Page 37 of Mrs. Rathore

And I hated the way I stared. Hated the way my body reacted when his rough hand slid slowly down my bare leg. At some point, he had pulled the blanket away and I hadn’t even noticed.

His movements were slow, deliberate, like he wasn’t just touching skin but peeling back pride and resistance.

His eyes locked on mine, daring me to look away. My breath stuttered as his fingers brushed my ankle… then my shin… then higher… to my thighs.

I went rigid.

Something sharp and unfamiliar bloomed inside me. Heat. Panic. Desire. I hated him. God, I hated him. But my body didn’t seem to care. I had never been touched before, not by any man. And it was like my body didn’t know how to react… only that it wanted more.

“Aryan…” My voice cracked. I shoved at his chest. “What the hell are you doing?”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just stared at me with that maddening smirk that made my blood boil.

“What a husband should do to his wife,” he said dryly, running a hand through his dark hair. His chest rose and fell anger or desire, I couldn’t tell. Maybe both.

“You didn’t seem to mind touching me in front of Ira,” he continued, voice low. “So tell me, why can’t I touch you now?”

“Because we don’t want this,” I hissed. But even I could hear how breathless and shaky I sounded.

He chuckled, cold and cruel. “Speak for yourself, sweetheart. Because your body?” He leaned in closer, voice like velvet and venom. “She’s not lying nearly as well as you are.”

I flinched, pressing myself against the headboard, trying to escape the heat, the scent, the him.

“Don’t come any closer,” I snapped.

But he already was. Leaning in slowly, like a predator toying with his prey. His lips hovered just over my cheek, not quite touching.

“I should hate the way you tremble for me,” he whispered, his voice a low threat, “but God, it makes me want to ruin you.”

“You already have,” I spat, eyes blazing.

His smirk vanished. What replaced it was darker and colder.

“Not yet.”

And just like that, he pushed himself up. Muscles tight, jaw clenched, chest heaving.

“But don’t worry,” he said, his voice like frostbite. “I won’t touch you again.”

Then he stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

And I sat there. Heart pounding. Skin burning where he touched. My body trembling not from fear.

But from want.

And I hated him even more for it.

He was cruel. He touched me without my consent. And yet… I hadn’t stopped him. Why hadn’t I pushed his hand away?

I could still feel something low in my stomach, something wrong, something warm and wicked curling through me.

I had never felt this before.

And it scared the hell out of me.

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Chapter 13

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