"Samarth," she whispered.
His name on her lips was a benediction and a curse.
He didn't want her to say his name like that—like it meant something. Like he meant something.
His hand slid down her body, rough and demanding. He cupped her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple until it hardened. She bit her lip, trying to stay quiet, but a small moan escaped anyway.
"Don't hold back," he commanded, his voice rough. "I want to hear you."
His mouth replaced his hand, tongue circling her nipple before sucking hard. Her back bowed off the bed, her fingers tangling in his hair.
He moved to her other breast, giving it the same attention while his hand traveled lower, over her stomach, her hip, to the juncture of her thighs.
She was already wet for him. Always was.
"So fucking responsive," he muttered against her skin. His fingers slid through her slickness, finding her clit and circling it with just enough pressure to make her whimper.
"Please," she breathed.
"Please what?"
"I need—"
He thrust two fingers inside her, cutting off her words. She cried out, her hips rising to meet his hand. He set a brutal pace, his thumb working her clit while his fingers drove deep.
Her innocence killed him. Even after a year of this, she still trembled like it was new, still looked at him with those wide honey-colored eyes full of something he didn't want to name.
She was coming apart beneath him, her body tightening around his fingers, her breath coming in short gasps. Beautiful in her surrender.
"Come," he ordered.
She obeyed, her body shaking as the orgasm tore through her. She cried out his name, her nails digging into his shoulders, her pussy clenching around his fingers.
He didn't give her time to recover. He stripped off his clothes with efficient movements, then gripped her thighs and spread them wider.
"Look at me."
Her eyes fluttered open, hazy with pleasure but obedient.
He thrust into her in one hard stroke, seating himself fully. She gasped, her back arching, her body stretching to accommodate him.
Tight. Hot. Perfect.
He gave her only a moment to adjust before he started moving—hard, deep, claiming strokes that were more punishment than pleasure. His hands gripped her hips hard enough to bruise, holding her in place as he took what he needed.
This was all they were. All they could be.
Sex. Lust. Physical need.
Nothing more.
But when she wrapped her arms around him, when she pulled him closer instead of pushing away, when she whispered his name like a prayer—something cracked in his chest.
He hated it.
He fucked her harder, trying to erase the feeling. His teeth found her shoulder, biting down just shy of breaking skin. Marking her.
Mine.
