The damp silk bit into her wrists as his weight shifted above her, the arch of her back held taut by the grip he kept on the binding. She felt every inch of him inside her, the slow drag of his cock as he pulled back, the hard press as he drove forward again, and the rhythm changed—not softer, not slower, but harder, hungrier, his breath coming in ragged bursts against her ear.

She gasped as his pace quickened, the headboard knocking against the wall in a steady, insistent rhythm. Her bound hands strained above her, fingers curling into fists as pleasure coiled low in her belly, building again despite how spent she was. He had wrung her dry, left her trembling and boneless, and still her body answered him, hips rising to meet each thrust, the wet sound of their bodies meeting filling the room.

"That's it," he growled, the words rough and low. "Take it. Take all of it."

She couldn't speak. Couldn't form the words that would tell him how full she felt, how completely he owned her in this moment. Her thighs trembled around his hips, her breasts bouncing with each impact, the cool air of the room doing nothing to ease the heat that radiated off her skin. The sheets beneath her were damp and twisted, stained with her sweat and the evidence of how many times he had made her come.

His hand left her wrists, and she felt the loss of his grip like a physical absence. But before she could miss it, his fingers tangled in her hair, yanking her head back, arching her spine until her lips nearly met his. Her neck strained, the bruise he had left there throbbing with a dull, pleasurable ache.

"Watch me," he said, his voice a low command that vibrated through her. "Watch me take what's mine."

Her eyes found his, dark and predatory, and she saw the hunger there. The raw, unapologetic need that mirrored her own. His pace slowed, each thrust deliberate, measured, as if he wanted her to feel every inch of him sliding in and out of her slick heat. Her mouth fell open on a moan, her gaze locked on his face, on the way his jaw tightened, the way his eyes never left hers.

"You feel that?" he rasped. "Feel how deep I am?"

She nodded, a choked sound escaping her throat. "Yes. Arshad, yes."

"Good." He pulled out, and she whimpered at the sudden emptiness, the cool air rushing in where his heat had been. But he didn't give her time to mourn the loss. He shifted, his hand still fisted in her hair, and dragged her up the bed until her back hit the pillows. His knees bracketed her hips as he knelt over her, his cock slick and glistening with her arousal, standing proud and thick before her face.

Her breath caught. She knew what he wanted. Knew what was coming. And despite everything—the shame, the wrongness of it all—her mouth watered.

He stroked himself twice, slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving hers. The first drop of pre-cum pearled at the tip, and she watched it with a fascination that should have disgusted her. It didn't. Nothing about him disgusted her anymore. That was the truth she couldn't run from.

"Open," he commanded.

She parted her lips, and he guided himself to her mouth, not pushing inside but letting the head rest against her bottom lip. The taste of him was salt and musk, familiar now, a flavor she had learned to crave. Her tongue darted out, lapping at the bead of moisture, and he groaned, a low sound that vibrated through his chest.

"That's it," he breathed. "Such a hungry little mouth."

She should have been embarrassed. Should have turned her head away, protested, reminded him who she was supposed to be. But she was past that now. Past the pretense of the sanskari bahu, the devoted wife waiting for her husband's return. She was his, and she wanted him to know it.

He pulled back, his hand moving faster on his shaft, and she watched, transfixed, as his breathing grew ragged, his muscles tensing. His eyes were locked on her face, on the way her lips parted, waiting, wanting.

"Take it," he growled, and then he was spilling across her parted lips, hot and thick, painting her mouth and cheek with his release. She gasped, the shock of it sending a jolt through her, but she didn't close her eyes. She watched him, watched the way his face contorted with pleasure, the way his hand kept moving, milking every last drop.

His thumb pressed against her lips, smearing the evidence of his release into her skin, and then pushed inside her mouth. She tasted him, bitter and salty, and her tongue curled around his thumb, sucking instinctively. His eyes darkened, a flicker of something raw and possessive crossing his face.

"Swallow," he said.

She did. The act felt like the final surrender, the last piece of herself she had been holding back. She swallowed, and his thumb withdrew, leaving her lips wet and smeared, the taste of him still coating her tongue.

He stared at her for a long moment, his chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat. Then, instead of releasing her wrists, he reached for the silk knot and dragged it up, forcing her bound hands above her head. She gasped as he anchored the binding to the headboard, the damp fabric pulling taut, leaving her stretched out beneath him, vulnerable and exposed.

His weight shifted off her body, and the absence of his heat was immediate, a cold rush against her overheated skin. She felt the cool air on her damp thighs, on the slick evidence of their coupling that still coated her skin. Her wrists strained against the silk, but it held fast, and she watched him move off the bed with a lazy, satisfied grace that made her breath catch.

He stood beside the bed, looking down at her, his gaze traveling over her body with a slow, deliberate appreciation. She was a mess—her hair tangled, her skin flushed and damp, his release drying on her cheek, her wrists bound above her head. She should have felt humiliated. Instead, she felt seen. Claimed.

"Don't move," he said, and she nodded, unable to find her voice.

He turned and walked toward the bathroom, his back broad and muscular, the sweat glistening on his dark skin. She watched him go, her heart pounding in her chest, her body still aching with the memory of him inside her.

The bathroom door clicked shut, and she was alone.

The silence rushed in, broken only by the sound of water running. She lay there, bound to the headboard, his release drying on her cheek, the taste of him still on her tongue. The cool air raised goosebumps on her skin, and she shivered, but she didn't move. She couldn't. He had told her not to, and she had obeyed.

Her gaze drifted to the nightstand, where the photograph of her husband lay face-down. She hadn't looked at it in days. Hadn't thought about him, not really, not the way a wife should. His face had grown distant, a memory she couldn't quite hold onto. And Arshad—Arshad was here. Arshad was real. Arshad was the one who made her feel alive.

She closed her eyes, the shame and the pleasure tangled together in her chest. She was a terrible wife. A terrible person. But she couldn't bring herself to care, not when her body still hummed with the memory of Arshad's touch, not when she could still taste him on her lips.

The water stopped.

She heard the bathroom door open, heard his footsteps on the floor, slow and unhurried. She opened her eyes, and he was standing in the doorway, a towel slung low on his hips, his chest still damp. His eyes found hers, and a slow, satisfied smile curved his lips.

"Still here," he said, and it wasn't a question.

She nodded, her throat dry. "You told me not to move."

"And you listened." He crossed the room, his footsteps silent on the carpet, and stopped beside the bed. He reached down, his thumb brushing the smear of his release on her cheek, and she shivered at the touch. "Such a good girl."

The praise sent a thrill through her, a warmth that spread from her chest to her belly. She looked up at him, her eyes wide, her lips parted, and she saw the hunger in his gaze again—the same hunger that had driven him to take her, to claim her, to make her his.

He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear, his voice a low rumble that made her shiver. "You're not done yet."

Her breath caught. "What—"

"I'm not finished with you," he said, pulling back to meet her eyes. "Not even close."

She should have been afraid. Should have protested, begged him to stop, reminded him that she was a married woman, that this was wrong. But the word that left her lips was the only one that mattered.

"Yes."

His smile widened, dark and satisfied. "Good." He reached for the silk binding her wrists, and she felt the knot loosen, the tension releasing. But before she could lower her arms, he was pulling her up, dragging her off the bed and onto her knees before him.

She looked up at him, her heart pounding, her body already anticipating what he would do next. He stood over her, the towel still slung low on his hips, his cock half-hard and glistening. She reached for him, but he caught her wrist, stopping her.

"Not yet," he said. "You'll take what I give you. When I give it."

She nodded, her mouth dry, her body aching with need. He released her wrist and stepped back, his gaze traveling over her, taking in the sight of her on her knees before him. She was a mess—her hair tangled, her skin flushed, his release still drying on her cheek. And she didn't care. She wanted him to see her like this. Wanted him to know what he had done to her, what he had made her into.

"You're beautiful like this," he said, and the words were rough, almost reluctant, as if he hadn't meant to say them. "On your knees. Waiting for me."

She felt the heat rise to her cheeks, but she didn't look away. "I'm yours," she whispered. "I'm yours, Arshad."

Something flickered in his eyes, something raw and possessive, and then he was reaching for her, pulling her to her feet, his mouth crashing against hers. She gasped against his lips, her hands coming up to grip his shoulders, her body melting into his. He kissed her like he was starving, like she was the only thing that could save him, and she kissed him back with everything she had.

When he finally pulled back, they were both breathing hard, their foreheads pressed together. His hand came up to cup her face, his thumb brushing over her bottom lip, and she saw something in his eyes she hadn't seen before. Something almost tender.

"You're mine," he said, and it was a vow, not a question. "And I don't share what's mine."

She nodded, her throat tight. "I know."

He kissed her again, softer this time, and she felt the tears prick at her eyes. Not from sadness. From the overwhelming weight of everything she felt for him—the shame, the desire, the desperate, aching need that had consumed her from the moment he had caught her on the stairs.

He pulled back, his thumb brushing away the tear that had escaped. "None of that," he said, his voice rough. "You're mine. And I take care of what's mine."

She nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. "Yes, Arshad."

He smiled, a slow, dark curve of his lips, and she felt her heart skip a beat. He released her, stepping back, and she watched him walk toward the bathroom, the towel forgotten on the floor. She stood there, naked and trembling, the taste of him still on her lips, the mark of his possession still drying on her cheek.

The water started again, and she heard him humming—a low, satisfied sound that made her shiver. She pressed her hand to her chest, feeling the rapid beat of her heart, and wondered how she had gotten here. How she had fallen so far from the woman she had been just weeks ago.

But she knew the answer. She had chosen this. Chosen him. And she would choose him again, every time.

She walked to the bed and sat down on the edge, the sheets still damp and tangled. The silk binding lay on the floor where he had dropped it, and she picked it up, running her fingers over the fabric. It was stained with her sweat and his release, a testament to everything they had done. She should have been disgusted. Instead, she pressed it to her lips, breathing in the scent of him.

The water stopped again, and she heard the bathroom door open. She looked up, and he was standing there, dressed now in his loose trousers, his chest bare. He crossed the room, his eyes never leaving hers, and stopped in front of her.

"Come," he said, holding out his hand. "I'm not done with you yet."

She took his hand, letting him pull her to her feet, and followed him out of the bedroom, into the dark hallway. The house was silent, Auntie Shobha asleep in her room, unaware of what was happening in the shadows. She should have felt guilty. Instead, she felt alive.

He led her to the bathroom, the one attached to his small room at the back of the house, and pushed the door open. The room was small and sparse, the tile cool beneath her bare feet. He released her hand and turned to face her, his eyes dark with intent.

"Clean up," he said. "Then come to bed."

She nodded, watching him walk out and close the door behind him. She stood there for a moment, alone in the small bathroom, the mirror reflecting her disheveled state. Her hair was tangled, her skin flushed, his release still drying on her cheek. She looked like a woman who had been thoroughly and completely claimed.

She turned on the tap, cupping her hands under the cool water, and splashed it on her face. The water washed away the evidence of him, but she could still taste him on her tongue, still feel him inside her. She met her own eyes in the mirror, and she didn't recognize the woman staring back at her.

She was Neha. She was a wife. She was a randi.

And she was his.