CHAPTER 1 #2
"Thank you."
After he left, Nimisha sat alone in the sitting room, staring at the cold tea in her cup.
A shadow moved in the doorway. Bruno.
The dog stood there, his dark eyes fixed on her, and for a moment, she thought he might approach. But then footsteps echoed down the hallway, and Bruno melted back into the shadows.
Even he knew better than to be seen with her.
Nimisha set down her teacup and returned to her study. She had a love confession to write, after all.
She just had to remember what love looked like.
11:47 PM
The master bedroom was dark when Samarth entered.
He'd spent the evening in his office, dealing with the aftermath of a collection that had gone sideways. Rakesh Malhotra, a club owner who thought he could skim profits from Samarth's establishments, had needed a reminder about the cost of betrayal.
The reminder had involved blood, broken bones, and very explicit threats about what would happen to Malhotra's family if he ever tried something like that again.
Samarth had left Abhay and Armaan to clean up the mess. He'd come home, showered in his private bathroom to wash off the evidence, and now stood in his bedroom, looking at the figure curled on the far side of the bed.
Nimisha.
His wife.
The word still tasted foreign.
She was asleep, her breathing deep and even, her dark hair spread across the pillow. The moonlight coming through the window highlighted the delicate lines of her face, the soft curve of her lips.
Beautiful. Even he couldn't deny that.
Too beautiful.
It had been a week since he'd touched her. Work had consumed him, and he'd been content to leave her alone. But tonight, with violence still singing in his veins and her soft form in his bed, the hunger stirred.
He approached the bed silently. She didn't wake.
"Nimisha."
Her eyes opened slowly, unfocused with sleep. She blinked at him, and he watched as awareness returned—along with wariness.
"You're back," she whispered.
"I need you."
It wasn't a request.
She sat up, the sheet falling to her waist. She wore one of those modest nightgowns she preferred, covering everything while somehow making him want to uncover it all.
"Okay," she said quietly.
That simple acceptance did something to him. No protests, no demands for affection or tenderness. Just okay.
It should have made things easier.
Instead, it made him angry.
He crossed the distance between them in two strides, his hand tangling in her hair as he pulled her up to her knees on the bed. She gasped, her hands coming up to grip his wrists, but she didn't fight him.
"This is all we are," he growled against her lips. "Don't forget it."
"I haven't," she breathed.
He kissed her then—hard, claiming, with none of the gentleness she deserved. His teeth caught her lower lip, tugging until she whimpered. The sound went straight to his groin.
His other hand found the hem of her nightgown and yanked it up. She lifted her arms, letting him pull it over her head and toss it aside. The moonlight painted her skin silver, highlighted the curves of her breasts, the dip of her waist.
Perfect. Too perfect for a man like him.
He pushed her back onto the bed, following her down. His mouth found her throat, teeth scraping over her pulse point. She arched beneath him, her hands clutching at his shoulders.
"Samarth," she whispered.
His name on her lips was a benediction and a curse.
He didn't want her to say his name like that—like it meant something. Like he meant something.
His hand slid down her body, rough and demanding. He cupped her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple until it hardened. She bit her lip, trying to stay quiet, but a small moan escaped anyway.
"Don't hold back," he commanded, his voice rough. "I want to hear you."
His mouth replaced his hand, tongue circling her nipple before sucking hard. Her back bowed off the bed, her fingers tangling in his hair.
He moved to her other breast, giving it the same attention while his hand traveled lower, over her stomach, her hip, to the juncture of her thighs.
She was already wet for him. Always was.
"So fucking responsive," he muttered against her skin. His fingers slid through her slickness, finding her clit and circling it with just enough pressure to make her whimper.
"Please," she breathed.
"Please what?"
"I need—"
He thrust two fingers inside her, cutting off her words. She cried out, her hips rising to meet his hand. He set a brutal pace, his thumb working her clit while his fingers drove deep.
Her innocence killed him. Even after a year of this, she still trembled like it was new, still looked at him with those wide honey-colored eyes full of something he didn't want to name.
She was coming apart beneath him, her body tightening around his fingers, her breath coming in short gasps. Beautiful in her surrender.
"Come," he ordered.
She obeyed, her body shaking as the orgasm tore through her. She cried out his name, her nails digging into his shoulders, her pussy clenching around his fingers.
He didn't give her time to recover. He stripped off his clothes with efficient movements, then gripped her thighs and spread them wider.
"Look at me."
Her eyes fluttered open, hazy with pleasure but obedient.
He thrust into her in one hard stroke, seating himself fully. She gasped, her back arching, her body stretching to accommodate him.
Tight. Hot. Perfect.
He gave her only a moment to adjust before he started moving—hard, deep, claiming strokes that were more punishment than pleasure. His hands gripped her hips hard enough to bruise, holding her in place as he took what he needed.
This was all they were. All they could be.
Sex. Lust. Physical need.
Nothing more.
But when she wrapped her arms around him, when she pulled him closer instead of pushing away, when she whispered his name like a prayer—something cracked in his chest.
He hated it.
He fucked her harder, trying to erase the feeling. His teeth found her shoulder, biting down just shy of breaking skin. Marking her.
Mine.
The thought came unbidden, unwanted.
She wasn't his. Not really. She was a political arrangement, a piece on a chessboard, a duty fulfilled.
But her body was made for his, accepting every brutal thrust, clenching around him like she never wanted to let go.
"Samarth, I'm going to—"
"Come," he growled. "Come on my cock."
She shattered, her orgasm triggering his own. He buried himself deep, his release pouring into her as his vision whited out.
For a moment, there was nothing but pleasure and the feeling of her body wrapped around his.
Then reality crashed back.
He pulled out, rolling away from her immediately. The loss of her warmth felt like a punishment.
The silence stretched between them, broken only by their ragged breathing.
He could feel her watching him, but he didn't turn to look. If he looked at her now, with her hair tangled and her lips swollen from his kisses, with his marks on her skin—he might do something stupid.
Like stay.
Like hold her.
Like pretend this was more than it was.
"Don't romanticize what we are, Nimisha," he said, his voice cold as he stood and pulled on his clothes.
She didn't answer.
He glanced at her then. She was lying on her back, staring at the ceiling, the sheet pulled up to cover herself. Her profile was expressionless, but he saw the slight tremor in her jaw.
Something twisted in his gut. Guilt, maybe. Or regret.
He crushed it ruthlessly.
"I have work to do," he said, grabbing his phone from the nightstand.
"Of course."
Two words. Spoken quietly, without inflection.
Why did they feel like an accusation?
He left without another word, closing the door behind him.
In his office, he poured himself a whiskey and stood at the window, looking out at the dark city.
He'd done what needed to be done. Kept the distance. Maintained the boundaries.
So why did he feel like he'd just lost something he couldn't name?
He downed the whiskey and poured another.
Behind him, his phone buzzed with messages from Abhay about tomorrow's shipment. Work. Business. The only things that mattered.
He forced himself to focus on that and ignore the image of honey-colored eyes staring at the ceiling, waiting for him to leave.
This was all they were.
He needed to remember that.