Chapter 7 #2
The kiss was nothing like the ones before. This was possession. Pure, undiluted claiming. His tongue invaded her mouth, tasting every corner, memorizing her flavor. His teeth caught her lower lip, biting gently, then soothing with his tongue.
Akriti moaned into his mouth, her hands fisting in his jacket, pulling him closer despite the scandal of being caught.
He kissed her like he was starving for her. Like she was oxygen and he'd been drowning. Like three years of wanting had finally broken through his control.
His hand cupped her jaw, angling her head for deeper access. His other hand gripped her waist, holding her steady as he plundered her mouth.
She could feel him—all of him. The hard planes of his chest. The strength in his arms. The rigid evidence of his desire pressing against her stomach.
Heat pooled between her thighs. Her body responded instinctively, arching into him, seeking more contact.
"Raghav," she gasped when he finally let her breathe. "Someone could see—"
"Let them." He kissed along her jaw, down her neck, finding the sensitive spot below her ear that made her shudder. "Let everyone see. Let them know exactly who you belong to."
His teeth scraped against her pulse point, and she whimpered.
"You're marking me," she accused breathlessly.
"Yes." He sucked hard, definitely leaving a bruise. "So everyone knows. So you remember."
"I don't need reminders—"
"Don't you?" He pulled back, his eyes wild and dark. "Because I've spent three years forgetting. I'm never forgetting again."
He kissed her once more, this time slower, deeper, infinitely more devastating. When he finally pulled away, they were both breathing hard, their lips swollen, her saree slightly askew.
"We should go back," she managed.
"We should go home." His voice was rough with desire. "So I can finish what I started."
"Raghav—"
"Soon, Akriti." He straightened her saree, his hands lingering possessively. "Very soon. I've been patient. I've waited for you to heal. But my patience is running out."
The promise in his words sent shivers down her spine.
They returned to the ballroom, Akriti acutely aware of the mark on her neck, of the whispers that followed them, of Raghav's hand never leaving her body.
He was claiming her. Publicly. Irrevocably.
And she was letting him.
*
Near the dessert table, Alina watched them with barely concealed fury. She'd returned to Mumbai despite Raghav's dismissal, convinced she could change his mind. Convinced this infatuation with his wife was temporary.
But watching them now—the way he touched her, the way he looked at her, the way he'd practically devoured her in that hallway (yes, she'd seen)—Alina realized the truth.
She'd lost.
The insignificant wife had won.
"Quite the display," she said as Akriti approached the dessert table alone, Raghav momentarily pulled into a business discussion.
Akriti turned, her expression cool. "Alina. I thought you'd returned to Singapore."
"I had business in Mumbai." Alina's smile was thin. "Though I see you've been... busy."
"I've been recovering. As you know."
"Oh, I know. And what a recovery." Alina's eyes raked over Akriti's appearance—the elegant saree, the diamonds, the confidence. "Playing dress-up. Playing wife. How long do you think this will last?"
"As long as we want it to." Akriti's voice was steady.
"He'll tire of this domestic fantasy," Alina said, her tone vicious. "The novelty will wear off. He'll remember why he left in the first place—because you're boring. Simple. Nothing like the women in his world."
"And yet," Akriti replied softly, "you're the one who was fired. You're the one who left. You're the one who's no longer part of his life." She paused, her eyes meeting Alina's directly. "That's what worries you, isn't it? That I won."
Alina's face flushed. "You didn't—"
"I did." Akriti's smile was small but genuine. "Not because I competed. Not because I played games. But because I'm his wife. I've always been his wife. You were just... an employee who wanted to be more."
The words hit their mark. Alina's composure cracked.
"You think you're special? You think he—"
"I think," Akriti interrupted gently, "that you should leave. For your own dignity. Before Raghav sees you here and has you removed. Again."
Alina opened her mouth, then closed it. The power dynamic had completely shifted. Akriti—timid, forgotten Akriti—had become someone else. Someone stronger. Someone certain of her place.
Without another word, Alina turned and walked away, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor.
Akriti took a breath, her hands shaking slightly. That had been terrifying. Exhilarating. Necessary.
"That was impressive."
She turned to find Raghav watching her, pride evident in his dark eyes.
"You saw?"
"I saw." He pulled her against him, his arm around her waist. "You were magnificent. Fierce. Utterly devastating."
"I just—she needed to understand—"
"That you're not the woman she thought you were." He pressed a kiss to her temple. "That you're strong. Confident. Mine."
"Yours," she agreed softly.
His eyes darkened with heat. "Say it again."
"Yours."
"Again."
"Yours, Raghav. I'm yours."
The growl that rumbled through his chest was utterly primal.
"We're leaving," he announced. "Now."
"The gala isn't over—"
"I don't give a damn about the gala." His hand tightened on her waist. "I need to get you home. Before I lose what's left of my control and take you right here."
The crude words should have shocked her. Instead, they sent liquid heat pooling between her thighs.
"Then take me home," she whispered.
His eyes flared. "Dangerous words, wife."
"I'm not afraid of you."
"You should be." His smile was dark promise. "Because tonight, I'm done waiting."
*
The drive home was torture. Raghav kept one hand on the wheel, the other on Akriti's thigh, his fingers tracing idle patterns through her saree that were anything but idle.
Each touch sent sparks of sensation through her body. Each circle of his thumb made her breath hitch. Each possessive squeeze made her core clench with need.
"Raghav," she breathed.
"Yes?"
"What are you doing?"
"Touching my wife." His hand slid higher. "Is there a problem?"
"We're in a car—"
"With privacy glass. Soundproof." His fingers traced the inside of her thigh. "No one can see. No one can hear. Just us."
Her head fell back against the seat. "You're—"
"What?" His fingers moved higher still, dangerously close to where she ached. "Tell me, Akriti. What am I?"
"Dangerous."
"Yes." He withdrew his hand, and she whimpered at the loss. "And tonight, you're going to find out exactly how dangerous I can be."
By the time they reached the mansion, Akriti was trembling with need. Every nerve was alive, every sense heightened. Her body was on fire, aching for his touch, for completion, for him.
They barely made it inside before he was on her.
In the foyer, he pressed her against the wall, kissing her with bruising intensity. His hands were everywhere—in her hair, on her waist, cupping her face, possessing every inch he could reach.
"Raghav," she gasped. "The staff—"
"Have the night off." He bit down on her neck, making her cry out. "I sent them away. It's just us."
"You planned this—"
"I've been planning this for weeks." He scooped her into his arms, carrying her toward the stairs. "Ever since the doctor cleared you. Ever since I knew I could finally have you without worrying about your injuries."
She wrapped her arms around his neck, her heart racing. "I'm nervous."
"I know." He kissed her forehead, his expression softening slightly. "We'll go slow. I'll make it good for you. I promise."
"And if it's not?"
He stopped on the landing, his eyes boring into hers. "It will be. Because you're mine, and I take care of what's mine. Always."
The certainty in his voice steadied her. This was Raghav. Her husband. The man who'd spent eleven weeks caring for her, proving himself, earning her trust.
She was safe with him.
Even as she was about to be completely consumed by him.
He carried her into the master bedroom and set her on her feet beside the bed. Moonlight streamed through the windows, bathing the room in silver light.
"Wait here," he ordered, moving to the bathroom.
She heard water running. When he emerged, he'd removed his jacket and tie, rolled up his shirtsleeves, revealing strong forearms.
"Turn around," he commanded softly.
She obeyed, feeling his hands on the pins in her hair. One by one, he removed them, letting her long dark waves cascade down her back.
"Beautiful," he murmured, running his fingers through the silky strands. "I've wanted to see you like this. Hair down. Saree barely holding on. Mine to unwrap."
His fingers found the pleats of her saree, and slowly—so slowly—he began to unwrap her.
The silk whispered as it pooled at her feet, revealing the fitted blouse and petticoat beneath. His hands traced her waist, her hips, the curve of her back.
"Turn around."
She turned, meeting his gaze. His eyes had gone nearly black with desire.
"You're perfect," he said simply.
"I have scars—"
"You have proof of your strength." He traced the long surgical scar on her thigh. "Proof that you survived. Proof that you're here with me now."
His fingers moved to the hooks of her blouse. "Tell me to stop and I will. Tell me you're not ready, and we'll wait. But Akriti—" His voice dropped to something raw. "Tell me you want this. Because I need to hear it. I need to know you're choosing me."
She looked at him—really looked at him. Saw the desire, yes, but also the vulnerability. The need for her acceptance. Her choice.
"I want this," she said clearly. "I want you."
Something in him unleashed.
He kissed her, deep and possessive, as his hands made quick work of her blouse hooks. The garment fell away, leaving her in just her petticoat and the scraps of lace that passed for a bra.
"God," he breathed, his eyes devouring her. "Look at you."
Self-consciousness warred with desire. She'd never been naked in front of a man. Never been touched like this.