"I want to hear your voice." The admission was quiet, vulnerable in a way that made her chest ache. "I want to hear what you sound like when you're reading something you love."
She should say no. Should protect herself from this slow, devastating tenderness that was far more dangerous than his cold indifference had ever been.
She reached for her phone, where she had the latest chapter saved.
"It's not finished," she warned.
"I don't care."
She began to read.
Her voice was soft at first, self-conscious. But as the words flowed, she forgot herself. She forgot she was sitting on her husband's lap in his office. She forgot to be careful and guarded and fine.
She just read.
The chapter was an emotional one—the hero finally admitting to himself that the woman he'd pushed away had become indispensable. The quiet devastation of realizing you've been destroying the best thing in your life with your own two hands.
Samarth went very still behind her.
His hand on her back moved in slow, unconscious circles.
When she reached the end of the chapter, she stopped.
Silence.
"It's beautiful," he said, his voice rough.
"Really?" She turned slightly to see his face, startled by the rawness in his expression.
"You're talented." His hand came up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "The way you write about love—it's not naive. It's not the kind that ignores pain. It sees the pain and chooses love anyway. That's rare."
"How would you know what's rare in love?" she asked softly.
"Because I've spent my entire adult life avoiding it." His eyes met hers. "I recognize its absence well enough to know what it looks like when it's present."
Her heart was pounding. "And what does it look like?"
"Like you," he said simply. "It looks exactly like you."
She couldn't breathe.
He cupped her face, his thumb brushing her cheek. Then he kissed her—soft, slow, deliberate. The kind of kiss that had nothing to do with hunger or possession and everything to do with something she was afraid to name.
When he pulled back, his eyes were open and unguarded in a way she'd never seen.
Terrified of what he felt. Feeling it anyway.
"I want you here," he murmured, his hands sliding to her waist. "In my office. In my space." His lips brushed her jaw, her throat. "I want you everywhere. Everywhere in my life."
"Samarth—"
He lifted her, turning her toward his desk, and swept the papers and files aside with one arm.
She barely registered the sound of them hitting the floor.
He laid her down on the surface, stepping between her legs, and the look on his face—
Hunger, yes. Always that.
