Page 119 of Mrs. Rathore

“God, Avni,” he groaned, voice thick with emotion. “Tell me I’m the first...the only one to touch you like this.”

“You are,” I whispered, breathless.

A quiet moan escaped me as his calloused palm cupped my breast. His touch was rough, yet gentle in a way that undid me completely. He lowered his head, his lips finding the swell of my nipple. The sensation, his tongue, and his mouth were exquisite and unbearably intimate.

He moved to my other breast, kissing it with the same intensity, his devotion written in every stroke, every breath. My body arched toward him involuntarily, craving more.

“You won’t regret this, Avni,” Aryan murmured, lifting himself just enough to rid himself of his pants. The sight of him above me, so powerful, so utterly undone by desire stole the air from my lungs. “In fact, you’ll beg me to do this again.”

He reached for a blanket, draping the soft fabric over our entwined bodies as a modest shield between our burning skin.

“Is this okay?” he asked, voice low, breath warm against my ear.

I could only nod, my voice lost in the storm of everything I was feeling desire, trust, and the terrifying thrill of surrendering to him.

“Condom?” I managed to whisper the word, feeling foreign on my tongue.

“I don’t want anything between us,” he said as his voice was low, cold, and clipped. The starkness of his tone sent a shiver down my spine.

“What if I get pregnant?”

“You’ll need to take contraceptives. I’ll bring them in the morning… Now stop asking questions.” His fingers slid down, tugging at the elastic of my panties but before he could go any further, his phone rang sharply from the nightstand. His jaw clenched, irritation flashing across his otherwise composed face. He let it ring, stubbornly ignoring it as he returned to hisexquisite torture, lips trailing along my collarbone, his breath hot and intoxicating.

Aryan's body pressed against mine like a furnace, every inch of him radiating heat that seeped into my bones. I marveled at the contrast of his rough exterior and his military control against this surprising tenderness. I had expected urgency, but this slow unraveling, this deliberate worship, was so much more maddening.

And then the phone rang again, louder this time, splitting through the moment like a cruel blade.

“Damn it,” he muttered. “I think it’s important. I should answer.”

He peeled the blanket away and stood, walking to the other room clad only in his boxers. My body felt cold the moment he left, the air grazing my flushed skin like ice. I lay still, breathless, the silence crashing over me.

The scent of him lingered on my skin, his cologne, his sweat, and his essence. I could still feel the ghost of his touch. I bit into my lower lip, hoping the call would end soon, hoping he would return to finish what we had started. But when Aryan walked back in, I knew. I felt it in my gut before he spoke.

His expression was hard, all softness gone.

“I have to go. It’s an emergency.” He was already pulling on his uniform, the practiced efficiency in every movement stinging more than the words.

“I understand,” I whispered, pulling the blanket tighter around my bare body, trying to preserve the warmth he had left behind.

He dressed in minutes. Just as he reached the door, he hesitated, then came back to the bed. He bent down and pressed a soft kiss to my forehead.

“I’m sorry again,” he murmured.

I closed my eyes at the weight of his words. His kiss was tender, but it felt like goodbye. And then the door clicked shut, and I was alone.

The ceiling fan hummed softly overhead. The room, once charged with heat and tension, now felt vast and empty. I turned my face into the pillow, inhaling the scent he left behind, wishing I could hold onto the fire he had ignited inside me.

My body was still hummed with his memory. Every place his fingers had touched still tingled. His kisses had left more than heat, they had carved something into me. I shifted onto my side, staring at the indentation where his body had been.

A deep ache bloomed in my chest. Not just from desire left unfulfilled, but from uncertainty.

Was I just a moment for him? A passing indulgence in a world of duties and emergencies?

His voice echoed in my head: “You’ll beg me to do this more.”

God, I already was.

But it hadn’t just been about lust. There had been something else in the way he looked at me, the way he touched me like I was something fragile, and precious.