♡ ANVITHA ♡
I don’t remember how I made it to the elevator.
My fingers are trembling. My breath is still uneven. My knees? They’re barely functioning. They feel hollow, like jelly. Every step I take feels like walking through wet cement.
He didn’t even fuck me.
But it felt like he did.
It felt worse — like he branded me with every filthy word, every inch of skin he touched, every time he shoved his fingers inside me like he owned me.
And what makes me sick?
I let him.
Worse — I liked it.
No. I craved it.
The elevator doors close, and I sag against the cold wall, one hand clutched to my stomach, the other still trembling as I stare down at my pants. They’re wrinkled and damp at the center. My thighs are sticky. My panties… ruined.
Fuck. Fuck.
The number ticks down from the penthouse floor. With every ding, my shame gets louder.
But under it?
A whisper.
A want.
A need.
God, what is wrong with me?
When the doors open at the ground floor, I nearly trip rushing outside. The air hits my face — cold, crisp, sharp — but it doesn’t cut deep enough to fix what he just did to me.
Or what I let happen.
I rush to the street and call a cab. I don’t even remember giving my address. All I remember is sitting in the backseat, curling my fists in my lap, my core still throbbing with aftershocks. I swear his scent is still clinging to me — leather, spice, sin.
My jaw clenches. I try to focus on the lights passing by, the darkness outside, anything but the mess between my thighs.
But my brain is a traitor. It replays everything on loop.
The heat of his breath.
The stretch of his fingers.
The way he watched me fall apart like I was his masterpiece.
Like he owned that moment. That moan.
That version of me.
My thighs press tighter.
I hate this.
I hate him.
I hate me for letting this happen.
By the time I stumble back into my room, it’s almost midnight. The lights are off. My room is silent. But inside me? There's a riot.
And I know I’m about to do something unforgivable.
Something that will strip the last bit of control I pretend to have.
I slam the door, lock it behind me, and throw my phone on the bed. My heels hit the floor. My pants next. Then the ruined panties.
I stand in the middle of my room, breathing like I just ran a marathon, fists clenched at my sides. And I try — I really try — to get him out of my head.
But he’s already there.
His words. His touch. His filthy, filthy voice.
“You taste like sin.”
“So tight. You were made to be fucked like this.”
“I’m going to stretch this pussy around my cock until it forgets anyone else ever existed.”
“Fuck.” I groan and drop onto the bed like something inside me just snapped.
I roll onto my stomach, press my face into the pillow and scream.
But it’s no use.
Because my fingers are already sliding down.
I curse myself even as I do it.
I should stop.
I should stop.
I should fucking stop—
But I don’t.
I slip one hand under my shirt, between my thighs, and I’m soaked. I moan softly, shamefully, the sound muffled by my pillow. My fingers find the spot he ruined and now... it belongs to him.
I tease myself the way he did, circle slow and soft until I’m shaking, then I slide one finger in and it’s not enough.
I need more.
More stretch. More pressure. More of him.
I thrust harder, faster. My hips roll against my hand and I chase it like an addict. My other hand grips the sheets, knuckles white.
And then I say it.
I moan.
I don’t even mean to. It just rips out of me like it’s always lived there.
“ohhh—” I gasp, high-pitched and strangled. “Fuck.”
And I come.
Hard.
It burns.
It breaks me.
It ruins me.
Because for the first time in my life, I didn’t fantasize about some romantic scenario, some faceless lover.
I thought of the man who ruined me in real time.
Who never gave me love.
Only need.
Only hunger.
And worse?
I want it again.
When the aftershocks fade, I lie there — half-naked, soaked, and wrecked.
My body feels light.
My mind? A war zone.
I drag myself to the bathroom and stare at the girl in the mirror.
Hair wild. Lips swollen. Eyes hazy.
Who is she?
A daughter of Devraj Ramaswamy.
A business heir.
A woman with a past she can’t remember.
And now?
A girl who just came thinking about the man she swore she’d destroy.
I hate this.
I hate this.
I hate this.
And yet... I know I’ll do it again.
Because no matter how far I run,
He’s already inside me.
And part of me... wants him to stay.
☆ ————————————☆
I’m not sure how I made it to the office.
After what happened last night — after the wet, humiliating truth I created with my own hands and his memory — I should’ve called in sick. But showing weakness in this place is suicide. Especially when I’m working directly under Devraj Ramaswamy’s name.
So I showed up.
Slick hair. Neutral lipstick. Crisp shirt tucked into a pencil skirt that hugs me like it’s trying to hold my shame in place.
Everything about me screams "control."
Everything inside me screams "liar."
The boardroom is freezing.
Or maybe it’s just the man sitting across from me who turns the air arctic with his presence.
Ryan Raichand.
He hasn’t said a word since I walked in. But I can feel his gaze burning into the side of my face like a spotlight trained on the guilty.
Good.
Let him burn.
And I make sure my flames consume him.
Let him sit there and simmer in the fact that I didn’t respond to a single one of his filthy texts this morning. That I ignored him when he passed by my cabin like a lion parading through my territory, just to remind me who the real predator is.
Fuck that.
I take my seat near the middle of the table, on the left Ryan and on my right sits Neil Khurana.
He’s young. Smart. Surprisingly charming. The kind of guy who always holds the door open and smiles like he’s your personal good-luck charm.
“Good morning,” Neil says, leaning a little closer as he hands me a printed copy of the quarterly report.
I smile — just enough to keep it polite, not enough to encourage more.
But Ryan sees it anyway.
From the corner of my eye, I catch the way his jaw tightens. His hand, resting on the table, curls into a fist.
Petty bastard.
I ignore him.
Throughout the presentation, I keep talking to Neil. Giving suggestions. Nodding at their ideas. Occasionally leaning toward Neil’s side to read his notes.
And then I feel it.
His hand.
On my thigh.
Under the goddamn table.
I freeze.
His touch is firm. Claiming. His fingers dig into the soft flesh just above my knee, possessive and unapologetic.
Then he leans in — so close his breath skims the shell of my ear.
“You want to play games, Wildfire?” His voice is barely a whisper. “Stop it. You don’t get to act cozy with someone else in my presence.”
I clench my jaw and pretend nothing's happening. Neil asks me something. I nod, too distracted to register what he said.
Ryan’s fingers slide higher.
A gasp almost slips from my mouth, but I swallow it and turn a page in the report, acting like I’m completely unbothered.
But my pulse is thundering. My body betraying me. My heart thudding like I just sprinted down twenty flights of stairs.
“stop it ,” I whisper, my lips barely moving.
He whispers back. “But your body deny for it. It remembers me even when you don’t want it to.”
Asshole.
The meeting drags on. Minutes stretch into lifetimes. And his hand doesn’t move. He keeps it there — a silent threat. A constant reminder.
When the meeting finally ends, I shoot out of my chair like my seat was on fire.
Ryan stands too, but I’m faster.
I snatch my files, clutch my iPad to my chest, and make a beeline for the door.
I don’t turn back. Don’t look at him.
I just run.
Because if I don’t, he’ll win. Again.
I power-walk down the corridor, heels echoing against the tiles. I’m already reaching for the handle of my office door when I hear heavy footsteps behind me.
Shit.
I slam the door shut behind me, toss my files onto the desk, and start pacing.
I’m not even halfway through a second step when the door bursts open.
“Goddammit,” I mutter, whirling around.
And there he is.
Ryan.
Dark. Dangerous. Uninvited.
He slams the door shut behind him, not even bothering to lock it this time. The act of him not caring if anyone sees what happens in here is somehow even more terrifying.
“Don’t run from me again, Anvitha.”
His voice is low. Controlled.
Too controlled.
“I’ll do what I want.”
“Wrong answer.”
He stalks toward me.
Each step is slow. Deliberate. Calculated like a man who knows exactly how many inches it takes to trap someone.
“Don’t touch me.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did. In the boardroom.”
“That wasn’t touching,” he says, stopping inches away from me. “That was a warning.”
“About what? That you own me now?”
He tilts his head. “No. I don’t own you. Yet.”
His fingers curl around my wrist. Gently. A deceptive gentleness.
My back hits the cold wall of my office cabin with a soft thud.
Before I can even process it, he’s there.
His palm slaps flat beside my head, his breath hot and heavy, so close I could count the sins in his lungs. Ryan Raichand. In his tailored black suit, with his chaos eyes, that unreadable face, and a presence that doesn't just fill a room—he owns it.
He owns me too. At least, that's what he wants to believe.
“Back off,” I breathe.
“Not a chance,” he says, voice calm but sharp like broken glass, "You were too busy being cozy with Neil , weren't you? All giggles and nods like a good little angel.”
I smirk, just to piss him off. “Was someone jealous?”
His hand shoots out and grabs my waist, yanking me forward until our bodies crash together. Heat floods my skin. My gasp betrays me. Damn it, Anvitha. Control yourself.
“I don’t get jealous,” he murmurs against my ear. “I get territorial.”
His hand slides downward. Possessive. Rough. Branded with unspoken warnings.
“Let go,” I say, breathless.
“You said that last time too,” he replies, brushing his lips against the shell of my ear, “but your body said something else. You rode my fingers like they were oxygen, wildfire.”
“Don’t call me—”
“Wildfire?” he interrupts, tilting his head, eyes flicking down to my lips. “It’s what you are. Reckless. Destructive. Beautiful.”
His voice drops lower. Darker. “And begging to be tamed.”
I push him. Hard.
But he doesn’t move. He doesn’t need to. His silence alone drags me down, deeper and deeper into a hunger I pretend not to feel.
“You think you scare me?” I snap.
He grins. “No, baby. I think I excite you. And that terrifies you.”
His knee parts my thighs, pressing between them.
I gasp again. My hands go to his chest—meant to push him—but end up fisting his shirt. Why the hell do I hold on to him like this?
“You walked into that boardroom pretending I didn’t exist,” he murmurs, voice a sharp caress. “But I saw the way your thighs squeezed together every time my hand inched higher under that table.”
“You were being inappropriate.”
“You were being a brat.”
“I was doing my job.”
“And I was doing mine—claiming what’s mine.”
His hand slides to my jaw and tilts my face to meet his.
“I want to mark every inch of your skin,” he says. “So no matter where you go, who sits beside you, whose name you moan in pretend—your body will still burn for me.”
My eyes flutter shut against his breath. My pulse crashes like a wave.
“Open your eyes, Anvitha.”
I do.
His gaze swallows me whole.
“Say it,” he commands. “Say you thought about me.”
I don’t.
So his lips brush mine—not a kiss, just a whisper.
“Say you touched yourself at night, trying to chase the high I gave you.”
I shudder. Because I did.
“Did you think about my fingers?” he murmurs, dragging his thumb across my bottom lip. “The way they fit inside your tight, wet—”
“Stop it,” I whisper.
But I don’t mean it.
My body arches toward him, traitorous, aching.
“Tell me,” he growls, “did you come thinking about me?”
I slap him again on his chest.
This time, he laughs.
Low. Dangerous. Wrecked with need.
“I love when you hit me,” he says, eyes glowing. “Means I’m getting under your skin.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“You’re dripping.”
“Get out.”
He leans in, presses his body fully into mine, until I’m sandwiched between the devil and the wall.
“I will,” he whispers, “but first—”
His tongue drags up the side of my neck.
“Just had to taste how furious you are.”
My legs nearly buckle. My body betrays me again. My head falls back, exposing more of my neck to him.
God, what is wrong with me?
“You want me to fuck you against this wall, don’t you?”
“Go to hell,” I choke out.
“Baby, I’ll drag you there with me.”
And then—
Nothing.
He pulls back. Straightens his suit.
Adjusts his cufflinks.
And turns toward the door.
Like he didn’t just shatter me in my own office.
“Clean up your mess,” he throws over his shoulder. “You smell like sex and rebellion.”
And with that—
He’s gone.
Again.
And I’m left...
Pressed against the wall, pulse racing, panties soaked, jaw clenched, heart aching for a war I’m too proud to surrender to.

So you guys don't know how to vote, right? Or what can be reason behind this. I am really disappointed, you should vote yrr.
Do you even know how much time it's take to write a single chapter with so much emotion and character thoughts .
And how it's feels to type trough your phone? It’s feel like I am getting dent in my thumbs and you didn't even click a single button 😒 🙄.
So bad , very bad .
Or agar vote nahi Kiya to Anvitha ko bula lungi or jab vo tum logo ko sassy reply degi to mujhe se mat kaha na comment box me.
Target- 20 votes and 11 comments .
Or ab kya tum mujhe itna bhi nahi de sakte 😭🤧.
_kelly_
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