’s hair, spreads wider. India drinks her down, shaking from the thrill of it. Reagan hauls her up, spins her, pins her against the window. Fingers slide in hot and easy; India clenches around them, swearing, hips chasing every thrust. When Reagan’s mouth replaces her hand, India folds—gasping—coming hard enough to fog the glass. Bodies slick, they spill across the bed. No anniversaries left to keep, no promises they haven’t already broken. Just sweat, teeth, the wet slap of skin meeting skin as they chase everything they’ve denied themselves for years.