By the time he returned she had cleared her desk and was sitting on its edge, rotating one ankle slowly, watching the rain.

He set the basin down, draped the dry towels over the desk corner, and knelt in front of her.

“Ready?” he said.

She looked down at him. Something shifted in her expression—just briefly—before she nodded.

He lifted the first warm towel from the basin, wrung it once more, and laid it over her right foot. She made a sound that was entirely involuntary, almost orgasmic.

The heat soaked through the nylon and she leaned back on both palms, eyes closing. He let the towel sit for a moment, watching the tension drain out of her ankle, her calf, the set of her shoulders. Then he lifted it away and took her feet in his hands.

The contrast landed—warm fabric to cooler fingers—and she drew a sharp breath. He worked his thumbs into the arch in slow circles and she exhaled in stages, like something was unwinding deep inside her.

“Right there,” she said quietly. “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He worked heel to arch, arch to ball, the small bones of each toe pressed carefully apart. What he had told her about the acupressure was true—his father’s technique, practiced on hundreds of patients before Omkar was old enough to understand what he was retaining. But his attention was split in a way his father’s never had been. He was sure dad wouldn’t approve of where his mind was going.

He repeated the treatment on both feet before saying, “Your stockings are wet. They’re not helping.”

“I know. Take them off.”

He found the edge midway up her thigh, under her skirt—his heart thudding against his chest as he reached up the skirt and peeled the nylon down slowly, fingers travelling down her thighs, calf, ankle, feet. He set it aside and moved to the other leg. It was all he could do to keep his hand from trembling as it slid up her skirt, caressing her thighs and leg as it too came off. When both were gone, he soaked the towel again, wrung it, and drew it slowly up her bare calf.

She went very still.

He moved the towel to the back of her knee—the thin skin there, sudden warmth—and her breath stuttered. He watched her face. Her eyes were still closed but she was no longer relaxed. She was listening.

He brought the towel up the inside of her thigh, just to the hem of her skirt, and stopped. She didn’t move, but his hands did, dragging her skirt up as the towel went up her thigh, higher, almost to her groin. Almost. He stopped.

He could no longer hear the rain pounding against glass. He couldn’t see anything but the gentle rise and fall of her chest.

“Omkar,” she said. Not a question. Not a stop.

He held the towel where it was. “Tell me to go back to the feet,” he said, “and I will.”

A long beat. She opened her eyes and looked at him in a way he could only have dreamed of her looking at him.

“I didn’t say that,” she said.

Continue the story in Footloose.

All images are AI generated and do not depict any real person.