08-08-2025, 11:53 AM
Chapter 3
The air in the office shifted the moment he entered—charged with something dark and electric, like the heavy stillness before a storm.
I felt him before I saw him. The murmurs of conversation died mid-sentence. The rustle of papers stilled. Even the hum of the air conditioning seemed to quiet as every head turned toward the doorway. My pencil froze over my sketchpad, my breath catching as I lifted my gaze.
Karan Malhotra.
He stood framed in the conference room entrance, his broad shoulders filling the space effortlessly. The sleek cut of his navy suit clung to his powerful frame, the fabric straining slightly over his biceps as he tucked his phone into his pocket. His dark eyes swept the room with calculated disinterest—until they landed on me.
Unlike Rohan’s clumsy groping or Mr. Kapoor’s leering stares, Karan’s gaze didn’t drop to my breasts or linger on the curve of my hips. No, he studied *me*—the nervous flutter of my pulse at my throat, the way my fingers tightened around my pencil, the instinctive hitch of my breath when his attention settled on me like a physical touch.
It was unnerving.
And it sent a slow, molten heat pooling between my thighs.
The Meeting – A Dangerous Game
Mr. Dhaval practically tripped over himself to greet him. "Mr. Malhotra! We weren’t expecting you until—"
"I moved my schedule around." Karan’s voice was deep, smooth as aged whiskey, and it silenced the room without effort. His gaze never left mine as he added, "I wanted to see the team in person before finalizing plans."
I swallowed hard, suddenly hyperaware of how my blouse clung to my curves, the silk material tightening over my breasts with every shallow breath I took. The air between us felt thick, charged with something unspoken.
The meeting passed in a haze. I sat stiffly in my chair, my legs pressed tightly together, my nipples hardening beneath the thin fabric of my blouse. Karan lounged at the head of the table, his long fingers steepled under his chin as he listened to the senior architects drone on about cold, soulless designs.
Then, in the middle of a presentation, he interrupted.
"That one."
His finger pointed—not at the screen, but directly at the sketchpad in my lap. A rough, sensual concept I’d been idly doodling—something curved and intimate, all sweeping arches and hidden alcoves, so unlike the sterile modern designs being proposed.
Every head turned toward me.
My face burned.
"I—it’s just a rough idea," I stammered, my fingers instinctively covering the sketch. "Not part of the official—"
"I like it." His voice was firm, final. Then, to Mr. Dhaval, with a tone that brooked no argument: "I want her on the project."
The silence that followed was deafening.
The First Touch
After the meeting, as the others filed out with murmured confusion, I lingered, pretending to organize my papers. My pulse hammered in my throat, my skin prickling with awareness as Karan’s shadow fell over me.
"You’re not like the others here, are you?"
His voice was closer than I expected, a dark murmur that sent a shiver down my spine. I turned, finding him leaning casually against the table, his suit jacket open to reveal the crisp white shirt beneath. The top button was undone, exposing a hint of tanned skin and the strong column of his throat.
His cologne—something rich and spicy, with notes of sandalwood and sin—wrapped around me, intoxicating.
"I don’t know what you mean," I managed, though my voice trembled.
He smiled—slow, knowing, *dangerous*. "Yes, you do."
Before I could respond, he straightened, his body brushing against mine as he reached past me to pick up a stray pen. The contact was fleeting, but it burned—his forearm grazing the side of my breast, the heat of him searing through the thin silk of my blouse. My breath hitched, my nipples pebbling instantly under the accidental caress.
He noticed. Of course he noticed.
His gaze darkened, lingering on the hardened peaks visible through my blouse before meeting my eyes again. "We’ll discuss the project tomorrow. My penthouse. Seven o’clock."
A beat of silence. My thighs pressed together involuntarily, arousal slicking my skin.
"Bring your sketches," he added, his voice dropping to a low, intimate timbre. Then, softer, as if sharing a secret: "I’d hate to see talent like yours go to waste."
The Lie – And the Dream That Followed
That night, I lied to Vikram for the first time.
"It’s just a team meeting," I said, staring at my reflection in the laptop screen instead of at him. My fingers twisted in the hem of my nightshirt, the fabric riding up my thighs. "For a new project."
Vikram barely glanced up. "Good for you," he murmured absently, already distracted by something off-camera.
I should have felt guilty.
But all I could think about was the way Karan’s arm had brushed against my breast, the way his gaze had lingered on my body like he was already mapping every inch of me with his hands.
The dream came just before dawn.
The dream began with the whisper of fabric against my wrists, cool and smooth as Karan tied them to the wrought iron headboard. The black satin sheets beneath me were a sinful contrast to my bare skin, the material sliding like liquid against my thighs as I squirmed.
"You could be so much more," Karan murmured, his voice a dark caress against my ear. His hands—rough, demanding—trailed down my body, fingers digging into the soft flesh of my hips hard enough to leave marks. I gasped as his teeth scbangd my collarbone, the sharp sting making my back arch off the bed.
His mouth was relentless. He laved his tongue over my nipples, sucking until they were stiff and aching, then biting down just hard enough to make me cry out. His fingers tangled in my hair, yanking my head back to expose my throat as he kissed me—deep, filthy, his tongue claiming my mouth like he owned it.
I was already wet, my thighs slick with need, when his hand slid between my legs. A rough groan escaped him as he found my panties soaked through. "Look at you," he growled, hooking his fingers into the lace and tearing them aside. "Dripping for me before I’ve even touched you properly."
His fingers plunged into me without warning, thick and unrelenting, curling just right to make me sob. I clenched around him, my hips bucking, but he pinned me down with his free hand, his grip bruising. "Stay still," he commanded, his thumb circling my clit in slow, torturous strokes. "Take what I give you."
I whimpered, my body trembling as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter—until he suddenly withdrew, leaving me empty and gasping. Before I could protest, he flipped me onto my stomach, yanking my hips up until my ass was in the air. His palm cracked against my bare flesh, the sharp slap sending a jolt of white-hot pleasure-pain through me.
"Karan—!"
He didn’t answer. Just dragged me back onto his cock in one brutal thrust, filling me so deep I screamed. His hands gripped my waist, fingers digging in as he fucked me with punishing strokes, each one driving me harder into the mattress. The headboard rattled with the force of it, my bound wrists straining against the silk scarves as pleasure tore through me in ragged waves.
"Come for me," he snarled, his teeth sinking into my shoulder. "Now."
I shattered, my body convulsing around him as he chased his own release, his hips slamming into mine with a final, devastating thrust—
I woke with a gasp, my skin damp and feverish, my core still pulsing with the ghost of him. The sheets were tangled between my thighs, my fingers already seeking the wet heat they found there.
I didn’t tease myself. Couldn’t. My touch was rough, desperate—two fingers plunging deep as my thumb circled my clit in harsh, rapid strokes. I imagined it was Karan’s hand, his voice growling in my ear, "That’s it, fuck yourself for me."
My back arched off the bed as I came, my thighs clamping around my wrist, my free hand fisting the sheets. A broken cry spilled from my lips—his name, like a prayer and a curse.
For a long moment, I lay there, breathless and trembling, the aftershocks still rippling through me.
Then I turned my face into the pillow, biting back another moan as my fingers, still slick, traced lazy circles over my oversensitive flesh.
This wasn’t enough.
I needed the real thing.
The Morning After – A Decision Made
I stood in front of my closet the next morning, my fingers trembling as they brushed over my usual modest suits.
Then I reached for the emerald silk blouse instead—the one that dipped just low enough to tease, the fabric so thin it left nothing to the imagination. The matching pencil skirt hugged my ass like a second skin, the slit at the back revealing a tantalizing glimpse of thigh with every step.
I applied my lipstick slowly, deliberately—a deep, sinful red that made my mouth look ripe for kissing.
It’s just a business meeting, I told my reflection.
But the woman staring back at me—her lips swollen from biting them, her eyes dark with anticipation—knew the truth.
And I wouldn’t stop or he wouldn't let me?
The air in the office shifted the moment he entered—charged with something dark and electric, like the heavy stillness before a storm.
I felt him before I saw him. The murmurs of conversation died mid-sentence. The rustle of papers stilled. Even the hum of the air conditioning seemed to quiet as every head turned toward the doorway. My pencil froze over my sketchpad, my breath catching as I lifted my gaze.
Karan Malhotra.
He stood framed in the conference room entrance, his broad shoulders filling the space effortlessly. The sleek cut of his navy suit clung to his powerful frame, the fabric straining slightly over his biceps as he tucked his phone into his pocket. His dark eyes swept the room with calculated disinterest—until they landed on me.
Unlike Rohan’s clumsy groping or Mr. Kapoor’s leering stares, Karan’s gaze didn’t drop to my breasts or linger on the curve of my hips. No, he studied *me*—the nervous flutter of my pulse at my throat, the way my fingers tightened around my pencil, the instinctive hitch of my breath when his attention settled on me like a physical touch.
It was unnerving.
And it sent a slow, molten heat pooling between my thighs.
The Meeting – A Dangerous Game
Mr. Dhaval practically tripped over himself to greet him. "Mr. Malhotra! We weren’t expecting you until—"
"I moved my schedule around." Karan’s voice was deep, smooth as aged whiskey, and it silenced the room without effort. His gaze never left mine as he added, "I wanted to see the team in person before finalizing plans."
I swallowed hard, suddenly hyperaware of how my blouse clung to my curves, the silk material tightening over my breasts with every shallow breath I took. The air between us felt thick, charged with something unspoken.
The meeting passed in a haze. I sat stiffly in my chair, my legs pressed tightly together, my nipples hardening beneath the thin fabric of my blouse. Karan lounged at the head of the table, his long fingers steepled under his chin as he listened to the senior architects drone on about cold, soulless designs.
Then, in the middle of a presentation, he interrupted.
"That one."
His finger pointed—not at the screen, but directly at the sketchpad in my lap. A rough, sensual concept I’d been idly doodling—something curved and intimate, all sweeping arches and hidden alcoves, so unlike the sterile modern designs being proposed.
Every head turned toward me.
My face burned.
"I—it’s just a rough idea," I stammered, my fingers instinctively covering the sketch. "Not part of the official—"
"I like it." His voice was firm, final. Then, to Mr. Dhaval, with a tone that brooked no argument: "I want her on the project."
The silence that followed was deafening.
The First Touch
After the meeting, as the others filed out with murmured confusion, I lingered, pretending to organize my papers. My pulse hammered in my throat, my skin prickling with awareness as Karan’s shadow fell over me.
"You’re not like the others here, are you?"
His voice was closer than I expected, a dark murmur that sent a shiver down my spine. I turned, finding him leaning casually against the table, his suit jacket open to reveal the crisp white shirt beneath. The top button was undone, exposing a hint of tanned skin and the strong column of his throat.
His cologne—something rich and spicy, with notes of sandalwood and sin—wrapped around me, intoxicating.
"I don’t know what you mean," I managed, though my voice trembled.
He smiled—slow, knowing, *dangerous*. "Yes, you do."
Before I could respond, he straightened, his body brushing against mine as he reached past me to pick up a stray pen. The contact was fleeting, but it burned—his forearm grazing the side of my breast, the heat of him searing through the thin silk of my blouse. My breath hitched, my nipples pebbling instantly under the accidental caress.
He noticed. Of course he noticed.
His gaze darkened, lingering on the hardened peaks visible through my blouse before meeting my eyes again. "We’ll discuss the project tomorrow. My penthouse. Seven o’clock."
A beat of silence. My thighs pressed together involuntarily, arousal slicking my skin.
"Bring your sketches," he added, his voice dropping to a low, intimate timbre. Then, softer, as if sharing a secret: "I’d hate to see talent like yours go to waste."
The Lie – And the Dream That Followed
That night, I lied to Vikram for the first time.
"It’s just a team meeting," I said, staring at my reflection in the laptop screen instead of at him. My fingers twisted in the hem of my nightshirt, the fabric riding up my thighs. "For a new project."
Vikram barely glanced up. "Good for you," he murmured absently, already distracted by something off-camera.
I should have felt guilty.
But all I could think about was the way Karan’s arm had brushed against my breast, the way his gaze had lingered on my body like he was already mapping every inch of me with his hands.
The dream came just before dawn.
The dream began with the whisper of fabric against my wrists, cool and smooth as Karan tied them to the wrought iron headboard. The black satin sheets beneath me were a sinful contrast to my bare skin, the material sliding like liquid against my thighs as I squirmed.
"You could be so much more," Karan murmured, his voice a dark caress against my ear. His hands—rough, demanding—trailed down my body, fingers digging into the soft flesh of my hips hard enough to leave marks. I gasped as his teeth scbangd my collarbone, the sharp sting making my back arch off the bed.
His mouth was relentless. He laved his tongue over my nipples, sucking until they were stiff and aching, then biting down just hard enough to make me cry out. His fingers tangled in my hair, yanking my head back to expose my throat as he kissed me—deep, filthy, his tongue claiming my mouth like he owned it.
I was already wet, my thighs slick with need, when his hand slid between my legs. A rough groan escaped him as he found my panties soaked through. "Look at you," he growled, hooking his fingers into the lace and tearing them aside. "Dripping for me before I’ve even touched you properly."
His fingers plunged into me without warning, thick and unrelenting, curling just right to make me sob. I clenched around him, my hips bucking, but he pinned me down with his free hand, his grip bruising. "Stay still," he commanded, his thumb circling my clit in slow, torturous strokes. "Take what I give you."
I whimpered, my body trembling as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter—until he suddenly withdrew, leaving me empty and gasping. Before I could protest, he flipped me onto my stomach, yanking my hips up until my ass was in the air. His palm cracked against my bare flesh, the sharp slap sending a jolt of white-hot pleasure-pain through me.
"Karan—!"
He didn’t answer. Just dragged me back onto his cock in one brutal thrust, filling me so deep I screamed. His hands gripped my waist, fingers digging in as he fucked me with punishing strokes, each one driving me harder into the mattress. The headboard rattled with the force of it, my bound wrists straining against the silk scarves as pleasure tore through me in ragged waves.
"Come for me," he snarled, his teeth sinking into my shoulder. "Now."
I shattered, my body convulsing around him as he chased his own release, his hips slamming into mine with a final, devastating thrust—
I woke with a gasp, my skin damp and feverish, my core still pulsing with the ghost of him. The sheets were tangled between my thighs, my fingers already seeking the wet heat they found there.
I didn’t tease myself. Couldn’t. My touch was rough, desperate—two fingers plunging deep as my thumb circled my clit in harsh, rapid strokes. I imagined it was Karan’s hand, his voice growling in my ear, "That’s it, fuck yourself for me."
My back arched off the bed as I came, my thighs clamping around my wrist, my free hand fisting the sheets. A broken cry spilled from my lips—his name, like a prayer and a curse.
For a long moment, I lay there, breathless and trembling, the aftershocks still rippling through me.
Then I turned my face into the pillow, biting back another moan as my fingers, still slick, traced lazy circles over my oversensitive flesh.
This wasn’t enough.
I needed the real thing.
The Morning After – A Decision Made
I stood in front of my closet the next morning, my fingers trembling as they brushed over my usual modest suits.
Then I reached for the emerald silk blouse instead—the one that dipped just low enough to tease, the fabric so thin it left nothing to the imagination. The matching pencil skirt hugged my ass like a second skin, the slit at the back revealing a tantalizing glimpse of thigh with every step.
I applied my lipstick slowly, deliberately—a deep, sinful red that made my mouth look ripe for kissing.
It’s just a business meeting, I told my reflection.
But the woman staring back at me—her lips swollen from biting them, her eyes dark with anticipation—knew the truth.
And I wouldn’t stop or he wouldn't let me?
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