CHAPTER 6 #2
"Want some?" She offered him a forkful, her expression open, guileless.
He should refuse. Maintain the distance. Keep the boundaries clear.
But there was chocolate on her lips, and she was looking at him with those honey-colored eyes, and something in his carefully constructed walls started to crack.
"No," he said, his voice rougher than intended.
Her smile faltered slightly. "Okay."
She set the fork down and started to stand. "I should probably get to bed anyway—"
"Stay."
She froze, looking at him in surprise. "What?"
"Stay. Finish your cake."
"But you said—"
"I know what I said." He pulled out the stool beside hers and sat, close enough that he could smell her—vanilla and something uniquely her. "Eat, Nimisha."
She hesitated, then slowly sat back down. She took another bite, but the easy enjoyment from before was gone, replaced by nervous awareness of his proximity.
He watched her. Catalogued the small things—the delicate movement of her throat as she swallowed, the way her fingers curled around the fork, the slight tremble in her hand.
She was nervous around him. Even after a year of marriage, even after everything they'd done in the darkness of their bedroom, she was still nervous.
"How was your day?" he asked, the words foreign on his tongue.
They didn't do this. Didn't make small talk or ask about each other's days.
Her eyes widened in surprise. "My day?"
"Yes. What did you do?"
"I... wrote. Worked on my manuscript. Went to the market for some research books."
She was at the market today. Alone.
His jaw tightened, but he kept his voice even. "What kind of research?"
"For my current book. It's set in a bookstore, so I wanted to get the details right.
The smells, the atmosphere, the types of customers.
" She was babbling now, words spilling out nervously.
"I know I could probably just Google it, but I like experiencing things firsthand. It makes the writing more authentic."
"You went alone."
It wasn't a question.
Her expression shuttered slightly. "I always go alone. I don't have security, remember? Not important enough."
The bitterness in her tone was subtle but there.
"You're getting a security detail," he said abruptly.
"What? Why?"
"Because I said so."
"That's not a reason—"
"Because you're my wife, and you will be protected accordingly." His voice hardened. "Non-negotiable."
She stared at him for a long moment, something unreadable in her eyes. "This is about the bracelet, isn't it? The one someone sent me."
"Partially."
"I didn't ask for it. I don't even know who sent it."
"I know." His hand moved before he could stop it, reaching up to wipe the smudge of chocolate from the corner of her mouth with his thumb.
She went very still, her breath catching.
He should pull away. Put the distance back between them.
Instead, he brought his thumb to his mouth and licked off the chocolate, maintaining eye contact.
Her pupils dilated, her lips parting slightly.
The air between them shifted, charged with the same electricity that always sparked when they were alone together.
"Samarth—"
He didn't let her finish. He stood, grasped her waist, and lifted her onto the kitchen counter. Her legs parted automatically to accommodate him as he stepped between them.
"This is all I can give you," he said, his voice rough with desire and something darker. "This hunger. This need. Nothing else."
"I know," she whispered.
Did she? Did she really understand that he was broken in ways she couldn't fix? That he'd been forged in violence and betrayal, that gentleness and tenderness had been burned out of him years ago?
He kissed her—hard, demanding, claiming. His tongue swept into her mouth, tasting chocolate and her. His hands gripped her thighs, spreading them wider, pulling her to the edge of the counter.
She moaned into his mouth, her arms wrapping around his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair.
He pulled back slightly, his breathing harsh. "I'm going to taste you."
Her eyes went wide. "What?"
"Here. Now. On this counter where anyone could walk in and see."
"Samarth, we can't—"
"We can. We are." His hands found the hem of her nightgown and pushed it up to her waist. "And you're going to let me because you're just as desperate for this as I am."
He didn't wait for her response. He hooked his fingers in her panties and dragged them down her legs, tossing them aside.
Then he dropped to his knees.
"Oh God," she breathed, her hands gripping the edge of the counter. "You don't have to—"
"I want to." He looked up at her, saw the flush on her cheeks, the desire and embarrassment warring in her expression. "I've never done this for anyone else. Only you."
The confession slipped out before he could stop it.
Her eyes widened. "Never?"
"Never." He gripped her thighs, holding her in place. "You're the first woman I've wanted to taste. The only one."
He didn't give her time to process that revelation. He leaned forward and dragged his tongue through her slit.
She cried out, her back arching, one hand flying to cover her mouth.
"No," he commanded, pulling back slightly. "I want to hear you. Let the whole house know what I'm doing to you."
"The staff—"
"I don't care." He returned to his task, his tongue circling her clit before sucking it into his mouth.
Her taste was intoxicating—sweet and musky and uniquely her. He'd spent a year fucking her, but this was different. This was intimate in a way penetration wasn't. This was worship.
He worked her with his tongue and lips, learning what made her gasp, what made her moan, what made her thighs tremble. When he pushed two fingers inside her while his mouth continued its assault on her clit, she nearly came off the counter.
"Samarth, I can't—oh God—I'm going to—"
"Come," he commanded against her flesh. "Come on my tongue, Nimisha. Give me everything."
She shattered, her orgasm ripping through her with devastating force. He felt her pulsing around his fingers, tasted her release, and something primal and possessive roared inside him.
Mine.
Before she could recover, he stood, freed his cock from his pants, and thrust into her in one brutal stroke.
She was still trembling from her orgasm, hypersensitive, and she cried out at the intrusion.
"Too much?" he asked, his voice strained with the effort of holding still.
"No. God, no. Don't stop."
He didn't need to be told twice. He fucked her on the kitchen counter with single-minded intensity, his hands gripping her hips, his mouth swallowing her cries.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew the staff might hear. Knew they might walk in and see their master taking his wife like an animal in the kitchen.
He didn't care.
Let them see. Let them know. Let everyone in this house understand that she was his.
Her nails dug into his shoulders, her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper.
"Say my name," he demanded.
"Samarth—"
"Again."
"Samarth!"
His orgasm hit him like a freight train, and he buried himself as deep as possible, spilling inside her as she came apart again around him.
For a moment, they stayed locked together, both breathing hard, both trembling.
Then reality crashed back.
He'd just fucked his wife on the kitchen counter.
Like she meant something to him.
Like this was more than just physical need.
He pulled out carefully, tucked himself back into his pants, and without a word, scooped her into his arms.
"What—"
"Taking you to bed."
He carried her through the dark hallways, her head resting against his shoulder, her body pliant in his arms.
When they reached their bedroom, he laid her on the bed gently—so gently it surprised them both.
He pulled the covers over her, then stood there, looking down at her flushed face, her kiss-swollen lips, the marks he'd left on her skin.
Something shifted in his chest. Something that felt dangerously like tenderness.
He crushed it ruthlessly.
"Sleep," he said, his voice colder than intended. "I have work to do."
He turned to leave.
"Samarth?"
He paused, not looking back. "What?"
"You said... you'd never done that before. With anyone else."
"I hadn't."
"Why me?"
Because you're different. Because you make me want things I shouldn't want. Because every time I'm inside you, I forget why I'm supposed to keep you at distance.
"Because you're my wife," he said instead. "And I take care of what's mine."
He left before she could respond, before he could see the hurt or hope or whatever emotion was surely on her face.
In his office, he poured a whiskey and stood at the window, looking out at the dark gardens.
He'd crossed a line tonight. Multiple lines.
And he had no idea how to go back.
The Next Day - 2:47 PM
Samarth sat in his home office, trying to focus on the reports in front of him. Arms shipment schedules. Territory disputes. Revenue projections.
The words blurred together.
His mind kept drifting back to last night. To Nimisha on the kitchen counter. To the taste of her on his tongue. To the way she'd looked at him afterward—like he was something more than a monster who'd married her out of obligation.
I take care of what's mine.
The words echoed in his head, mocking him.
His phone buzzed. Abhay.
"What?"
"Boss, we have a problem."
Samarth's hand tightened on the phone. "What kind of problem?"
"Mrs. Ranawat is missing."
The room went very still.
"What do you mean, missing?"
"She left the estate this morning around ten. The driver said she took one of the cars and dismissed him, saying she'd drive herself. That was almost five hours ago. No one's seen her since. Her phone is off."
Ice flooded Samarth's veins. "Have you checked—"
"We've checked everywhere she usually goes. The bookstore. The market. Her friend Aisha's house. Nothing. It's like she disappeared."
Rajput.
The name slammed into Samarth's mind with the force of a bullet.
If that bastard had touched her—
"Get everyone on this," he said, already standing. "I want every resource we have looking for her. Check traffic cameras, ATM footage, everything. And find out if Rajput's men have been active today."