The ceiling fan clicked with every rotation, and my heart was keeping time with it. I smoothed the hem of my shorts and checked the mirror one last time.

Hair still damp from the shower, curling at the ends. Skin smelling of mango and jasmine, still warm from the steam. The tank top was white, a size too small on purpose, and the cotton clung to my breasts like it had somewhere to be, the outline of my nipples showing through every time I moved. Under it, nothing but me. Under the shorts, nothing but me. I'd planned it that way.

The pill had worked. I still couldn't quite believe it.

If you'd been standing at my door that night, you'd have stared too. Everyone does. That's the first thing you should know about me.

Four days ago I'd swallowed the little red capsule Bhavna gave me, mostly as a joke. "Possession," she'd called it. "My cousin's friend swears by it. One dose and the person you want can't think of anyone else." I'd laughed, washed it down with my morning chai, and gone about Saturday like nothing had happened. Sunday passed. Nothing. I'd almost forgotten about it.

But here's the thing about me the pill never seemed to understand. I was never the kind of girl who needed a pill to get a boy. With my breasts, full and heavy and exactly what they were supposed to be, and the round curve of my ass that my shorts hugged like a second skin, I'd been turning heads since my first semester, before I even knew what I was doing. The pill just made the game unfair for everyone else.

I learned early that boys are simple machines. You feed them one look, one whiff of your perfume, the flash of collarbone above a neckline, and they start running. My first year I wore a kurta that was a little tight across the chest, and suddenly seniors I'd never spoken to were offering to carry my bag. A little lip gloss, and the quiet ones got brave. A shorter hemline, and the brave ones got stupid.

I didn't seduce them all, obviously. But the ones I wanted, I got.

For a senior named Aakash, it took a borrowed nightie and a story about my roommate being out. He'd been nervous, his hands sweaty, and I'd found it sweet and funny at the same time. My first taste of a boy. The weight of him against me, the heat of his mouth, the way it felt to be the one leading. I was shy for about thirty seconds. Then I wasn't. After him came the basketball player, all shoulders and swagger, who bought me earrings I never wore. His real gift to me was his cock in my hand, hot and jumping at my touch, and the discovery that a boy's entire will could be held in my palm. Then the final-year guy who did my entire statistics project just because I laughed at his jokes and let him hold my hand in the canteen. I never loved any of them. I loved what they did for me: the gifts, the homework, the worship. My body wanted more, and I knew exactly how to take it. I was nineteen and I already understood that the prettiest thing a girl can wear is the knowledge that she doesn't need any of them.

Then came Raj.

Raj was a second-year footballer, built like a friendly bear and twice as eager. He brought me paneer rolls every morning. He carried my bag like it was a holy relic. He was so hopelessly, gloriously obedient that I couldn't resist keeping him. The first time he came over, I wore a black cotton dress with nothing underneath. He fumbled with the buttons for a full minute before I laughed and undid it myself, slow, letting the fabric fall open an inch at a time. I made him kneel on the floor and watch me take it off.

"You want me?" I asked, standing over him in just my panties, one hand on my hip. He nodded so hard I thought his head would come off. "Good. Then you'll do exactly what I say."

I made him worship me from my ankles up. His mouth trembled against my calves, my knees, the soft inside of my thigh, getting braver and shakier with every inch. By the time his tongue found the damp cotton between my legs, he was shaking like a leaf. I held him there, let him beg, and only then did I finally let him stand and put his hands on me. He had a thick, eager cock that I loved to wrap my hand around, and he had no idea how to handle me. I taught him. He's a quick learner when it comes to pleasing me.

He still is. That's what being my current boyfriend means, mainly: he's the one who gets to come over whenever I want, and he's the one I never have to work for. Our sessions are many, and they all belong to me.

There's the one in his hostel room, when I straddled his chest in my nightie and ground slow and deliberate above his mouth while he begged and begged to be allowed to taste me. There's the one after the college fest, when I wore a skirt so short it was basically a belt, and he dropped to his knees on my kitchen floor and ate me out against the counter until I came on his tongue, my hand fisted in his hair. There's the one I think of as my favourite: I came home from a party in a robe with nothing under it, sat on the edge of the bed, and let him crawl toward me like a dog who'd been called. He came in two minutes just from looking at me. I made him start over, and he thanked me for it. Raj texts me every morning, follows me between classes, asks what he can do for me before I've even finished the thought. Most girls would find it exhausting. I find it restful. With Raj, I never have to try.

Which is why VJ was so different.

VJ was a junior, plain and simple and shy, with a body he kept hidden under baggy T-shirts. I'd spotted him at the freshman party, standing at the edge of the crowd like he wasn't sure he was allowed to enjoy himself. Big brown eyes. A smile that made something twist low in my chest. And when he looked at me, he looked at my face. Not my chest, not my legs. My face. I've had boys memorise my cleavage from across a room and forget my name ten seconds later. VJ met my eyes, smiled like I was a friend he hadn't seen in years, and went back to his drink.

I was hooked. Completely.

All semester I chased him. I wore my shortest kurta to the library when I knew he studied there, and I leaned over tables in front of him wearing tops that showed everything, letting the lace edge of my bra and everything it held sway just at the corner of his vision. I let my dupatta slip. I let my hair fall over my shoulder. I let my laugh ring out a little too loud across the lawn, watching from the corner of my eye to see if it caught him. It always did. He'd say hi. He'd smile, shy and warm. And then he'd go back to his books, like I hadn't just set the whole banquet in front of him. It drove me insane.

And the wanting did something to me. It was the first time I understood why some girls might climb mountains for a boy. Every night I'd lie in bed, replaying the way his eyes went soft when they met mine, and I'd slide my hand down my stomach, into the waistband of my panties, and pretend those careful fingers were his. I'd arch into my own palm and come with his name caught between my teeth, then lie there furious at how good even the imagining felt.

So when Bhavna handed me that red capsule on Friday night, I looked at it the way a gambler looks at a dice.

Why not.

Monday. I walked into college in that same short kurta, bracing for another polite nod, and VJ looked at me and smiled like I was the only person in the building. Warm. Slightly dazed. Like he'd been waiting for me. I nearly dropped my water bottle.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," I managed.

Coffee in the canteen. I couldn't get enough of him. Lunch the next day, our knees brushing under the table. Him carrying my bag without being asked, finding excuses to sit beside me in the library, texting me good morning before I'd even woken up. Four days, and I had him. Four days, and now he was on his way to my flat, and I was standing in front of the mirror in that tiny tank top, my nipples hard against the cotton just from thinking about him.

My phone buzzed. Raj. Good night, baby. Let me know you reached home safe. I silenced it without reading. Raj could wait. Raj could always wait. Tonight was not about him.

The doorbell rang.

I let it ring once before I opened the door. VJ stood there in a plain T-shirt and jeans, holding a packet of cheese balls like a nervous kid at a birthday party. It should have been cute. Instead it made my stomach flip. He was so clean-cut, so simple, and I knew what was under that T-shirt from the glimpses I'd stolen on the cricket field: flat stomach, strong chest, shoulders that filled out his frame when he swung a bat.

"You came," I said, leaning against the doorframe, letting the cotton stretch across my chest.

He stared. His eyes travelled from my face to the neckline of my tank top, to the shadow of my cleavage, to my bare legs, and he forgot to breathe. "Yeah. I, uh. You said to come."

I laughed softly and stepped back. "Come in, then."

He walked in and looked around my flat: the fairy lights strung over the window, the heap of cushions on my bed, the two glasses already filled. He held out the cheese balls. "I got these. From the shop downstairs. I didn't know what you like."

"I like sweets." I took the packet, set it on the table, and stepped closer. "But you're sweeter for bringing them."

The tips of his ears went red. God. The shyest boy in the whole college, and I wanted to eat him alive.

I handed him a glass. He drank, and I watched his throat move. When he caught me watching, he set the glass down. "Jovi. Why did you ask me here?"

I moved closer. "Because I've wanted you alone since the freshman party."

His eyes went wide. "Me? You've seen me around and... me?"

"You were the only one in that entire college who never looked at me twice." I smiled, slow, and watched his gaze drop to my neckline again, to the curve of my breasts under the white cotton. "And that just made me want you more. Is that crazy?"

He shook his head, but I could see him thinking, his breath turning short. His fingers found the hem of my tank top, not pulling, just touching the fabric, like he couldn't help himself. "No," he said. "That's not crazy."

I kissed him before he could finish the thought.

I pushed up on my toes and pressed my mouth to his, and to his credit he caught on fast. His hands found my waist, tentative at first, then tighter, and he pulled me against him with a low sound in his chest. I felt the heat of his body through his T-shirt, felt him getting hard against my thigh, and I smiled into the kiss.

"Someone's excited."

"Jovi, you can't just—"

I shut him up with another kiss, walking him backward toward the bed. His legs hit the edge and he dropped onto the mattress, looking up at me with that dazed expression I'd been seeing all week. Arms slack at his sides. Completely mine. I loved it.

I reached down and pulled my tank top over my head in one smooth motion, tossing it to the floor. My breasts came free. No bra, I'd chosen that on purpose, and his eyes went dark, hungry, like the rest of him had finally caught up to the rest of him.

"Oh," he breathed.

"Yeah," I said, grinning. I climbed onto the bed and straddled him, sitting up tall so he got the full view: my breasts heavy and full in the air between us, my nipples already tight, my thighs bare against his jeans. "You like?"

He swallowed. His hands came up slowly, reverently, and cupped my breasts like they were something breakable. His thumbs circled my nipples, and I hissed through my teeth at the jolt of it. "They're perfect," he said, like the words cost him something.

I leaned down and kissed him deep, grinding down against his lap. The heat between my thighs was already pooling, soaking through to his jeans, and I could feel him hard and thick beneath the denim. I rolled my hips just to feel him strain against it. He arched up under me, fingers digging into my hips, and then his mouth found my breast and he sucked hard, like he was starving for it, and the sound I made surprised even me.

"I want to feel you," I whispered. "All of you."

His T-shirt came off next, pulled over his head while he fumbled with the button of my shorts. I helped, wriggling out of them, and swung my leg over his waist. I'd skipped underwear on purpose. The look on his face when he realised I was bare against him, nothing between us but air and the denim of his jeans, was worth every week of waiting. He was so different from Raj: hesitant, reverent, like I was something he'd been told not to touch and now couldn't stop touching. It made my skin prickle.

"You're so—" he started.

I didn't let him finish. I reached between us, unbuttoned his jeans, and pulled his cock free. It was thick and hot in my hand, already leaking at the tip, and the shudder that ran through him went straight between my legs. I stroked him slow, watching his head fall back against the pillow, his mouth falling open.

"Oh," he gasped. "Oh, Jovi."

"Tell me what you want," I teased, twisting my wrist, dragging my thumb over the slick head. His hips bucked into my grip.

"I want you." His voice cracked. "I want you so bad. Please."

I love it when they beg.

I shifted up, held him steady at my entrance, and let him feel the wet heat of me against the head of his cock. His eyes flew open, locked on my face. Then I sank down over him in one slow, deliberate motion.

We both moaned. He filled me completely, a deep, aching stretch that had my hands braced on his chest and my thighs trembling. I sat there, bottomed out, and for a moment neither of us moved. The feel of him inside me, the first time I'd ever had the one boy I couldn't have, was exactly what I'd pictured a hundred times and twice as good, because he wanted it. Because I'd earned it.

Then I started to ride him.

Slow at first, grinding deep, letting him feel every inch of how wet I was. The bedsprings sang under us. I rolled my hips hard, taking him deep, and he cried out my name, his hands sliding up my ribs, my breasts, gripping me, worshipping me. I bent forward and kissed him, swallowing his moans, my breasts pressed against the hard plane of his chest, and his hands gripped my ass hard enough that I knew there'd be marks tomorrow. Good. I wanted marks. I wanted him to remember this the moment he woke up.

"God, Jovi," he gasped. "I'm close already."

"Not yet," I said. I tightened around him, a slow clench from deep inside, and he made a broken sound, his fingers digging into my hips. "Not until I say."

He opened his mouth to argue. I slid off him instead, ignoring his whimper of protest, and pushed him flat onto his back. "My turn."

I kissed down his chest, dragging my tongue along the line of his stomach, and when I reached his cock I took him into my mouth. His whole body jerked. A hand buried itself in my hair, not pulling, just holding on, like I was the only anchor he had. I worked him slow and wet, letting my tongue drag along the length of him, taking him deep until my nose brushed his skin and his thighs were trembling against my palms. The sounds he made, small and desperate and wrecked, were better than any music. I pulled off with a wet sound and looked up at him, licking my lips.

"Please," he said, chest heaving. "Jovi. Please."

I crawled back up his body. "Where do you want me?"

"Like this." He rolled us, pinning me beneath him. "I want to see you."

For a moment he just looked at me, spread out under him, the white curve of my breasts, the flush across my chest, my thighs open and waiting. Then he took hold of himself, pressed into me, and pushed, watching my face the whole time. I gasped and grabbed his shoulders, arching into him as he bottomed out.

"Hard," I said. "Don't be gentle."

He wasn't. He drove into me with a rhythm that had me arching off the mattress, my legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper with every stroke. The slap of our bodies, the creak of the bed, the click of the ceiling fan overhead keeping time like it was cheering us on. It all blurred together. He buried his face in my neck, his pace turning frantic, and I could feel him shuddering, feel the strain in his arms, and I clenched around him, chasing my own edge.

"Come with me," I breathed against his ear. "Come inside me."

That did it. I clamped down around him, my climax crashing over me in a hot wave that had me crying out, and he followed a second later with a groan that sounded almost pained, his hips stuttering against mine. I held him there, milking every last drop, my legs tight around him, until he collapsed on top of me, chest heaving, his mouth against my shoulder.

We lay there tangled, breathing hard. The fan clicked overhead. The cheese balls sat unopened on the table. I felt lighter than I had in months, boneless and warm and full.

He lifted his head, looking down at me with those dazed, adoring eyes. His hair was stuck to his forehead. "That was... I didn't know it could be like that."

I grinned, stroking a hand through his damp hair. "Stick with me. You'll learn."

He went quiet for a second, and then, almost shyly, "That was my first time. With anyone, I mean."

I looked at him, at the faint flush climbing his neck, and something in my chest did a slow, pleased turn. "You picked a good first." I pulled him back down and kissed the corner of his mouth. "And I'm keeping you."

His lips curved into a shy smile, and he buried his face in my neck, pressing a kiss to my skin like I was something precious. I let my eyes drift shut, satisfied to my bones. Raj was forgotten, waiting in my phone like a loyal dog at a door. And VJ, the one boy who'd never looked at me twice, was curled against me like I was the centre of his world.

Whatever that red capsule was, whatever Bhavna's connection had promised, it had worked. I was definitely calling her in the morning to thank her.