Saanvi Khanna
Red was a bold choice.
Not because it clashed with anything—but because it didn't. It matched the heat in my skin, the war in my chest, the danger in his eyes.
The dress he sent fits like a sin tailored to my curves. Silk that kisses every inch of me like it knows what he plans to do later. Like it's part of the game.
I don't knock when I arrive at his place. He told me not to. Told me I didn't need to.
But still—my heels echo loud in the silence as I step inside. The air is thick with low music and wine.
He appears at the far end of the hallway, dressed in black. Shirt slightly unbuttoned. Sleeves rolled. Every inch of him—collected, dangerous, composed.
His eyes drag across me slowly, lingering too long at the curve of my waist, the slit at my thigh, the heat in my lips.
"You wore it," he says, voice low.
"You picked it," I reply, standing straighter.
He walks toward me, slow, like he's savoring the moment.
And when he reaches me, his fingers slide under my chin, tilting my face up.
"I told you to wear red so I'd remember not to hold back. And seems like your ex came to your place? "
"Yes how do you know, did you set a stalker? "
"Sweetheart I have my ways and why was he so close to you" he asks his eyes darkening with jealousy.
" He told me to stay away from you" I say my nails pressing against his chest.
He moves closer to me
The wine is untouched. Dinner sits abandoned on the table.
Because we never planned to eat.
He doesn't kiss me. Not right away. He just brushes his thumb across my bottom lip like he's memorizing it.
Then he leans in, voice a whisper against my skin.
"Tell me to ruin you."
I breathe, shallow and sharp.
"Ruin me."
And everything breaks.
He kisses me like a man starved—hands gripping, lips devouring, teeth claiming. He lifts me easily, carries me through the dim hallway to his bedroom, the silk of my dress riding high with every step.
Clothes fall like secrets. Skin meets skin like a confession.
His touch is brutal in its precision. Rough in the way it demands, tender in the way it lingers. He memorizes every inch of me with his mouth, his hands, his hunger. His hands roams all over my curves. He marks me all over my body as his.
I claw at him—his back, his chest, his name.
He kisses me rough and passionate his tongue exploring my mouth. He breaks the kiss and starts tracing my curves. His hands slowly starts moving to my core. He starts to remove his pants losening his hard. He stands between me his tip in my entrance teasing me.
He doesn't start soon because he wants to make me pathetic and make me beg for it.
"Say something" he says
" What do you want me to beg for it"
" Yes sweetheart because once I start, there is no going back. I don't do it lovey dovey and it's going to be rough " he whispers into my ears bending on me
" Even I don't like it lovey dovey" i say with a playful smirk.
Without a word he pushes his hardness into me fully making me cry -tears of pleasure.
He looks at me and smirks and starts pounding me harder by grabbing my hips so painfully to leave his hand marks. I hold onto the sheets arching my back.
He bends down and starts to circle my clit. He groans at seeing how wet I am.
And when he presses into me, it's not just lust. It's power. It's surrender. It's a man claiming a war he never expected to lose.
He whispers things into my skin I don't understand—dark, sacred, filthy.
"You're not allowed to forget this."
"You're mine, even when you hate me."
"I'll destroy every man who thinks of touching you."
It isn't soft. It isn't sweet.
But it's everything.
And when I come undone, it's not just my body—it's me. All of me. Shattered in his hands, rebuilt with every breath, every thrust, every gasp that follows.
Afterward, the silence is unbearable. Because silence with him means something is brewing.
He lies beside me, eyes on the ceiling, one hand resting possessively on my bare thigh.
"I meant it," he says.
I turn my head slowly. "Meant what?"
"You're mine now."
I want to argue. Say that I'm no one's. That I don't belong.
But my body? My mind? Every shattered part of me knows he's right.
And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.