"Expecting you to what?" His voice was dangerous, low. "Want me? Respond to me?" His hand slid up her thigh, pushing her nightgown higher. "But you do, don't you? Even when you hate me, you want me."
"That's not fair—"
"Nothing about this is fair." His fingers found her center, stroking through the fabric of her panties. She was already wet, and they both knew it. "But it's honest. This is the only honest thing between us."
He was right, and that made it worse. This—sex, physical connection—was the only place they were real with each other.
"I hate you," she whispered, even as her hips arched into his touch.
"I know." He pushed her panties aside, his fingers sliding inside her. "But you want me anyway."
She did. God help her, she did.
Advika reached up, pulling him down into a kiss that was more anger than passion. She bit his lower lip hard enough to make him groan, and he responded by adding another finger, working her with skilled precision.
"Is this what you want?" he asked against her mouth, his thumb finding her clit. "To fight me? To hate me while I make you come?"
"Yes," she gasped, too far gone to lie.
"Then come," he commanded. "Come for me, Advika. Show me how much you hate me."
The orgasm crashed through her, pleasure and frustration and confusion all tangled together. She cried out, her nails digginginto his shoulders, and he swallowed the sound with another bruising kiss.
Before she could catch her breath, he was pushing inside her, filling her completely. The stretch was perfect, overwhelming, exactly what she needed.
They moved together with practiced synchronicity now, their bodies having learned each other over the past months. He knew how she liked it—hard and fast, with his hand fisted in her hair, his teeth on her neck, his voice in her ear telling her she was his.
And she knew how to drive him crazy—nails down his back, teeth on his shoulder, her legs wrapped around his waist as she met him thrust for thrust.
"Say it," he growled, his hips snapping against hers. "Say you're mine."
"Only if you admit you're mine too," she shot back, breathless.
His rhythm faltered for just a second. Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or fear.
Then he was moving again, faster, harder, chasing release for both of them.
"Together," he said, his forehead pressed to hers. "Come with me."
It was the closest thing to intimacy they had. This moment, right before climax, when their guards were completely down and there was nothing between them but heat and need and something that felt dangerously like connection.
They fell apart together, her name on his lips, his name on hers, their bodies locked in perfect synchronicity.
For exactly thirty seconds, he held her. His weight pressed her into the mattress, his face buried in her neck, his heart racing against hers.
Then, like clockwork, he pulled away.
"Sidharth," she said, her hand catching his wrist. "Stay. Just once, stay."
He looked down at where she held him, then at her face. In the darkness, she couldn't read his expression.
"I can't," he said finally, pulling free of her grip.
"Can't or won't?"
He didn't answer. Just headed to the bathroom, and she heard the shower start moments later.
When he emerged, dressed in fresh clothes, he paused at the door. His hand rested on the doorframe, his back to her.
