Page 8 of His Arranged Wife
11:47 PM
The master bedroom was dark when Samarth entered.
He'd spent the evening in his office, dealing with the aftermath of a collection that had gone sideways. Rakesh Malhotra, a club owner who thought he could skim profits from Samarth's establishments, had needed a reminder about the cost of betrayal.
The reminder had involved blood, broken bones, and very explicit threats about what would happen to Malhotra's family if he ever tried something like that again.
Samarth had left Abhay and Armaan to clean up the mess. He'd come home, showered in his private bathroom to wash off the evidence, and now stood in his bedroom, looking at the figure curled on the far side of the bed.
Nimisha.
His wife.
The word still tasted foreign.
She was asleep, her breathing deep and even, her dark hair spread across the pillow. The moonlight coming through the window highlighted the delicate lines of her face, the soft curve of her lips.
Beautiful. Even he couldn't deny that.
Too beautiful.
It had been a week since he'd touched her. Work had consumed him, and he'd been content to leave her alone. But tonight, with violence still singing in his veins and her soft form in his bed, the hunger stirred.
He approached the bed silently. She didn't wake.
"Nimisha."
Her eyes opened slowly, unfocused with sleep. She blinked at him, and he watched as awareness returned—along with wariness.
"You're back," she whispered.
"I need you."
It wasn't a request.
She sat up, the sheet falling to her waist. She wore one of those modest nightgowns she preferred, covering everything while somehow making him want to uncover it all.
"Okay," she said quietly.
That simple acceptance did something to him. No protests, no demands for affection or tenderness. Just okay.
It should have made things easier.
Instead, it made him angry.
He crossed the distance between them in two strides, his hand tangling in her hair as he pulled her up to her knees on the bed. She gasped, her hands coming up to grip his wrists, but she didn't fight him.
"This is all we are," he growled against her lips. "Don't forget it."
"I haven't," she breathed.
He kissed her then—hard, claiming, with none of the gentleness she deserved. His teeth caught her lower lip, tugging until she whimpered. The sound went straight to his groin.
His other hand found the hem of her nightgown and yanked it up. She lifted her arms, letting him pull it over her head and toss it aside. The moonlight painted her skin silver, highlighted the curves of her breasts, the dip of her waist.
Perfect. Too perfect for a man like him.
He pushed her back onto the bed, following her down. His mouth found her throat, teeth scraping over her pulse point. She arched beneath him, her hands clutching at his shoulders.
