Ruin In Royals (Royal #1: Book 2) | ✔

23

-• should I die for you? •-

There was a kind of intimacy I felt in a stranger's arms that night in the club, and there's a kind of intimacy Shourya makes me feel without touching me. He makes my heart race, my skin burn, and makes every part of my body feel every inch of his. He has me before he could even ask for me. I was wondering what effect he had on me, now I know. He treats me like he owns me, and for some reason, I like that.

As my hands slowly glide down his sinewy arms, the muscles stretch and flex under my touch. The strength of his body is so overwhelming, he easily towers over me by a foot or two. It's like he always wears an armour, sword sheathed, shield prepared, ready to slice the world in two to make way for him.

He doesn't touch me like I do, he doesn't cross his boundaries like I want him to. He simply stands, his breath fanning my neck, as though he's satisfied with where he is, with what he has. Unlike me. I want the whole him, every nook and cranny of his existence, even if for a fleeting moment, I really want to own him.

My hand settle on the narrow slant of his firm torso, before they drift past his structured, sexy mid-riff, halting on his pecs, and then I force myself to gently push him away.

He lifts his head from my neck, removes his glasses, his eyes flicker down to my lips, sliding down my neck and I see the brown swirls turn darker. "Not yet," a husky drawl to his deep voice, and then he buries his face back in the bridge between my neck and shoulder.

"I'm starting to feel you're obsessed," I look away, subtly giving him more room.

He hums, tracing the curve of my neck with the tip of his nose, and I feel his breath trail down the same path, leaving behind something hot, something palpable, something that I feel deep in my bones, and down to my core. His hand comes around to cup my nape, and his thumb runs along the slope of my throat, before it halts to feel the throb of my pulse, and he presses down there, significantly softer, gentler, but possessive, borderline obsessive. I rise my hand to cup the back of his, and slowly wrap my fingers around his wrist, removing his hand from my body.

"Fuck," he growls, enclosing me to the wall when he realises I'm trying to push him away. His forearms plant themselves next to my head, caging me as he stands before me like a shield, impenetrable, hard as rock, unyielding and unflinching. "Esther,"

I sigh, "Yes?"

"Why did you want me to hear that?" He breathes harshly over my collarbone, and then he lifts off his right arm to trace the delicate bone with the tip of his finger, like he's marvelling everything I'm made of.

"Hear what?" I play dumb.

"Hear you," his lips tease me along the length of my jaw, still not touching me. "Hear him," his body stiffens, but then he gets distracted watching his finger dip low in my cleavage.

Remember I said desperation is driven by two emotions? Fear or greed.

Shourya's greed is me.

The ever so calm, composed, patient man loses his sanity the moment I'm close. He's like a kid watching a burning flame for the first time. Warned by many to not touch it, to not go close to it, but that just intrigues him, lures him, until he's trying to catch it, and gets burned in return.

I flick the finger off and his eyes rise to meet mine, stubborn, angry, lusty.

"If you're done sniffing me like a dog, may I know what you're doing here?" Pushing him aside, I walk past him and into the rows of shelves holding files dated from late seventies.

He grabs my wrist and yanks me to his chest. My eyes dart to his instantly. "Did you fuck him?" Jaw clenched, the muscles beneath his ear shift.

"What are you? My gynaecologist?" I chuckled, trying to brush him off as I attempt to walk away.