03-08-2026, 07:23 AM
(This post was last modified: 03-08-2026, 07:24 AM by adams_masala. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
Chapter 130: Take me like Hartmann
She didn’t notice the mountain view until she’d already paced the suite, bare feet padding across the heated stone tiles, the cold air knifing in through the open balcony doors. She didn’t care. The adrenaline that had kept her upright on the path was gone, replaced by something raw and chemical... a fine tremor in her hands and a taste in her mouth like copper. She’d been violated, not in the way she’d always braced for, but in the real way: the shattering of her own private perimeter, the exposed nerve of being watched and touched and made into something for someone else.
Hartmann’s blood was probably still drying on the gravel. She hoped it stained his teeth forever.
The door shut behind her. She didn’t stop pacing. The saree was coming loose again, the pallu trailing down her arm, the gold waist chain tight on her hip. She wanted to rip it all off and throw it off the balcony, but her body wouldn’t obey. Instead she went to the glass, pressed her palm to the cold surface, and watched the treeline for any sign of movement. She could still hear Selvam at the door, but she didn’t look at him.
He didn’t try to talk her down. Didn’t offer water or sit her on the bed or tell her everything would be all right. He just watched, arms folded, like he’d known from the second Hartmann pulled at her saree exactly what would happen next and was only waiting for her to process it.
She turned, not sure what she wanted from him. “You should’ve just let me kill him.”
Selvam shrugged. “I think you did. You just used my hands.” His voice was steady, almost bored, but she could see the flex at his jaw, the way the tendons stood out on his neck. He was still running hot, even if he did his best to flatten it.
She pointed at the bathroom. “Can you help me... ” She couldn’t finish. Couldn’t ask for help, not now, not ever. She braced both hands on the glass and leaned into the cold until her forehead hurt.
He waited. Then, without a word, he crossed the room, caught her at the elbow, and guided her to the marble counter. He retucked the saree, his hands on autopilot, workmanlike, looping the silk over her breast with tight, precise movements. His hands were warm and dry. He didn’t touch her bare skin except where he had to.
She said, “You think I wanted him to look at me.”
“No,” he said. “You wanted him to see he couldn’t have you.”
She barked a laugh, bitter, and looked at the wall. “I’m tired of men thinking they can.” The mirror showed her face, unsmiling, the bruise blooming on her jaw already yellow at the edges.
He caught her eyes in the glass. “Wear what you want, ma. You have the right. If any man cannot handle it, that is their weakness. Not yours.”
She nodded. Didn’t trust herself to answer. She watched his reflection instead as he pulled a fresh towel and handed it to her. She wiped her hand, then her neck, and finally her face, careful around the bruise.
When she turned, Selvam was no longer behind her. He stood by the minibar, pouring two fingers of whiskey into a glass. He brought it to her, then poured another for himself.
She drank it in one go. The burn was perfect. It chased the cold out of her chest.
He watched her, then said, “You want me to leave you alone?”
She shook her head. No.
“Okay.” He set his glass down and leaned both hands on the marble, caging her in. “You want to know what’s funny? I don’t think you’re angry at Hartmann. Not really. You’re angry at yourself. For letting any man think he had a chance.”
She opened her mouth, ready to argue, but the heat in her face said he was right. She didn’t want to be right. She wanted to be clean. She wanted to feel like herself again.
She said, “Fix me,” before she knew the words were coming.
He didn’t move. “How?”
She gripped his shirt and pulled him tight against her, so close the whiskey vapor from his breath filled her nose. “Remind me what it’s supposed to feel like. Do it now.”
Selvam took the command as if she’d spoken an equation. He kissed her, slow and deep, and for a second Vanitha thought she might break apart from the pressure of wanting to be fixed and not knowing if she even could be. His hands went to her jaw, thumbs bracketing the bruise, but when he pressed his mouth to hers there was nothing gentle about it. He kissed her like he was erasing every other touch from the morning.
“You sure?” His voice was a rumble against her lips.
“If you stop now, I’ll bite you.”
He half-smiled, but she could taste the edge in it. “I’d like to see you try, ma.”
He held her pallu the way Hartmann had, but gently, and wound the loose end of silk around his fist, drawing her in until the line of her body pressed flush to his. He didn’t speak. He peeled the saree down to her hips, untucking the pleats with the same rough precision he used on business problems. At her waist he stopped, gold chain caught between his thumb and the bone above her hip. His hands framed her there, bracketing her pelvis so she couldn’t step away. He leaned in and bit the top of her shoulder, then tongued the mark until it burned.
“I want to see you,” he said against her skin. “All of you. All at once.”
He yanked the saree down in a single motion. The petticoat was loose under his hands; he let it drop. The blouse was sleeveless, raw-cut at the back. He worked the tiny hooks one by one, knuckles grazing her skin.
“Rip it.”
He looked at her.
“Rip it like he would have.”
Selvam understood. He gripped the front seam near her left breast and pulled. The first two hooks gave with a snap; the third stuck. He yanked harder, popping it off entirely. The blouse parted. For a split second she thought she’d made a mistake, that this would trigger the same nausea Hartmann had left in her mouth... but Selvam’s hands were on her, arms strong and sure, and he shoved the fabric back over her shoulders. He fisted the torn silk, wadded it into his palm, and tossed it to the tiles.
“Only you can take me by force, mama,” she whispered.
His hands were still holding the ruined blouse. He took the instruction literally. The next tear was louder, silk shearing. Her bra snapped under the pressure; with a single motion he yanked the whole mess over her head. The fine mesh bit at her skin before coming free, leaving her arms up, baring her chest completely to the cold air. Her nipples went hard instantly. She refused to clutch at herself or hide. She wanted to be seen. She wanted his hands back. She let her arms fall to her sides even though the air raised goosebumps thick enough to hurt.
Selvam stood looking at her, chest rising, knuckles still red from the punch on the path. She didn’t cover herself. She didn’t look away.
“I want you to have what Hartmann couldn’t,” she said. The words came out steady, which surprised her, because inside her chest everything was shaking. “And I want you to take it from me the way he would have if you hadn’t come. I want you to, mama.”
His jaw flexed once, twice. His eyes dropped to her throat, then lower, to the gold chain, then lower still.
“You don’t mean that.”
“I mean it.” She stepped closer until her nipples brushed the front of his shirt. “He wanted to rip it off me. He wanted to put his hands on me and take what he wanted because he thought he could. So take it. Take it the way he would have... except it’s you, and I’m asking.”
She heard his breath catch.
“Vanitha... ”
“Don’t say my name like that. Don’t say my name like you’re trying to talk me out of it.”
Selvam’s hands came up to her face, framing her jaw. She felt the calluses on his palms, the slight tremor in his fingers.
“I’m not going to fuck you like Hartmann would have,” he said. His voice was low, almost clinical, but his pupils were blown so wide the iris was only a thin ring of dark blue. “I’m going to fuck you the way you need to be fucked. There’s a difference, ma. And you know it.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but he kissed her hard, tongue pushing past her lips before she could speak. The kiss was nothing like the patient ones in Zurich. This was a claim. His hands slid from her face to her throat, not squeezing, just holding, palm flat against her pulse. She felt the gold band of his wedding ring press into the soft skin under her jaw.
Then she did what she had asked for.
She closed her bare breasts with her arms and ran backward, stumbling in bare feet, heart hammering. Selvam’s eyes tracked her retreat. He understood the game.
“Don’t,” she whispered, voice cracking. “Please don’t.”
He stepped forward, slow and deliberate. “You asked for this, ma.”
She shook her head, backing into the edge of the bed. “I changed my mind.”
“No, you didn’t.” He closed the distance. “You want me to chase you. You want to feel what it’s like when I catch you.”
Her back hit the bedpost. Her arms tightened. “You’re scaring me.”
“I’m not.” His hand shot out, catching her wrist. He pulled her arm away, baring one breast to the cold air. “You’re not scared of me. You’re scared of how much you want this.”
She struggled against his grip, the resistance half-hearted, her body already betraying her. “Let me go.”
She pretended harder, twisting, screaming, “No... let go of me... ”
Selvam’s grip tightened. Not painful, but absolute. He pulled her other arm free and pinned both wrists above her head with one hand, his other arm wrapping around her waist. The gold waist chain dug into his forearm.
“Stop,” she gasped, twisting. “Stop, please... ”
“You said take it,” he murmured against her ear. “You said the way he would have. This is what you asked for.”
She bucked, bare stomach pressing against the front of his shirt, and felt the hard ridge of his cock through the linen. Her nipples scbangd the fabric; she hissed. She was wet. She could feel the slick gathering between her thighs, and the shame of it made her struggle harder.
“Don’t... ” she choked, turning her face away.
He didn’t let her. His mouth closed over her nipple... no preamble, no softness, just wet heat, the scbang of teeth, the suction that pulled a real gasp from her throat. He groaned, the vibration humming straight through her ribs. This was the performance: the way Hartmann would have devoured her without asking. His mouth was rough, almost sloppy, tongue dragging in broad, hungry strokes. He sucked hard, pulling as much of her breast into his mouth as he could, teeth grazing the soft underside, then bit down just hard enough to make her cry out. He didn’t stop. He worked the nipple between his teeth, tugging, releasing, then sealing his lips around it again and sucking until the tissue felt swollen and hypersensitive. When he finally switched to the other breast he left the first one shining, red, marked with the imprint of his teeth.
She whimpered, the sound real even though the fear wasn’t. Her body arched into him despite the act, hips pushing forward, cunt clenching around nothing. He took his time with the second breast, licking wide circles around the areola before fastening on the nipple and pulling hard, rhythmically, like he meant to leave it aching for days. One of his free hands kneaded the first breast while he worked, thumb rough across the wet, abused peak. The cold air of the suite kissed the saliva he left behind, making both nipples burn.
“Stop,” she breathed, but her voice cracked and they both heard the lie.
He kept going, mouth moving from one breast to the other, leaving shiny trails, the occasional sharper bite that made her jolt. Only when both peaks were dark and throbbing did he finally lift his head. A string of saliva still connected his lower lip to her left nipple. He looked at her face... really looked... and she saw the moment the pure performance began to shift. His grip on her wrists softened from punishing to precise. He was no longer pretending to be anyone else. He was giving her exactly what she had asked for, and the distinction was everything.
“Tell me what you want,” he said, voice wrecked. “Use your words, ma.”
“I want you to take me. The way he was going to. But it’s you. It’s always you.”
His thumb traced a slow circle on the inside of her wrist. “And when I do, you’re going to remember whose hands these are.”
She twisted her hips against him, testing. “He was going to shove me down and take whatever he wanted. So do it. Stop treating me like I’m fragile.”
Selvam’s eyes narrowed. “You want me to force you like that monster?”
“No.” She arched, bare breasts against his chest. “I want you to force me the way he wanted to. I want to fight you and lose. I want to feel you overpower me. Make me yours again. Chase me. Pin me. Take me even if I say no.”
He hesitated only a second. “This is what you need right now? After everything?”
“Yes,” she whispered fiercely, then louder, playing the part, “No... let me go, Selvam! I don’t want this!”
She bucked hard. His grip loosened just enough for her to slip free. She shoved against his chest and stumbled backward onto the bed. The linen was cool against her skin. She scrambled, trying to put distance between them, but he was already there, one knee on the mattress, hand closing around her ankle.
“Stop!” The word tore from her throat. “Get away from me!”
He dragged her toward him. She kicked; he caught her other ankle and pinned her legs apart, wide open. The cold air rushed between her thighs. She tried to close them; his hands were iron.
“You said no,” he growled, “but your body is saying something else.”
“I don’t want this,” she whimpered. The words tasted like ash because they were lies and they both knew it.
He leaned over her for a moment, weight pressing her into the mattress, then shifted lower. His mouth trailed down the centre of her stomach, tongue dipping into her navel, teeth scbanging the soft skin just above the gold chain. She twisted, still performing resistance, but when he pushed her thighs even wider and settled between them she felt the first hot breath against her cunt and her whole body locked.
“Don’t... please... ”
He didn’t answer with words. He licked her in one long, slow stroke from entrance to clit, flat and thorough, and the sound she made was nothing like a protest. He groaned against her, the vibration shooting straight up her spine, then sealed his mouth over her and began to eat her properly. There was nothing polite about it. He sucked her clit between his lips, flicked it hard with the tip of his tongue, then dragged the flat of it lower, pushing inside her as deep as he could reach. Her hips jerked. She tried to close her legs around his head; he simply pressed her thighs open wider with his forearms and kept going, messy, hungry, the wet sounds of his mouth on her filling the quiet suite.
She was soaking. She could feel how wet she was, how easily his tongue slid through her folds, how her own slick coated his chin. Shame burned under the sharp, helpless pleasure. She still managed to gasp “No... stop... don’t put your mouth there... ” even as her hips lifted into every stroke, chasing the pressure. He ignored the words and focused on the clit again, circling it, then sucking in steady pulses until her thighs began to shake. One of his hands left her leg long enough to push two fingers inside her, curling them upward while his mouth stayed locked on the swollen peak. The dual sensation tore a broken cry from her throat.
He looked up once, over the plane of her stomach, eyes dark, mouth shining with her. The look alone almost finished her. Then he went back down and fucked her with his tongue and fingers until she was trembling on the edge, the gold chain digging into her waist every time her body arched.
Only when she was right at the brink did he pull away. She made a sound of pure frustration that embarrassed her even through the roleplay. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then climbed back up her body, knees bracketing her ribs. His cock was free now... thick, flushed, the head already wet. He gripped her jaw with one hand, not gently, and guided the head to her lips.
“Open.”
She shook her head, still playing, eyes wide. “No... don’t... ”
He pressed forward anyway, the blunt head pushing against her closed mouth until she had to part her lips or let him force them. The moment she opened he slid inside, not all the way at first, just the head, heavy and hot on her tongue. The taste of him... clean skin, salt, the faint residual whiskey... flooded her mouth. She tried to turn her face; his hand in her hair held her steady.
“Take it,” he said, voice low and rough. “You asked for everything he wanted. This is part of it.”
He pushed deeper. She gagged once when the head hit the back of her throat, eyes watering, but he didn’t pull out. He stayed there a second, letting her adjust, then began to move in short, controlled thrusts, fucking her mouth while she still made muffled sounds of protest around him. Spit gathered at the corners of her lips and slid down her chin. Her hands, free now, pushed weakly at his thighs even as her tongue began to work against the underside of his cock of its own accord. The earlier threat... I’ll bite you... hovered between them. She could have. She didn’t. Instead she hollowed her cheeks and took him deeper on the next thrust, the submission itself becoming another kind of claim.
He fucked her mouth for long minutes, watching her face the entire time, the way her eyes watered, the way her throat fluttered around him, the way her hips kept shifting restlessly on the sheets as if the emptiness between her legs had become unbearable. When he finally pulled out, a thick string of spit connected her lower lip to the head of his cock. She was breathing hard, lips swollen, chin wet.
“Still me?” he asked, almost gently.
She nodded, voice wrecked. “Still you.”
He didn’t give her time to recover. He shifted down, hooked her knees over his arms, and drove into her in one long, relentless thrust. The stretch was sudden and deep; she cried out, the sound half-pain, half-relief. He didn’t stop. He buried himself to the hilt, the gold chain trapped between their bodies, and began to fuck her with the same controlled force he had used on her mouth... deep, steady, claiming every inch. Each thrust drove the cold further out of her body. The bruise on her jaw pulsed under his mouth when he leaned down to kiss her, tasting himself on her tongue. Her legs locked around him. Her hands fisted in his shirt and then in his hair.
He moved like a man who had been holding himself back for hours. The wet sound of him sliding in and out of her filled the room. She met him, no longer pretending to run, only taking and taking until the tremor that had lived in her hands since the path finally broke apart into something else entirely. When it crested she clung to him, face buried in his neck, whispering his name against the damp skin there like a promise she was making only to herself.
He followed a few strokes later, burying himself deep and holding there, forehead pressed to hers, breath ragged.
Afterward he didn’t pull away. He stayed inside her, one hand stroking the line of the gold chain as if counting the links, the other gently tracing the fresh marks his mouth had left on her breasts. The cold air from the balcony still moved through the room, but it no longer knifed. It simply moved. Outside, the mountain view waited, soft and distant.
Vanitha lay still beneath him, listening to his heart, to the quiet, to the complete absence of the copper taste in her mouth.
His hands. Only his.
She closed her eyes and, for the first time since the path, let herself believe it.
She didn’t notice the mountain view until she’d already paced the suite, bare feet padding across the heated stone tiles, the cold air knifing in through the open balcony doors. She didn’t care. The adrenaline that had kept her upright on the path was gone, replaced by something raw and chemical... a fine tremor in her hands and a taste in her mouth like copper. She’d been violated, not in the way she’d always braced for, but in the real way: the shattering of her own private perimeter, the exposed nerve of being watched and touched and made into something for someone else.
Hartmann’s blood was probably still drying on the gravel. She hoped it stained his teeth forever.
The door shut behind her. She didn’t stop pacing. The saree was coming loose again, the pallu trailing down her arm, the gold waist chain tight on her hip. She wanted to rip it all off and throw it off the balcony, but her body wouldn’t obey. Instead she went to the glass, pressed her palm to the cold surface, and watched the treeline for any sign of movement. She could still hear Selvam at the door, but she didn’t look at him.
He didn’t try to talk her down. Didn’t offer water or sit her on the bed or tell her everything would be all right. He just watched, arms folded, like he’d known from the second Hartmann pulled at her saree exactly what would happen next and was only waiting for her to process it.
She turned, not sure what she wanted from him. “You should’ve just let me kill him.”
Selvam shrugged. “I think you did. You just used my hands.” His voice was steady, almost bored, but she could see the flex at his jaw, the way the tendons stood out on his neck. He was still running hot, even if he did his best to flatten it.
She pointed at the bathroom. “Can you help me... ” She couldn’t finish. Couldn’t ask for help, not now, not ever. She braced both hands on the glass and leaned into the cold until her forehead hurt.
He waited. Then, without a word, he crossed the room, caught her at the elbow, and guided her to the marble counter. He retucked the saree, his hands on autopilot, workmanlike, looping the silk over her breast with tight, precise movements. His hands were warm and dry. He didn’t touch her bare skin except where he had to.
She said, “You think I wanted him to look at me.”
“No,” he said. “You wanted him to see he couldn’t have you.”
She barked a laugh, bitter, and looked at the wall. “I’m tired of men thinking they can.” The mirror showed her face, unsmiling, the bruise blooming on her jaw already yellow at the edges.
He caught her eyes in the glass. “Wear what you want, ma. You have the right. If any man cannot handle it, that is their weakness. Not yours.”
She nodded. Didn’t trust herself to answer. She watched his reflection instead as he pulled a fresh towel and handed it to her. She wiped her hand, then her neck, and finally her face, careful around the bruise.
When she turned, Selvam was no longer behind her. He stood by the minibar, pouring two fingers of whiskey into a glass. He brought it to her, then poured another for himself.
She drank it in one go. The burn was perfect. It chased the cold out of her chest.
He watched her, then said, “You want me to leave you alone?”
She shook her head. No.
“Okay.” He set his glass down and leaned both hands on the marble, caging her in. “You want to know what’s funny? I don’t think you’re angry at Hartmann. Not really. You’re angry at yourself. For letting any man think he had a chance.”
She opened her mouth, ready to argue, but the heat in her face said he was right. She didn’t want to be right. She wanted to be clean. She wanted to feel like herself again.
She said, “Fix me,” before she knew the words were coming.
He didn’t move. “How?”
She gripped his shirt and pulled him tight against her, so close the whiskey vapor from his breath filled her nose. “Remind me what it’s supposed to feel like. Do it now.”
Selvam took the command as if she’d spoken an equation. He kissed her, slow and deep, and for a second Vanitha thought she might break apart from the pressure of wanting to be fixed and not knowing if she even could be. His hands went to her jaw, thumbs bracketing the bruise, but when he pressed his mouth to hers there was nothing gentle about it. He kissed her like he was erasing every other touch from the morning.
“You sure?” His voice was a rumble against her lips.
“If you stop now, I’ll bite you.”
He half-smiled, but she could taste the edge in it. “I’d like to see you try, ma.”
He held her pallu the way Hartmann had, but gently, and wound the loose end of silk around his fist, drawing her in until the line of her body pressed flush to his. He didn’t speak. He peeled the saree down to her hips, untucking the pleats with the same rough precision he used on business problems. At her waist he stopped, gold chain caught between his thumb and the bone above her hip. His hands framed her there, bracketing her pelvis so she couldn’t step away. He leaned in and bit the top of her shoulder, then tongued the mark until it burned.
“I want to see you,” he said against her skin. “All of you. All at once.”
He yanked the saree down in a single motion. The petticoat was loose under his hands; he let it drop. The blouse was sleeveless, raw-cut at the back. He worked the tiny hooks one by one, knuckles grazing her skin.
“Rip it.”
He looked at her.
“Rip it like he would have.”
Selvam understood. He gripped the front seam near her left breast and pulled. The first two hooks gave with a snap; the third stuck. He yanked harder, popping it off entirely. The blouse parted. For a split second she thought she’d made a mistake, that this would trigger the same nausea Hartmann had left in her mouth... but Selvam’s hands were on her, arms strong and sure, and he shoved the fabric back over her shoulders. He fisted the torn silk, wadded it into his palm, and tossed it to the tiles.
“Only you can take me by force, mama,” she whispered.
His hands were still holding the ruined blouse. He took the instruction literally. The next tear was louder, silk shearing. Her bra snapped under the pressure; with a single motion he yanked the whole mess over her head. The fine mesh bit at her skin before coming free, leaving her arms up, baring her chest completely to the cold air. Her nipples went hard instantly. She refused to clutch at herself or hide. She wanted to be seen. She wanted his hands back. She let her arms fall to her sides even though the air raised goosebumps thick enough to hurt.
Selvam stood looking at her, chest rising, knuckles still red from the punch on the path. She didn’t cover herself. She didn’t look away.
“I want you to have what Hartmann couldn’t,” she said. The words came out steady, which surprised her, because inside her chest everything was shaking. “And I want you to take it from me the way he would have if you hadn’t come. I want you to, mama.”
His jaw flexed once, twice. His eyes dropped to her throat, then lower, to the gold chain, then lower still.
“You don’t mean that.”
“I mean it.” She stepped closer until her nipples brushed the front of his shirt. “He wanted to rip it off me. He wanted to put his hands on me and take what he wanted because he thought he could. So take it. Take it the way he would have... except it’s you, and I’m asking.”
She heard his breath catch.
“Vanitha... ”
“Don’t say my name like that. Don’t say my name like you’re trying to talk me out of it.”
Selvam’s hands came up to her face, framing her jaw. She felt the calluses on his palms, the slight tremor in his fingers.
“I’m not going to fuck you like Hartmann would have,” he said. His voice was low, almost clinical, but his pupils were blown so wide the iris was only a thin ring of dark blue. “I’m going to fuck you the way you need to be fucked. There’s a difference, ma. And you know it.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but he kissed her hard, tongue pushing past her lips before she could speak. The kiss was nothing like the patient ones in Zurich. This was a claim. His hands slid from her face to her throat, not squeezing, just holding, palm flat against her pulse. She felt the gold band of his wedding ring press into the soft skin under her jaw.
Then she did what she had asked for.
She closed her bare breasts with her arms and ran backward, stumbling in bare feet, heart hammering. Selvam’s eyes tracked her retreat. He understood the game.
“Don’t,” she whispered, voice cracking. “Please don’t.”
He stepped forward, slow and deliberate. “You asked for this, ma.”
She shook her head, backing into the edge of the bed. “I changed my mind.”
“No, you didn’t.” He closed the distance. “You want me to chase you. You want to feel what it’s like when I catch you.”
Her back hit the bedpost. Her arms tightened. “You’re scaring me.”
“I’m not.” His hand shot out, catching her wrist. He pulled her arm away, baring one breast to the cold air. “You’re not scared of me. You’re scared of how much you want this.”
She struggled against his grip, the resistance half-hearted, her body already betraying her. “Let me go.”
She pretended harder, twisting, screaming, “No... let go of me... ”
Selvam’s grip tightened. Not painful, but absolute. He pulled her other arm free and pinned both wrists above her head with one hand, his other arm wrapping around her waist. The gold waist chain dug into his forearm.
“Stop,” she gasped, twisting. “Stop, please... ”
“You said take it,” he murmured against her ear. “You said the way he would have. This is what you asked for.”
She bucked, bare stomach pressing against the front of his shirt, and felt the hard ridge of his cock through the linen. Her nipples scbangd the fabric; she hissed. She was wet. She could feel the slick gathering between her thighs, and the shame of it made her struggle harder.
“Don’t... ” she choked, turning her face away.
He didn’t let her. His mouth closed over her nipple... no preamble, no softness, just wet heat, the scbang of teeth, the suction that pulled a real gasp from her throat. He groaned, the vibration humming straight through her ribs. This was the performance: the way Hartmann would have devoured her without asking. His mouth was rough, almost sloppy, tongue dragging in broad, hungry strokes. He sucked hard, pulling as much of her breast into his mouth as he could, teeth grazing the soft underside, then bit down just hard enough to make her cry out. He didn’t stop. He worked the nipple between his teeth, tugging, releasing, then sealing his lips around it again and sucking until the tissue felt swollen and hypersensitive. When he finally switched to the other breast he left the first one shining, red, marked with the imprint of his teeth.
She whimpered, the sound real even though the fear wasn’t. Her body arched into him despite the act, hips pushing forward, cunt clenching around nothing. He took his time with the second breast, licking wide circles around the areola before fastening on the nipple and pulling hard, rhythmically, like he meant to leave it aching for days. One of his free hands kneaded the first breast while he worked, thumb rough across the wet, abused peak. The cold air of the suite kissed the saliva he left behind, making both nipples burn.
“Stop,” she breathed, but her voice cracked and they both heard the lie.
He kept going, mouth moving from one breast to the other, leaving shiny trails, the occasional sharper bite that made her jolt. Only when both peaks were dark and throbbing did he finally lift his head. A string of saliva still connected his lower lip to her left nipple. He looked at her face... really looked... and she saw the moment the pure performance began to shift. His grip on her wrists softened from punishing to precise. He was no longer pretending to be anyone else. He was giving her exactly what she had asked for, and the distinction was everything.
“Tell me what you want,” he said, voice wrecked. “Use your words, ma.”
“I want you to take me. The way he was going to. But it’s you. It’s always you.”
His thumb traced a slow circle on the inside of her wrist. “And when I do, you’re going to remember whose hands these are.”
She twisted her hips against him, testing. “He was going to shove me down and take whatever he wanted. So do it. Stop treating me like I’m fragile.”
Selvam’s eyes narrowed. “You want me to force you like that monster?”
“No.” She arched, bare breasts against his chest. “I want you to force me the way he wanted to. I want to fight you and lose. I want to feel you overpower me. Make me yours again. Chase me. Pin me. Take me even if I say no.”
He hesitated only a second. “This is what you need right now? After everything?”
“Yes,” she whispered fiercely, then louder, playing the part, “No... let me go, Selvam! I don’t want this!”
She bucked hard. His grip loosened just enough for her to slip free. She shoved against his chest and stumbled backward onto the bed. The linen was cool against her skin. She scrambled, trying to put distance between them, but he was already there, one knee on the mattress, hand closing around her ankle.
“Stop!” The word tore from her throat. “Get away from me!”
He dragged her toward him. She kicked; he caught her other ankle and pinned her legs apart, wide open. The cold air rushed between her thighs. She tried to close them; his hands were iron.
“You said no,” he growled, “but your body is saying something else.”
“I don’t want this,” she whimpered. The words tasted like ash because they were lies and they both knew it.
He leaned over her for a moment, weight pressing her into the mattress, then shifted lower. His mouth trailed down the centre of her stomach, tongue dipping into her navel, teeth scbanging the soft skin just above the gold chain. She twisted, still performing resistance, but when he pushed her thighs even wider and settled between them she felt the first hot breath against her cunt and her whole body locked.
“Don’t... please... ”
He didn’t answer with words. He licked her in one long, slow stroke from entrance to clit, flat and thorough, and the sound she made was nothing like a protest. He groaned against her, the vibration shooting straight up her spine, then sealed his mouth over her and began to eat her properly. There was nothing polite about it. He sucked her clit between his lips, flicked it hard with the tip of his tongue, then dragged the flat of it lower, pushing inside her as deep as he could reach. Her hips jerked. She tried to close her legs around his head; he simply pressed her thighs open wider with his forearms and kept going, messy, hungry, the wet sounds of his mouth on her filling the quiet suite.
She was soaking. She could feel how wet she was, how easily his tongue slid through her folds, how her own slick coated his chin. Shame burned under the sharp, helpless pleasure. She still managed to gasp “No... stop... don’t put your mouth there... ” even as her hips lifted into every stroke, chasing the pressure. He ignored the words and focused on the clit again, circling it, then sucking in steady pulses until her thighs began to shake. One of his hands left her leg long enough to push two fingers inside her, curling them upward while his mouth stayed locked on the swollen peak. The dual sensation tore a broken cry from her throat.
He looked up once, over the plane of her stomach, eyes dark, mouth shining with her. The look alone almost finished her. Then he went back down and fucked her with his tongue and fingers until she was trembling on the edge, the gold chain digging into her waist every time her body arched.
Only when she was right at the brink did he pull away. She made a sound of pure frustration that embarrassed her even through the roleplay. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then climbed back up her body, knees bracketing her ribs. His cock was free now... thick, flushed, the head already wet. He gripped her jaw with one hand, not gently, and guided the head to her lips.
“Open.”
She shook her head, still playing, eyes wide. “No... don’t... ”
He pressed forward anyway, the blunt head pushing against her closed mouth until she had to part her lips or let him force them. The moment she opened he slid inside, not all the way at first, just the head, heavy and hot on her tongue. The taste of him... clean skin, salt, the faint residual whiskey... flooded her mouth. She tried to turn her face; his hand in her hair held her steady.
“Take it,” he said, voice low and rough. “You asked for everything he wanted. This is part of it.”
He pushed deeper. She gagged once when the head hit the back of her throat, eyes watering, but he didn’t pull out. He stayed there a second, letting her adjust, then began to move in short, controlled thrusts, fucking her mouth while she still made muffled sounds of protest around him. Spit gathered at the corners of her lips and slid down her chin. Her hands, free now, pushed weakly at his thighs even as her tongue began to work against the underside of his cock of its own accord. The earlier threat... I’ll bite you... hovered between them. She could have. She didn’t. Instead she hollowed her cheeks and took him deeper on the next thrust, the submission itself becoming another kind of claim.
He fucked her mouth for long minutes, watching her face the entire time, the way her eyes watered, the way her throat fluttered around him, the way her hips kept shifting restlessly on the sheets as if the emptiness between her legs had become unbearable. When he finally pulled out, a thick string of spit connected her lower lip to the head of his cock. She was breathing hard, lips swollen, chin wet.
“Still me?” he asked, almost gently.
She nodded, voice wrecked. “Still you.”
He didn’t give her time to recover. He shifted down, hooked her knees over his arms, and drove into her in one long, relentless thrust. The stretch was sudden and deep; she cried out, the sound half-pain, half-relief. He didn’t stop. He buried himself to the hilt, the gold chain trapped between their bodies, and began to fuck her with the same controlled force he had used on her mouth... deep, steady, claiming every inch. Each thrust drove the cold further out of her body. The bruise on her jaw pulsed under his mouth when he leaned down to kiss her, tasting himself on her tongue. Her legs locked around him. Her hands fisted in his shirt and then in his hair.
He moved like a man who had been holding himself back for hours. The wet sound of him sliding in and out of her filled the room. She met him, no longer pretending to run, only taking and taking until the tremor that had lived in her hands since the path finally broke apart into something else entirely. When it crested she clung to him, face buried in his neck, whispering his name against the damp skin there like a promise she was making only to herself.
He followed a few strokes later, burying himself deep and holding there, forehead pressed to hers, breath ragged.
Afterward he didn’t pull away. He stayed inside her, one hand stroking the line of the gold chain as if counting the links, the other gently tracing the fresh marks his mouth had left on her breasts. The cold air from the balcony still moved through the room, but it no longer knifed. It simply moved. Outside, the mountain view waited, soft and distant.
Vanitha lay still beneath him, listening to his heart, to the quiet, to the complete absence of the copper taste in her mouth.
His hands. Only his.
She closed her eyes and, for the first time since the path, let herself believe it.
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