The palace had gone quiet for the night.

The lanterns were low. The maids had retired. Even the air seemed to hum with the last traces of mehendi and music. But the Commander's quarters were still waiting. And so was she.

Advika sat cross-legged on the bed, still in her soft green lehenga, her palms open in the dim light, the dried henna staining her skin in deep maroon.

She didn't look up when the door opened.

"You're late, Commander," she said, voice honeyed with mock accusation.

Ranjeet entered, hair slightly tousled, still in his office kurta — sleeves rolled, neck undone. He looked like war and tired poetry.

"Meetings ran over," he said, walking in slowly.
"You know I was—"

"—with your other woman?"

He paused.

Blinked.

"What?"

She bit back a grin, eyes still on her palms.

"The one who wears red. Always smells like rosewater and importance."

He stepped closer, eyes narrowing with amused offense.

"Advika—"

Captain Arvind can confirm it. Or the guards." She tilted her head innocently.
"You think I don't know?"

"Chotu," he said flatly, trying not to smile, "I swear—"

"Relax, Commander. I'm teasing."

She looked up then — glowing, wicked.

"But since you're home..."

She patted the bed.

"Sit."

He blinked again.

He settled down beside her.

 sliding into his lap instead, her legs straddling him, lehenga rustling against his thighs.

He swallowed hard.

Hands instinctively found her waist.

"What's this?"

"I got henna done," she said sweetly, holding up her palms between them.
"Want to see?"

He took her wrists in his hands — kissed her fingers without warning.

"Beautiful."

She smirked.

"Can you find your name in it, Commander in Chief?"

His eyes darkened.

He leaned in.

"If I find it... what's my reward?"

She leaned closer, nose to nose.

"Anything you want."

His eyes flared.

"Anything?"

"Anything."

He didn't even glance away — just dropped his gaze to her right palm, scanning for half a second.

Then he pointed.

"Here."

She blinked.

"That was... fast."

"I've memorized every inch of you, Chotu. Did you think I wouldn't know where my name sits on your skin?"

Before she could answer, he grabbed her face in both hands and kissed her.

Hard.

Hungry.

His mouth crashed into hers like he'd been starving all evening and only now remembered how to breathe. She gasped, his lips claiming hers over and over again until she moaned into his mouth, her fingers fisting in his hair.

He pulled back just an inch, his breath hot.

"That was my reward"

She was dazed.

Flushed.

Panting.

"You did not mention you will kiss me..."

He tilted his head.

Smirked.

"No, you said anything I want."

He kissed her jaw.

Then her throat.

His hands slid up her waist as he pulled her tighter against him, groaning low in his throat as her legs clenched around his hips.

He kissed her again — deeper this time, until she was melting into him, fingers tangled in his hair, lips parted in soft, trembling surrender.

Still holding her waist, Ranjeet pulled her forward on his lap — a shift so small, so natural, yet it changed everything.

Because when their bodies aligned, she felt it.

All of him.

Her breath hitched.

Their cores pressed together, separated by nothing but soft fabric and fraying restraint. She gasped, and immediately tried to shift back, shy and startled.

But he held her firmly in place, his voice low, thick with heat and teasing.

"Don't move," he murmured at her ear.
"It's not my fault — it's yours."

"Mine?" she whispered, already breathless.

"You sat on my lap in that green lehenga with mehendi still on your hands and your lips daring me to kiss you."

His hands slid up her spine, slow and sinful.

"What did you think would happen?"

She couldn't answer.

Her skin was already burning.

Her fingers trembled slightly as they crept down from his chest — slowly, cautiously — grazing his ribs, his stomach, lower.

Ranjeet didn't move.

But his breath did pause.

"Advika," he said, voice thick with warning. "What do you think you're doing?"

She didn't look at him. Her eyes were glued to his chest, heat burning in her cheeks.

"I... I want to touch you," she whispered.

His smirk curved against her hair. "Touch me? Where, little queen?"

She flushed deeper. Her hand stopped just above his navel. Her whole body froze.

"Don't tease," she murmured.

"Oh, but I must," he growled softly. "You're trembling like you're about to pick up a sword for the first time."

She huffed, embarrassed.

"I don't know how to do it," she admitted, her voice barely audible.

"And yet," he murmured, catching her wrist and guiding her lower, "you're still trying. Brave girl."

Her fingers brushed the top of his waistband.

He was warm. So warm.

And hard.

The fabric of his lower garment barely hid how much he wanted her. She could feel him twitch under her palm — even with just the lightest touch.

Her breath caught.

He hissed through his teeth. "Ah. There's my shy little wife."

"Commander," she whispered, hesitating.

"I'm listening," he said, voice ragged now, though he still wore that lazy smirk. "Don't stop now."

With trembling fingers, she slipped her hand beneath the cloth.

And touched him.

Hot. Heavy. Harder than she expected. Her eyes widened, and she almost pulled away — but he caught her hand, holding it there.

"Don't run," he whispered against her cheek. "You already own me. Do what you want."

She swallowed, looking up at him — eyes wide, heart pounding.

And then... she started to move.

Slowly. Gently. Her hand wrapped around him, uncertain at first, learning his shape, his reaction.

His head fell back.

"Ah—fuck—" he groaned under his breath, hips bucking slightly into her grip. "Just like that."

Her lips parted in surprise. He was beautiful like this — untamed, tense, undone beneath her.

"You like it?" she asked softly.

"Gods, yes." His voice was strangled now, teasing gone. "You have no idea."

She grew bolder with each passing second, stroking him slowly, curiously. His breath hitched every time her thumb grazed the sensitive tip. His hands fisted into the sheets now, his self-control fraying with every flick of her wrist.

She looked up at him, cheeks still red, lips slightly parted. "Is this how I... please you?"

He growled — deep, hoarse.

"You're killing me."

Then he caught her wrist, stopping her suddenly.

Before she could speak, he pulled her hand to his mouth.

And kissed it.

"I'm going to lose my mind if you keep doing that," he muttered.

She blinked, unsure. "Did I... do it wrong?"

He looked at her then — eyes wild, voice low and reverent. "You did everything too right. Now it's my turn again."

And with that, he rolled her under him.

But the moment her back touched the sheets, his lips were on her again — feverish, reverent, desperate.

He kissed her mouth.

Her throat.

Her collarbone.

Then lower.

His hands worked slowly — untucking her sari with unbearable care, peeling the silk away from her inch by inch, lips trailing after every fold he released.

"You'll cry if I do what I want to," he warned, his voice shaking.
"I won't stop once I start."

"Then don't," she whispered.

He stilled.

Looked at her — really looked.

And saw it.

Not fear.

Not hesitation.

Just her.

Burning.

Waiting.

His.

His hands found the strings of her blouse. He pulled the knot loose.

She gasped as the fabric slipped.

And he kissed her shoulders, her chest, her stomach — every new inch of exposed skin like it was sacred scripture.

"Every mark," he whispered against her skin,
"will be proof that I worshipped you like you asked."

She arched beneath him.

And when he finally lay over her again, bare to bare, his mouth at her ear and his breath unsteady—

He said only one thing:

"You're not mine tonight, Chotu.
You've always been mine."

And then—