Rishikesh, India 1968

The ashram's quiet tonight. Just the steady rush of the Ganges and the low hum of crickets. You’re laid out on the floor of the hut, silk robe slipped open at the thighs, one leg bent, head resting against a pillow John dragged in from the guesthouse. Your skin's still warm from the afternoon sun, and you can feel the soft ache between your legs from how hard John took you earlier—twice, actually.

But now he’s pacing. Smoking. Sweaty curls clinging to his forehead, shirt completely unbuttoned, trousers halfway zipped like he got too distracted to finish.

He keeps fucking looking at the door. That door. You already know who he’s waiting for.

“Spit it out, Lennon,” you purr, stretching your arms up, the robe slipping further apart. “You’re twitching like a goddamn addict.”

He stops. Stares at you. Stares hard. Like he’s about to pounce. But instead, he crouches beside you, hand sliding straight up your inner thigh, gripping the soft flesh like he owns it. Like he always fucking does.

“I want him here,” he mutters into your neck, breath hot. “Right fuckin’ here. With us.”

You don’t move. Just tilt your head, heartbeat pounding in your ears.