Page 48 of His Arranged Wife
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 washis.
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.
