Page 95 of His Arranged Wife
"I only see you," she breathed.
The truth in her eyes undid him.
He kissed her—deep, consuming, claiming. His tongue swept into her mouth, tasting the champagne she'd had at the gala, tasting her.
His hands roamed her body, learning her through the silk of her saree. When he found the edge of her blouse, he didn't hesitate. He unbuttoned it with practiced efficiency, revealing the lacy bra beneath.
"Beautiful," he murmured, his mouth moving to her breast. "So fucking beautiful."
"Samarth, the driver—"
"Can't see us. Can't hear us." His hand slid under her saree, finding her bare thigh. "And I don't care if he can. I need you now."
His fingers found her center, stroking through the damp silk of her panties.
"Already ready for me," he said with satisfaction.
"Always."
He pushed the fabric aside, his fingers sliding into her wet heat. She gasped, her head falling back as pleasure shot through her.
"Look at me," he commanded.
She obeyed, her eyes locking with his as he fingered her with deliberate strokes.
"Who do you belong to?" he asked.
"You."
"Say it again."
"I belong to you, Samarth. Only you."
He added another finger, stretching her, filling her. His thumb found her clit, circling with just enough pressure to make her whimper.
"Come for me," he ordered. "Come on my fingers so I can feel you clench. Then I'm going to fuck you right here, and you're going to try to stay quiet even though we both know you'll fail."
The dirty words, the commanding tone, the expert touch—it was too much.
She came with a muffled cry, her body shaking in his arms.
He didn't give her time to recover. He freed himself from his pants, positioned her over his cock, and thrust up into her in one smooth motion.
She cried out, her hands clutching his shoulders as he filled her completely.
"Shh," he murmured, even as he started moving. "Unless you want the driver to hear how well I fuck you."
She bit her lip, trying to stay quiet as he set a brutal pace. The car rocked with their movements, the leather seats creaking.
It was filthy. Desperate. Perfect.
"You're mine," he chanted with each thrust. "Mine. Mine. Mine."
"Yours," she agreed, her nails digging into his shoulders through his tux jacket.
When she came again, she buried her face in his neck to muffle her scream.
He followed seconds later, spilling inside her with a groan of her name.
