Chapter Nine: Possession

The room was still, save for the sound of their breathing. The sheets clung damply to their bodies, the air rich with the scent of sweat and sex. Ayan lay sprawled beside Saba, his arm lazily draped across her stomach, his face buried in the curve of her neck. He pressed soft kisses there, tasting the salt of her skin, his lips tracing patterns that were tender where, moments ago, they had been wild.

Saba chuckled, her chest rising and falling against him. “You’re relentless,” she whispered, running her fingers through his hair. “I thought musicians were supposed to be gentle lovers.”

Ayan raised his head, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Gentle?” he teased. “That’s not what you were begging me for.”

Her eyes narrowed playfully, and she reached out to pinch his chin, tilting his face toward hers. “Cocky little boy,” she murmured, though the sparkle in her gaze betrayed her satisfaction. “You should know—it’s me who sets the pace.”

He kissed the pad of her thumb, then nipped it lightly. “Not anymore. You’re mine now, Saba.”

Her laughter was low and velvety, curling into his ear. “Possessive already? We’ve barely begun.”

They lay there in silence for a while, tangled together, the city lights from the window bathing them in silver and gold. Saba eventually slid out from beneath him, her bare body moving with a languid grace as she reached for her robe on the chair. Ayan propped himself up on one elbow, watching her. Every movement—the sway of her hips, the soft stretch of her arms—reignited the fire in his veins.

“Where are you going?” he asked, his tone thick with suspicion and desire.

“To freshen up,” she said with a teasing glance over her shoulder. “Unless you plan to chain me to the bed.”

He was up before she reached the bathroom door. In two strides, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her back, tumbling her into the mattress with a surprised squeal. His mouth crashed against hers, urgent, hungry, no trace of tenderness this time.

“Ayan—” she tried, her voice muffled by his kisses.

“Shut up,” he growled, pinning her wrists above her head. “I’m not finished with you.”

Her body melted beneath his grip, her laughter transforming into breathless gasps as he kissed down her throat, her collarbone, her chest. She writhed, pressing up against him, her robe falling open to bare her skin again.

This wasn’t slow, careful exploration anymore. This was raw hunger. His hands roamed without restraint, squeezing, kneading, claiming every inch of her body as if to erase all trace of the world before him.

And then his eyes landed on the photograph on the nightstand.

A glossy frame. Saba and a man—Tahir, the ex-husband—posed at some glittering gala. His arm around her waist, her smile polished for the cameras.

Ayan froze, staring at it for a heartbeat. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face.

He looked back at Saba, her lips swollen from their kisses, her body open and eager beneath him. Desire surged in him like a tidal wave, sharper now, edged with something darker.

“Does he know?” Ayan whispered hoarsely, thrusting into her suddenly, making her cry out. “Does that bastard know his precious wife is under me now?”

Saba’s eyes widened, her nails digging into his back as he moved inside her, harder, deeper, faster.

Ayan’s gaze flicked back to the photo, his breath ragged. “Look at you,” he hissed, his words tumbling between grunts. “Not Tahir’s perfect ornament anymore. You’re mine. Mine.”

Her response was a wild moan, her body bucking against his, her lips forming his name again and again as if in agreement.

The sight of her, the sound of her surrender, the knowledge that the man in the photograph had once possessed her but never again—it sent Ayan over the edge. He fucked her like a man possessed, his body slamming against hers, his voice low and guttural in her ear.

“You’re not his wife anymore,” he panted, biting her shoulder. “You’re my whore tonight. Say it.”

Her back arched, her voice breaking as she gasped, “Yours, Ayan. Only yours.”

The words snapped the last thread of restraint. He drove into her with feral intensity, their cries echoing together in the room, drowning out the world beyond the walls.

When she shattered beneath him again, trembling and clutching at him as if he were the only anchor she had, Ayan followed, his release tearing through him with the **** of everything he felt—lust, rage, possession, triumph.

They collapsed in a tangled heap, sweat-slicked and panting, the photograph glinting mockingly from the table. Ayan reached out blindly, turned the frame face-down, and pulled Saba tight against his chest.

This time, there was no laughter, no playful teasing. Only silence, broken by the echo of their ragged breaths.

For Ayan, it was enough. Tahir could stay trapped in glossy photographs. The reality—the woman trembling in his arms, still pulsing with the echo of his possession—belonged to him now.