Saanvi Khanna*
The car ride is silent, but charged. I sit beside him, arms crossed, pretending not to notice the way his thigh occasionally brushes mine as the car glides through the city. Every accidental touch feels intentional. Like he's marking territory. Like he's reminding me of the power he hasn't even used yet.
When we pull up in front of a penthouse far too quiet for comfort, I hesitate. There's no staff, no security. Just us. Just him.
"You're not going to lock me in, are you?" I ask, half teasing, half genuine.
He doesn't answer immediately. He just smirks as he opens the door. "Why would I need to? You haven't tried running yet."
The moment I step inside, I understand the silence. The place isn't just empty. It's curated. Dim lighting. Warm wood. A single bottle of wine open on the marble island. No chaos. No noise. No escape.
"Dinner," he says simply.
I raise a brow. "Just us?"
"No cameras. No press. Just honesty. For once."
I want to laugh. The idea of Aaryan Mehta and honesty in the same sentence feels like a cosmic joke.
But I play along. Because something about this night feels like a page turning.
He pours the wine without asking. Hands me a glass. His fingers graze mine as he does, and I feel the spark zip up my arm like a live wire.
We sit across from each other. He watches me like I'm some puzzle he hasn't figured out yet. Like he's not sure whether to destroy me or unwrap me.
"You didn't ask what's on the menu," he says.
"Do I want to know?"
He leans forward. "You."
The word hangs between us, heavy and dangerous.
I take a sip of wine to steady the thud in my chest.
"You really don't know how to behave, do you?" I murmur, staring at him over the rim of the glass.
"Depends on the company."
"You've got a dirty mouth."
His smirk deepens. "Then clean it, sweetheart."
I shouldn't feel heat pool low in my stomach. I shouldn't feel this… affected. But everything about him is deliberate. From the roughness beneath his voice to the way his gaze settles just below my collarbone.
I stand to clear my plate, needing space, needing air. But he's suddenly there behind me, crowding me into the kitchen counter. His hand brushes the bare skin of my back, sliding lower as his body presses into mine.
"Running again?" he murmurs.
"I wasn't aware I needed your permission to stand."
"You don't need my permission." His hand moves to my waist, fingers firm. "But you want my attention."
I breathe in sharply as he leans down, lips brushing my neck.
"I don't," I lie.
"Liar."
His mouth doesn't move to kiss me. He just lingers. Torturing. Teasing. Every inch of space he gives me is a promise of what he'll take back later.
I turn to face him, and we're too close again. His hand still rests on my waist. His eyes drop to my lips, then back up.
"Say something," I whisper.
He doesn't.
Instead, he reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear with infuriating gentleness.
"Why are you doing this?" I ask, voice barely there.
"Because I can't stop thinking about you," he says simply.
"You don't even know me."
"I know the way your eyes narrow when you're defensive. I know you hide behind sarcasm because it's easier than admitting fear. And I know that your body leans into mine even when your brain tells you to pull away."
I hate how accurately he reads me. How exposed I feel standing in front of him with nothing but tension and silk between us.
"You're dangerous," I whisper.
He leans in, lips hovering over mine.
"So are you."
And then his lips finally touch mine.
It's not gentle. It's not soft. It's a collision.
His hands slide into my hair, pulling me closer. My fingers clutch his shirt as heat flares between us like gasoline meeting flame. He walks me backward until I hit the counter. Our bodies press flush, breath tangled, hands greedy.
I gasp when his mouth moves down my throat. When his teeth graze that sensitive spot near my collarbone. Every part of me is electric, and I can't remember what it felt like to breathe without him pressed against me.
"You taste like defiance," he murmurs.
"You taste like trouble," I reply, dragging my nails across his back.
His hand lifts my thigh, wrapping it around his waist. I can feel him now, hard against me, and it knocks the air from my lungs.
But just when it becomes too much, too overwhelming, he stops.
Steps back.
Breathing hard.
His eyes burn into mine.
"This isn't the night I ruin you," he says. "But I will. Soon."
He turns and walks away, leaving me breathless, lips swollen, heart wrecked.
I grip the counter, legs shaky, skin still tingling.
The devil doesn't always wear fire.
Sometimes, he wears a tailored suit and leaves you begging for destruction.