Chapter Forty Two
Aansh's POV;
I hit the accelerator at a speed that was dangerous—reckless, deadly.
I wanted to outrun what I was feeling. Wanted to escape the fire burning through my veins, consuming every rational thought. But no matter how fast I drove, I couldn't escape it.
I had tasted her.
Fuck.
I had tasted her.
The realization hit me like a physical blow, making my grip tighten on the steering wheel until I thought it might snap in my hands.
The image of her flushed face was seared into my brain like a brand—the way her cheeks had turned that perfect shade of pink, the way her lips had been swollen and red from my mouth, my teeth.
The way her eyes had refused to look into mine, shy and overwhelmed and wanting.
The way her breathing had quickened, her chest rising and falling rapidly, those small gasps she'd made that went straight to my cock.
Fuck.
It did something to me. Something primal, something dangerous.
She tasted so damn good. Like rain and innocence and something uniquely her—something sweet and addictive that I knew I'd crave for the rest of my fucking life.
I shouldn't have kissed her. I knew I shouldn't have kissed her.
But after she accused me of sleeping outside my marriage, after she'd looked at me with such disgust and pain in her eyes and said she knew about Ruksar, I couldn't control myself.
The control I'd spent years building, years perfecting—it had shattered like glass.
I wanted to shut her up. Wanted to make her stop saying things that made me feel like I was being gutted alive. Wanted to erase that look of betrayal from her beautiful face.
And the image of that fucker hugging her—his arms around my wife, her body pressed against his—was burned into my mind like acid on metal.
I wanted to kill him. Still wanted to kill him.
Wanted to go back there and finish what I'd started, beat him until he was nothing but a broken, bloody mess on the floor.
But more than that—more than that—I wanted to show her. Needed to show her with a desperation that terrified me.
Show her that she belonged to me. Only me. That no other man had the right to touch her, to hold her, to make her smile like that.
That she was mine.
I picked up my phone with one hand, barely looking at the road as I swerved around another car, ignoring their angry horn.
My assistant picked up on the first ring. Smart man—he knew better than to make me wait.
"Send a trustee driver to pick Ria right now," I said, my voice rough and commanding. "I will send her location. Make sure he's someone reliable. Do you understand me?"
I hung up before he could respond, not waiting for confirmation because I knew he'd do it. He valued his job too much not to.
I sent her location with quick, aggressive taps and threw the phone onto the passenger seat with more force than necessary.
The rational part of my brain knew I shouldn't have left her there. In the rain. In the dark. In the middle of nowhere.
But the other part—the part that was barely holding on to sanity—knew that if I'd let her get back in that car, I would have lost whatever shred of control I had left.
I reached one of my hotels fifteen minutes later, the tires screeching as I pulled up to the entrance.
I got out, frustration written all over me.
My clothes were still damp, clinging to my skin.
My hair was wet, water dripping down my neck.
My knuckles were bruised and bloodied from hitting that fucker.
The security immediately straightened, greeting me with nervous respect as they rushed to collect my keys.
But I was too fucked up to care. Too consumed by the chaos raging inside me.
I walked through the lobby, and everyone I passed murmured greetings and straightened up like soldiers at attention. They could sense it—the danger radiating from me, the barely leashed violence.
Good. They should be afraid.
I took the elevator to the top floor where my private room was.
After locking the door behind me with a decisive click, I tore my clothes off one by one—the blazer, the shirt, ripping the buttons in my haste. The belt. The pants. Everything was soaked, heavy, suffocating.
I needed it off. Needed to feel like I could breathe.
I entered the bathroom and turned on the shower, setting it to very cold—as cold as it would go. The water hit me like ice, shocking my system.
But it didn't help. It didn't help to cool me down at all.
If anything, it made it worse. Made me more aware of every nerve ending in my body, every place she'd touched, every sensation still burning through me.
I wanted her.
The admission made my jaw clench, made my fist slam against the tile wall with brutal force.
I wanted her. Desperately. Violently.
With an intensity that scared even me.
I had tasted her now.
That was the problem. I'd crossed a line I could never uncross, opened a door I could never close.
And now I wanted more. Wanted to have her completely. Wanted to mark her, claim her, make her mine in every possible way.
I wanted to see those eyes—the ones that refused to meet mine—glazed with pleasure, heavy-lidded and dark with desire.
Wanted to hear her voice—the one that trembled when she spoke to me—crying out my name.
Wanted to feel her body—the one that fit so perfectly against mine—trembling beneath me, above me, around me.
Wanted to taste every inch of her skin, discover what made her gasp, what made her moan, what made her fall apart.
Wanted to bury myself so deep inside her that she'd never forget who she belonged to. Never look at another man. Never smile at anyone but me.
"Fuck," I groaned, hitting the wall again, harder this time.
Pain radiated up my arm, but it was nothing compared to the ache consuming me from the inside.
I was trained to keep my control for so many years.
Trained by my grandfather, by circumstance, by necessity.
Control was everything—the foundation of power, the key to success.
But she fucking broke it. Shattered it like it was nothing. Like those years of discipline and restraint meant nothing when faced with her.
One taste of her lips and I was undone.
"You're selfish. You only care about yourself.
"
Her words echoed in my head, over and over like a curse.
Fuck.
She was absolutely correct.
Painfully, brutally correct.
I'd heard those words almost every day of my life—from my father, from business associates, from women I'd disappointed. They'd never bothered me before.
I'd worn my selfishness like armor, used it to get what I wanted, to build my empire.
But when she said it—when those words came from her lips, lips I'd just kissed, lips that tasted like redemption and damnation—it felt different.
Why? Why did it feel like a knife was being twisted into my guts? Why did it matter what she thought of me?
I ran my hands through my hair under the shower, the cold water biting into my skin like tiny knives.
I needed more. Needed colder water, needed ice, needed something to cool the fire raging through me.
I felt like acid was running through my veins instead of blood—corrosive, burning, destroying everything in its path.
After what felt like hours but was probably only twenty minutes, I stepped out of the shower with a towel wrapped low around my hips.
Water dripped down my chest, my abs, pooling at my feet.
I reached for my phone on the bathroom counter and saw a text from my assistant: "Sir, she is safe back at the villa."
Relief flooded through me, unexpected and unwanted.
She was safe. She was at the villa. She wasn't freezing to death on some dark road.
I threw my phone onto the bed after reading his message, watching it bounce once before settling on the silk sheets.
She would've frozen to death in this coldness.
The temperature had dropped significantly, the rain turning harsh and unforgiving.
I left her there because it took all my willpower—every single ounce of control I possessed—to break free from her lips.
To step away from her body. To stop myself from taking more.
If Ria had stepped into that car with me, if I'd let her sit in that enclosed space where her scent would surround me, where I could reach over and touch her whenever I wanted—
Fuck.
I would've lost my mind completely. Would've pulled over on some dark stretch of road and taken her right there. Would've made her mine in the most primal, possessive way possible, consequences be damned.
If only she knew what it took me not to tear off her clothes right there in the rain. If only she understood the restraint it required not to push that thin shalwarkameez, wet fabric up her thighs, not to make her scream my name against that car until her voice was hoarse and her body was boneless.
If only she knew what I was imagining—her back arched, her nails digging into my shoulders, her legs wrapped around my waist as I showed her exactly who she belonged to.
If only she knew the monster she'd married, the darkness that lived inside me, the possessive obsession that was growing stronger every second—she would've kept her distance.
Would've run as far away from me as possible.
But she didn't know. Not yet.
And that's what made it so dangerous.
The way her face had twisted with pain and disgust at the thought of me having an affair—the genuine hurt in her eyes—it did something to me I couldn't quite name.
Something that felt suspiciously like guilt. Like remorse.
I wasn't used to caring what people thought about my character. Wasn't used to wanting to explain myself, to make someone understand.
But with her—with her—I wanted to reassure her. Wanted to make that look disappear from her face.
Wanted to tell her that Ruksar was my past. Someone who meant nothing to me now, who never really meant anything.
Wanted to tell her that no one—not Ruksar, not any of the women before—had ever made me lose my focus like she did.
Had never made me feel so out of control, so consumed, so obsessed.
Fucking hell.
I didn't know why I wanted to reassure her.
Didn't understand this need to make her believe me, to see trust instead of suspicion in those eyes.
I'd never cared before. Had never felt the need to explain myself to anyone.
But she was different. Everything about her was different.
I craved control like other men craved air—needed it, built my entire life around it. Control over my emotions, my business, my life, everything.
But I couldn't have it with her around me. She stripped away my control effortlessly, without even trying, just by existing in my space.
I picked up my phone again, my jaw clenching as I made a decision I knew was necessary.
I texted my assistant: "Book Ria's ticket back to Delhi. First class. Tomorrow morning."
It was best she went back. Better for both of us. Safer.
Because if she stayed, if she continued to be near me, she would truly come to know what kind of monster I really am. Would see the depths of my obsession, the darkness of my desire, the violence of my possession.
She'd see that I wasn't the cold, controlled businessman everyone thought I was.
She'd see that underneath the expensive suits and calculated moves was something feral, something savage, something that wanted to consume her.
Distance, it was necessary for us. I can't have her fucking my principles up. She has to go back to Delhi, otherwise I would lose every control I fucking have left.