Continues....

He felt a surge of both frustration and possessive desire at her words.

"Nothing, huh?" He repeated, his voice a low, hoarse whisper. "So it's not your body clenching around me right now? Not your hips pushing back against mine? Not your hands clinging tightly to me, your breath catching in your throat as you feel me inside you?"

"Of course, no," he let out a dark, humourless laugh, his breath ragged against her neck.

"No?" He growled, thrusting into her again—deep and deliberate. "Then why are you still holding on to me?"

His hand slid up, fingers threading roughly into her hair as he tilted her head back.

"Look at us." His voice was raw—possessive. "You're soaked for me. Shaking. And you still say 'no'?"

He slowed his pace just enough to make it maddening—each movement calculated to break through that stubborn pride.

"One day," he whispered, "you'll stop fighting it... and when you do..."

A sharp thrust.

"...you'll beg."

"I could never bring myself to plead with you, not even in the most desperate of moments, ahh."

He chuckled at her defiant words, his voice still low against her neck.

"Really now?" He said, his voice thick with lust and something that sounded dangerously close to desire. "We'll see about that."

He thrust into her hard, making her gasp again.

"You'll be shaking and undone. Your body will demand it, and you won't be able to think or breathe or do anything except beg me for what you need."

He leaned in, teeth scraping against her earlobe. "Nghh, please stop. I can't take it anymore."

He stilled at her words—her breathless "please stop"—but only for a heartbeat.

Then he tightened his grip on her hips, refusing to let go.

"No," he growled, voice rough and unyielding. "You don't get to say stop when your body is screaming for more."

He leaned down, lips brushing her ear as he thrust again—deep, relentless.

"Say my name." He demanded. "Look me in the eyes and tell me you don't want this... tell me you don't want me."

His rhythm never faltered—one brutal movement after another—as if trying to break through the walls she kept so fiercely around herself,

"No, I don't want you."

He let out a dark, ragged laugh—half frustration, half arousal—as her words clashed violently with the way her body trembled beneath him.

"Still lying?" He growled, thrusting harder, deeper—each movement punishing and possessive.

His hands slid up her back, pressing her down into the mattress as he loomed over her.

"Your nails are digging into my arms," he whispered against her neck, "your legs are wrapped around me... and you still say 'no'?"

He slowed for a moment—just enough to make it unbearable—before slamming into her again.

"You don't get to deny this. Not when I feel you clenching around me every time I move."

His voice dropped to a low, rough whisper.

"One day... you'll break. And when you do..."

"You'll beg for me."

"I refuse to be broken—not by a man who takes pleasure in tormenting his own wife."

His breath caught slightly at her words—not just the defiance, but the fire behind them.

For a moment, he stilled—buried deep inside her—his body tense above hers.

Then he pulled back just enough to look at her face. Her eyes were blazing with pride, with resistance not just to him, but to everything he represented.

A British lord. An oppressor. A husband she never chose.

And yet... she was still here. Still trembling beneath him.

Still his.

He didn't speak right away. Instead, he brushed a damp strand of hair from her forehead—his touch almost tender compared to what came before.

"You're right," he said quietly, voice low and rough. "I can't break you."

His hand moved down, cupping her jaw gently now—not forcing, not gripping.

"But this?" He shifted slightly inside her, "This isn't about politics or power... this is something else."

His thumb brushed over her lower lip.

"And one day... you'll admit that too."

"I could never bring myself to do that. The thought alone sends shivers down my spine. It's not just a matter of choice; it's about the core of who I am and the values I've always held dear."

He saw the stubborn determination in her eyes, the defiant tilt of her jaw. He knew words wouldn't win this argument—not with her. She would never admit it. Not to him. Not to herself.

He let out a quiet breath, his fingers retracing her jawline—as if trying to memorise the feel of her skin. His voice was low, rough, almost as if he was warring with himself.

"Why don't you fight me, then?" He murmured. "Why do you let me touch you like this when everything in you hates what I stand for?"

"Duty! As Indian women, when we marry, we commit ourselves to our husbands for life, standing steadfast by their side until the very end. We embrace our responsibilities wholeheartedly, just as I am doing now. It's a bond forged in tradition and perseverance. To me, what I feel for you is nothing—an absence where my loyalty lies firmly with my vows."

He felt a strange tightness in his chest, something unfamiliar. Not anger. Not desire.

Something deeper.

He looked at her—really looked at her—for the first time since this marriage began. At the pride in her eyes, the quiet strength behind every word, even now when she was bare beneath him.

"Duty," he repeated softly, almost to himself. "You call this duty... giving me everything like you do?"

His hand moved from her jaw down to her neck—not gripping, just resting there—the pulse under his fingers quick and alive.

"An empty bed would be duty." His voice dropped. "A cold wife obeying orders. But you... You burn."

He leaned down until his forehead touched hers—his breath mingling with hers.

"You may not feel anything for me," he whispered, "but your body does."

A pause. Then softer:

"And I... I'm starting to care too much that you don't."

She ignored his words. He felt a pang of frustration at her continued refusal to acknowledge what they both knew—her body's undeniable response to him. He tried to push it aside, tried to focus on his anger, his need to have the last word.

But his fingers were still tracing idly over her pulse—his eyes still locked on her face—and the realisation hit him.

He was falling for her—this woman he never wanted, never should have married, and who despised him with every fibre of her being.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath. Her reaction—or lack of—was driving him wild. He wanted her to feel something, to respond—to give in to that desire that he knew was buried deep within her, even if she would never admit it.

But she was stubborn—stubborn and too damn beautiful—and he found himself powerless to resist. He leaned in closer, his forehead almost touching hers.

"You can deny your feelings all you want," he murmured, voice rough with frustration and something dangerously close to desperation. "But there's one part of you that doesn't lie."

He moved suddenly, wrapping his arm around her hips and flipping them over so she was on top of him. He looked up at her, eyes burning with something that was both anger and desire—all his pent-up frustration now directed at her.

"Look me in the eyes and tell me you don't feel anything," he growled. "Say you hate the way my hands feel on your body. Say you hate the way I make you feel. Say. You. Just. Hate. Me."

He was challenging her even as his hands roamed over her body—possessing, marking.

She gazed at him, her eyes narrowing with a fierce intensity. "I loathe you completely, and for me, this is merely an obligation."

He felt something clench in his chest again—that unfamiliar feeling. For a moment, he was silent—watching her face, looking for any sign that this was an act.

But she was unmoving, her expression as defiant as ever.

"Duty," he repeated gruffly, his hands holding her hips tightly—almost painfully so, as if trying to force her words back. "And that's it?"

He leaned in close, his breath hot against her neck.

"You hate me. But your body aches for me."He bites her everywhere, taking out the anger.

His lips crashed onto her neck—sharp, punishing bites tracing down her throat, over her collarbone.

Each mark was a silent rebellion—an act of possession, of anger, of something dangerously close to pain.

A low groan escaped him as his teeth grazed her shoulder—his hands gripping hard enough to leave bruises tomorrow.

"You say you hate me," he growled between bites, "then why do you stay so still? Why don't you push me off?"

He bit harder—just above her breast—and felt the shiver run through her.

"Answer me."

"Nghhh, there's nothing to answer."

He felt the sound she made—that low, throaty groan—and it fueled him more.

"You can pretend you don't want me," he murmured, his voice hoarse against her skin. "You can say you hate me all you want... but your body responds every time."

He bit down again—harder. Deep enough to leave a mark—then soothed the skin with his lips, his tongue.

"Answer me, damn it," he repeated, "why do you let me mark you, if you hate me so much?"

"Then don't do it," he let out a dark, bitter laugh—his breath hot and ragged against her skin.

"Stop?" He repeated, his grip tightening on her hips. "You think I can? You think I don't want to tear myself away from you... from this madness?"

His eyes burned into hers—filled with frustration, fire, and something dangerously close to regret.

"I should stop." His voice dropped. "I should let you go. Walk away. Pretend this marriage is just duty—for both of us."

But he didn't move. Didn't release her.

Instead, his hands slid up her back—one palm pressing between her shoulder blades as if to hold her in place.

"But I don't." He whispered. "And neither do you."

His lips brushed the mark he'd left on her neck—a mix of punishment and apology in one touch.

"So we'll keep doing this," he said, "until one of us breaks... or burns alive trying not to."

"You will be the one, not me," she murmured, her voice barely breaking the stillness of the room, as her gaze drifted away, filled with a mix of resignation.

He smirked—a slow, dangerous curve of his lips—though there was no real amusement in it.

"Confident, aren't you?" he murmured, voice rough like gravel. "So sure I'm the one who'll break?"

His hand slid up her spine again, slow this time—deliberate—as if mapping every shiver she tried to hide.

"You think I haven't noticed how you hold your breath when I touch you here?" He pressed a thumb just below her ear—felt her twitch.

"How your pulse races when I look at you? When I say your name?"

He leaned in until his mouth hovered over hers—close enough to kiss, but not quite touching.

"Let me tell you something," he whispered, "I may be the British lord. The husband you never wanted." His grip tightened slightly on her waist.

"But mark my words..."

"You'll be the one begging before this war between us is over."

And then—he kissed her. Hard, with a fierce urgency that sent tremors through the air. It was neither gentle nor tender, but rather a fierce declaration of everything he couldn't voice: a desperate need, a simmering rage, and a hint of surrender that threatened to consume him. The warmth of her skin against his ignited a fire he could no longer contain.

"She hated him for making her feel what she had sworn never to feel again."

"If love was betrayal, then he was betraying himself with every breath."

What's stronger: pride or passion? Tell me below ⬇️

Every like = one more crack in her denial ❤️