The second morning in Shimla dawned with fresh snowfall—thick, silent flakes drifting past the balconies, blanketing the pines in white. Inside Cottage 8, the air was still heavy with last night’s sex: sweat, cum, and the faint musk of two bodies that hadn’t slept much.

Anjali woke first—sprawled across Vikram’s chest, one leg hooked over his hip, his softening cock still half-buried inside her from the last round at 4 a.m. Her pussy ached sweetly—swollen, sticky with multiple loads. The mangalsutra had left faint red marks between her breasts from being pressed so hard against skin all night.