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.
