Page 134 of Mrs. Rathore

My breath hitched. “Excuse me?”

“You seemed very comfortable with Prashant,” he spat my friend’s name like venom. “Leaning toward him, whispering, laughing like you forgot you’re married.”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve,” I snapped, tossing my bag on the chair. “You think I forgot I’m married? You ignored me the entire day. You were too busy letting Ira curl up on your shoulder like a lapdog.”

He took a step toward me, slow and deliberate. “That’s different.”

“Oh, it always is, isn’t it? When it’s you, there’s a reason. But when it’s me, it’s betrayal.” My voice cracked with frustration. “I needed you today, Aryan. I needed you to see me but you didn’t.”

He was in front of me now, tall, intense, jaw clenched, eyes dark with something darker. I tried to move past him toward the bathroom, but he shot out his arm and caged me against his chest.

“I’m not a patient man, Ballerina,” he whispered, voice rough with something dangerous. “And I don’t handle being ignored. Especially not by my woman.”

His breath fanned against my lips. My chest rose and fell rapidly as I tried to swallow the heat coiling in my belly.

“I’m tired,” I lied, trying to escape from his grip. But Aryan wasn’t done.

“I don’t think you are,” he murmured, and then his lips brushed mine. Not gently but like punishment and possession.

His hand gripped the back of my head, tilting me up to him as he kissed me deeper, and harder. His tongue invaded my mouth, claiming, tasting, and devouring.

My knees buckled when he pressed me against the wall, his solid chest crushing into me. “You’ll never forget who you belong to,” he growled against my lips, his breath hot and uneven.

I gasped as he grabbed my thighs, lifting me up effortlessly. My legs wrapped around his waist as if by instinct.

He moved with purpose, predatory, desperate. His jeans were undone with a flick of my fingers; my breath caught when I felt him, heavy and throbbing, against the lace of my panties.

“Don’t tear it…” I began, but it was too late.

The rip echoed in the quiet room, followed by a gasp that was mine. Then a low, feral groan that was his.

The next moment he thrust inside me, sudden and deep. I cried out, a sound that was half shock, and half rapture. My back arched into the wall as my nails dug into his shoulders.

“You’re mine,” he whispered into my neck, biting down gently. “No one else gets this.”

“Then act like it,” I gasped, grinding into him as my body clenched uncontrollably.

Our clothes were half on, half off. But our bodies? Our bodies were completely bare to each other, raw, desperate, frantic. His pace was unrelenting, his hands gripping my hips so hard I thought I would bruise. But I didn’t care.

All I could do was hold onto him. Because tonight, even in anger, he reminded me what it felt like to burn in someone’s fire.

______

The bathroom door opened softly with a hiss of steam. I came out, drying my wet hair with a towel, and saw Aryan already in bed, shirtless. He had one arm tucked under his head and was scrolling through his phone with the other hand until he noticed me.

His eyes immediately softened, watching me as if I were peace after a long struggle.

I slipped under the covers next to him, our legs touching. Slowly, instinctively, I curled into him, and he wrapped his arms around me, pulling me closer until I was snuggled against his side, my head resting on his shoulder. The faint scent of sandalwood still lingered on his skin, mixed with the familiar warmth of his body. His rough skin against mine felt wonderfully contrasting, grounding me in his presence.

I traced slow, gentle circles on his chest with my fingers. The fine hair sprinkled across his firm torso made him look rugged and masculine. His skin was warm, and his heartbeat was steady beneath my hand.

His face was lit by the soft, golden lamplight, and I found myself staring. He had sharp features, a strong jawline, prominent cheekbones, and lips that always seemed to hold back too much and hide too many secrets. Yet, in this quiet moment, he looked almost boyish.

“What are you thinking?” I whispered.

His eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling for a moment. Then, softly, he said, “I’m counting how many days we have left.”

That made my fingers pause on his chest.

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