Meera
The room was heavy with silence, but not the kind that suffocates—this one wrapped around us like a fuse waiting for a spark. And when Aarav looked at me, I knew he was the fire.
His hands slammed against the door beside my head, eyes wild, searching, angry. Hurt.
"I couldn't reach you," he said, voice low, trembling with everything he'd swallowed down these past two weeks. "I called. Texted. Waited."
"I was trying to protect you—"
He cut me off with a furious kiss, all teeth and tongue and frustration.
"I don't need protecting. I need you."
I let out a sound, somewhere between a sob and a gasp. The second I gripped his scrubs and pulled him to me, it was over.
Clothes vanished with a ruthless urgency. His hands were all over me—hungry, reverent, claiming.
"Turn around," he commanded, voice raw.
I obeyed before I could think, and he bent me over the surveillance desk, pressing my bare skin against the cold, unforgiving surface.
"You've been avoiding me," he said, dragging his fingers down the curve of my spine, slow and deliberate. "Dodging everything. But not tonight."
His palm flattened on the small of my back, holding me in place as he dragged his fingers between my thighs—teasing, grazing, circling. My body bucked into his touch, greedy for more.
"You're soaked," he whispered. "Did you miss me this much, baby?"
"Y-yes," I breathed.
He chuckled lowly, sinful and dark. "Let me remind you what you've been missing."
Then he dropped to his knees behind me.
I felt his breath first—hot and sharp against my skin—then his tongue, relentless, devouring, until I was gripping the edge of the desk so hard my knuckles ached. My cries filled the room—raw, honest, desperate.
He stood, wiped his mouth, and dragged me up, turning me to face him. His eyes were dark with need and something deeper—possession, love, obsession.
A moment later, he lifted me onto the desk, spreading my legs and lining himself up.
"I should be gentle," he said, breath stuttering. "But I've been going crazy without you. So I'm not going to be."
Then he thrust in—hard, deep—and I shattered.
My back arched, legs wrapped around his waist, nails digging into his shoulders as he moved inside me with brutal precision.
Each thrust was a promise.Each breath, a war cry.Each groan, a declaration.
"You're mine, Meera," he growled. "Say it."
"I'm yours," I choked out, tears streaming down my cheeks from the sheer overwhelm of sensation. "I'm yours."
He kissed me then—softer this time, as if he felt the quake in my chest—and his pace slowed, deeper, more intentional.
And when we came apart, trembling and boneless, he cradled me in his arms as if I were breakable and sacred all at once.
"I love you," he whispered, pressing his forehead to mine. "And I'm going to make this right."
My body was still humming when he kissed the corner of my mouth and pulled my shirt gently over my head.
"You're moving in with me. Starting tonight."
"Aarav…"
"No more silence. No more hiding. I'll deal with the cameras. The PR. Your family. But I'm not walking away."
I stared into his eyes—intense, exhausted, unwavering—and finally let the dam break.
"Yes."
He smiled, slow and wrecked. "Good. Because if you think I'm letting you go again, you're out of your mind."