Chapter 18
Viya
It was Armaan standing outside my door.
My husband. The man I had not seen in a month. The man who had occupied every waking thought and haunted every dream.
He was right here. Right in front of me.
I stood frozen, my hand still on the doorknob, my mouth half open from the words I had been shouting at what I thought was Akshita.
My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might break through my ribcage. I could not seem to form a coherent thought. Could not seem to make my mouth work to say anything at all.
Armaan's dark eyes were locked on mine, intense and unreadable. His jaw was set in that familiar way that meant he was holding back something. His hands were clenched at his sides.
Finally, he spoke. His voice was low and rough.
"Can I come inside?"
I nodded mutely and stepped aside, my legs moving on autopilot even though my brain was still scrambling to catch up.
He walked past me into the suite, and I caught the familiar scent of his cologne. The scent that had been missing from our bedroom for a month. The scent I had found myself searching for on his pillow late at night when I could not sleep.
I closed the door and locked it with trembling fingers.
We stood there in the entryway of the suite, facing each other. The silence stretched between us, heavy and loaded with a month's worth of unspoken words.
I did not know what to say. Where to even begin.
I am sorry? I missed you? Why did you leave? Why did you not call?
But before I could formulate any coherent sentence, he spoke again.
"Did I disturb you?"
The question was so formal, so polite, so completely at odds with the intensity burning in his eyes that I almost laughed. Almost.
"No," I managed to say, my voice coming out quieter than I intended. "No, you did not disturb me."
Another pause. He was looking at me like he was trying to memorize every detail of my face. Like he had been starving for the sight of me.
Or maybe I was projecting. Maybe I was the one who had been starving.
"That night," he said suddenly. "The night before I left. When I came back drunk."
My breath caught. I remembered that night with painful clarity. The way he had pushed me against the wall. The possessive way he had held me. The things he had said. The way his lips had felt against my neck.
"I remember," I whispered.
His eyes searched mine.
"You said something to me. Do you remember what you said?"
I swallowed hard. Of course I remembered. The words were burned into my memory.
"I said you had every right on me. But not like that. Not when you were drunk and not thinking clearly."
He took a step closer. Then another. Until he was standing right in front of me, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.
"I am not drunk today, Viya."
The way he said my name sent shivers down my spine. It had been so long since I had heard him say it. A whole month of silence, and now here he was, saying my name like a prayer and a promise all at once.
"I know," I said softly.
"Were you serious that day? About what you said?"
My heart was racing so fast I felt dizzy. Heat was rising in my cheeks, and I knew I must be turning red. But I held his gaze and nodded.
"Yes. I was serious."
"Say it," he said, his voice dropping even lower. "I need to hear you say it."
I took a shaky breath.
"You have every right on me, Armaan. Every single one."
Something flashed in his eyes. Something hot and intense that made my knees weak.
"If I am serious about taking the next step," he said slowly, deliberately, "about making this marriage real in every way, are you ready for that?"
Oh. Oh.
This was not just about a kiss or an embrace. This was about everything. Something permanent. Something that could not be undone.
And he was asking for my consent. Not telling me what he wanted. Not assuming he had the right just because we were married on paper.
He was asking.
The realization made my chest tighten with emotion.
I did not even hesitate. Did not need to think about it. The answer had been living in my heart for weeks now, maybe longer.
"Yes," I said, my voice steady and clear despite the way my entire body was trembling. "I am ready."
The effect of that single word was immediate.
The careful control he had been maintaining shattered. He took my wrist in his other hand, his fingers wrapping around it gently but firmly. The touch sent electricity shooting up my arm.
"Come with me," he said.
He led me through the suite, past the living area with its panoramic windows overlooking the Tokyo skyline. Past the elegant furniture and expensive decor that I barely registered.
To the bedroom.
He pushed open the door and guided me inside, then closed it behind us. The soft click of the door shutting felt significant somehow. Final.
We were alone. Truly alone. With no one to interrupt us. No obligations or responsibilities beyond this moment.
Just him and me and the truth that had been building between us since the day we met.
Armaan's hand was still around my wrist. He used that hold to gently pull me closer, backing me up until my shoulders touched the wall.
This position was familiar. We had been here before, that night when he was drunk and jealous and barely in control.
But this time was different. This time he was completely sober. Completely present. Completely in control of his actions.
And so was I.
He released my wrist and brought both hands up to frame my face. His touch was reverent, almost worshipful. Like I was something precious he was afraid might break.
His eyes dropped to my lips, and I saw the exact moment his control began to slip. The exact moment hunger overtook hesitation.
He looked back up at my eyes, asking one more silent question.
I answered by tilting my face up toward his.
His gaze dropped to my lips again, lingering there. Then back to my eyes, as though memorizing this moment. As though he wanted to remember exactly how I looked right before everything changed.
Then, finally, he closed the distance between us.
His lips touched mine, soft and gentle at first. A whisper of contact that sent sparks racing through my entire body.
I gasped softly at the sensation, and he used that opportunity to deepen the kiss. His mouth moved against mine with increasing confidence, increasing passion.
The kiss was not just a kiss. It was a declaration. A promise. A beginning.
My lips met his with a hunger that had been simmering for months, for a lifetime. I kissed him back with everything I had, with all the longing I’d bottled up, with all the confusion that had finally crystallized into this single, clear desire. I wanted him.
He was so tall. I had to rise onto my toes to meet him properly, straining to reach his mouth.
He noticed immediately. A soft groan escaped him, and then his hands—strong, sure hands—cupped under my thighs and lifted me effortlessly from the ground.
My legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, locking me against him.
The dress bunched around my hips. I felt his hardness pressing against me even through the layers of our clothing, and a gasp shuddered out of me.
His tongue explored my mouth—not invading, but claiming. A slow, thorough exploration that tasted me, learned me. One of my hands clutched at his shoulder, the other tangled in the thick, soft hair at the nape of his neck. I held him there, keeping him close, as if he might disappear again.
He broke the kiss, panting slightly, his eyes dark pools of heat. He looked down at me, suspended against him, my face flushed, my lips swollen from his attention. He smiled—a real, tender smile that softened the intensity in his gaze for just a second.
“You feel so good,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion.
Then he began to move downward.
His lips left mine and trailed along my jaw, a hot, wet path that made me shiver. He found the sensitive spot just below my ear and lingered there, sucking gently, before continuing down the column of my neck. His mouth was open, his breath scalding my skin. I arched against him, offering more.
One of his hands left my thigh and reached behind me. I felt his fingers fumbling for a moment, then finding the single tie that held the back of my yellow dress together. He pulled it loose.
The silk fabric, now unsupported, slid down my shoulders. It pooled around my waist, held there only by my legs wrapped around him and the press of his body against mine. My chest was exposed, covered only by the lacy white bra I wore beneath.
He lowered his head. His lips brushed the skin just above the bra’s cup, then dipped lower, kissing the swell of my breast. His tongue flicked out, tasting me through the fabric.
I was burning. I needed more. Without thought, my hand came up and tugged at the cup of the bra, pulling it down until my breast sprang free.
He didn’t hesitate. His mouth closed over my nipple immediately. The sensation was so sharp, so direct, I cried out. “Armaan!”
He hummed against my skin, the vibration adding another layer of pleasure.
His tongue began to move, circling the stiff peak, then lapping broadly at the areola.
He suckled gently, then with more pressure, drawing my flesh deeper into the warmth of his mouth.
I was panting, my head thrown back against the wall, my fingers gripping his hair tightly.
He switched his attention to my other breast, his hand now working behind me again.
He found the clasp of the bra and released it.
The garment fell away, tumbling to the floor somewhere behind us.
Now both breasts were bare, heavy and full, swaying slightly with the motion of my body held against him.
He kissed the newly freed nipple, giving it the same devoted attention. His free hand came up to cradle the breast he’d just abandoned, his thumb stroking the wet, sensitive skin he’d just worshipped.
“You’re perfect,” he breathed against my skin, looking up at me. His eyes were fixed on my chest, on the way my breasts moved with each ragged breath I took. “So beautiful.”