Five hundred words before noon on a Friday? Who am I? This time it's @melon_reads's fault. Melanie brought up romances with "sex lessons." While that's not precisely what I came up with, Armaan and Rani had to have their say.
Read part one: https://www.suleikhasnyder.com/2022/12/twitter-ficbit-guarded-hearts.html.
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She presses her mouth to the inside of his wrist, the soft weight of it as breath-stealing as a punch to the gut. Armaan shudders, disarmed and defenseless. Every thought flown from his head like he’s just had his bell soundly rung. He feels her smile against his skin. His tormenter, his queen, holding him captive in return for her own imprisonment.
Her knees bracket his hips, blue silk sari half-undone and spilling around them like water. He’s drowning in her, and she knows it. Say my name. Such a simple thing, and it turned the key, unlocking everything he’s held inside for weeks. How the curve of her lips destroys him. How her soft brown eyes hit like bullets to the chest. How the sheer force of her will is the most formidable threat he’s ever faced. She’ll put a victorious foot on his corpse like a warrior goddess, and he’ll welcome it.
“Shhh,” Rani whispers, though he hasn’t spoken since he led her to his rooms. They don’t need words. Their souls have been having this conversation since the Boss had her brought in. Her palm is cool against his cheek. Her fingertips like lit matchsticks as they trace the bones. No woman has ever been this close. To let anyone this close is to risk a knife wound. He’d gladly let her slide a blade between his ribs.
He’s her way out, her escape. Armaan knows that. This is as much manipulation as it is anything else. He doesn’t give a fuck. Instead, he gives her permission to conquer him. To unbutton his waistcoat and his shirt and undo his trousers. To lick the salt from the juncture of his neck and shoulder as she rolls her lush hips.
Charm him, he’d told her.
Respect him.
Challenge him but not too much.
She’s using his own advice against him…except that this is too much. A fight he’s losing. A match he’s throwing. All because she’s beautiful and he can’t remember the last time he’s tasted beauty. Maybe never. Perhaps this is his only chance.
Armaan surges up beneath her, the hands he’d let fall by his sides coming up to span her waist. He tugs at the last folds of her sari, baring her blouse and the muslin petticoat and the golden swathe of territory in between. A low cry tears from her throat, but it’s not one of alarm. Nahin, it’s one that says more. She guides his head to her breasts, to the stiff little peaks begging for his attention. The only part of her that has ever pled for anything. How can he deny it?
“Suck me,” she orders in accented Hindi.
“Teach me,” he counters, before rending cotton and popping hooks and putting his tongue to her.
And so she does. With whispers, gasps, and nails at his nape. Through seduction, skill, and his inevitable surrender.
Rani is a survivor. Armaan is a death dealer. This is all he’ll ever know of love.
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