Chapter 6: Unexpected Intrusion
The low electronic chime of the penthouse doorbell sliced through the heavy silence like a shard of ice. Amartya stirred against Hande’s chest, a soft groan escaping him as he surfaced reluctantly from deep, exhausted sleep. Hande’s eyes snapped open, instantly alert. Who the fuck? The digital display beside the bed flickered, illuminating Tuba’s face, pale and strained, her dark eyes wide with an emotion Hande couldn’t immediately place through the grainy feed. Shock? Fury? Both?
Hande’s arm tightened instinctively around Amartya’s shoulders. “It’s Tuba,” she murmured, her voice husky from disuse.
Amartya blinked, confusion clouding his sleep-softened features. “Tuba? Now?” He pushed himself up slightly, dislodging Hande’s embrace. The movement pulled the duvet down, revealing Hande’s rumpled camisole and the white skirt hitched high on her thighs, and Amartya’s own shirt creased and half-unbuttoned. They looked exactly like what they weren’t – lovers tangled in post-coital languor.
Before Hande could suggest anything – hiding, Amartya answering alone – Amartya, still groggy and trusting, reached out and tapped the entry release on the bedside panel. The soft click-hiss of the front door unlocking echoed ominously.
Hande’s heart plummeted. Idiot! Sweet, trusting idiot! She scrambled to sit up properly, smoothing her skirt, but it was too late. Footsteps, sharp and rapid on the polished concrete floor, approached the open bedroom doorway.
Tuba stood framed in the entrance. The canvas tote bag she usually carried her art supplies in hung limply from her hand. Her face, usually composed and thoughtful, was a mask of raw, incredulous hurt. Her gaze swept over them – Amartya propped on one elbow, hair mussed, eyes bleary; Hande beside him, flushed, her clothes disordered, the intimacy of their position undeniable. The air crackled, thick with the scent of betrayal Tuba was breathing in.
“Tuba?” Amartya’s voice was still thick with sleep, laced with genuine confusion. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“Am I okay?” Tuba’s voice was a low, dangerous tremor. It climbed, sharpening into a blade. “What the fuck is this, Amartya?” Her eyes, burning with accusation, locked onto Hande. “You? Here? Like this? After everything?” Her knuckles were white where she gripped the strap of her bag. “You couldn’t wait, could you? Couldn’t wait to sink your claws in while he was vulnerable?”
Hande felt a surge of defensive fury, hot and acidic. She swung her legs off the bed, standing tall. “Tuba, calm down. It’s not what you think.” Her voice was deliberately cool, trying to cut through the hysteria. “He was exhausted, stressed out after that Iraqi bastard. I just helped him sleep.”
“Helped him sleep?” Tuba spat the words, a harsh, mocking laugh escaping her. “Is that what they’re calling it now? Looks like you were doing a lot more than just sleeping!” Her gesture encompassed the rumpled bed, their disheveled state. “You always were too handsy, Hande. Always hugging, touching… planting yourself in his space. But this? This is low. Even for you.”
Amartya pushed himself fully upright, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The sleepiness vanished, replaced by a protective firmness Hande hadn't seen directed at Tuba before. “Tuba,” he said, his deep voice cutting through her tirade with surprising authority. “Stop. Right now.” He stood, facing her, his posture unconsciously shielding Hande slightly. “Hande was exactly what I needed tonight. She was kind. She was here. She didn’t judge, she didn’t push, she just… let me breathe.” His gaze was steady on Tuba’s furious face. “You’re jumping to ugly conclusions based on nothing. Hande didn’t do anything wrong.”
The words landed like physical blows. Tuba flinched. The raw hurt in her eyes deepened, momentarily eclipsing the anger. Her mouth opened, then closed. She looked from Amartya’s resolute face to Hande’s defiant one, standing together against her. The fight seemed to drain out of her shoulders, replaced by a profound, trembling devastation. Her carefully guarded secret, her quiet yearning, felt exposed and trampled.
“Nothing wrong?” she whispered, the sound brittle. Her eyes, shimmering with unshed tears, locked onto Amartya’s. “Fine. If that’s how you see it.” She took a step back, then another, her movements jerky. “Enjoy your… comfort.” The word was laced with venomous sarcasm. Without another word, without looking back, she turned and walked swiftly away. Her footsteps echoed, fading rapidly, followed by the definitive slam of the front door.
Silence crashed back into the penthouse, heavier than before. The echo of the slammed door vibrated in Hande’s bones. Amartya stood frozen for a moment, staring at the empty doorway, a frown creasing his brow. Confusion warred with a dawning sense of unease. “What… what was that about?” he murmured, rubbing his temple.
Hande didn’t answer with words. The surge of adrenaline, the thrill of his defense, the raw exposure of Tuba’s jealousy – it ignited something primal, fierce, and possessive within her. She closed the distance between them in two strides. Before he could process, before he could question further, her hands were on his face, pulling him down.
Her kiss wasn’t gentle. It was a claiming. Hard, desperate, fueled by triumph and a sudden, overwhelming hunger. Her lips crushed against his, her tongue demanding entry. She tasted the faint salt of his skin, the lingering sleep on his breath. A startled grunt escaped him, but he didn’t pull away. The confusion in his eyes flickered, then drowned in a wave of startled, answering heat. His hands came up, gripping her hips through the thin silk of her camisole, pulling her flush against him.
The kiss deepened, turning frantic. Hands roamed – hers tangling in his hair, nails scraping his scalp; his sliding under the hem of her camisole, finding the hot, smooth skin of her back. The fabric strained. A low growl vibrated in Amartya’s chest, a sound Hande had never heard before, raw and possessive. It sent a jolt of pure electricity straight to her core.
He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged, eyes dark and dilated, fixed on her mouth. “Hande…” His voice was a rough scrape.
She didn’t let him speak. Her hands moved to the front of his shirt, fingers fumbling with the remaining buttons. “Shut up,” she breathed, her voice thick with need. “Just… shut up and fuck me, Amartya.” The obscenity, raw and direct, hung in the air between them.
Something snapped. The last vestige of hesitation vanished from his eyes, replaced by a feral intensity that mirrored her own. He didn’t gently remove his shirt. He grabbed the collar and yanked, buttons pinging off the concrete floor like tiny gunshots. His chest, lean and defined, was suddenly bare. Hande gasped, her gaze raking over him – the smooth planes of muscle, the dusting of dark hair. Before she could touch him, his hands were on her camisole. Not unclasping. Ripping. The delicate silk tore apart with a harsh, satisfying sound, baring her breasts, the cool air hitting her nipples, making them peak instantly.
“Fuck,” he growled, his gaze devouring her. His hands were everywhere – cupping her breasts, thumbs rubbing hard over her stiff nipples, making her cry out; sliding down her sides, over the curve of her hips, gripping the waistband of her skirt. He spun her around, pressing her back against the cool glass of the panoramic window overlooking the glittering Bosphorus. The city lights painted streaks across their heated skin. His mouth found her neck, biting, sucking, marking her as his hands shoved the short white skirt up past her hips.
She felt the cool glass against her ass, the heat of him pressed against her. His fingers hooked into the waistband of her panties. “These too,” he commanded, his voice guttural against her skin. He didn’t wait. He tore the flimsy lace aside, the fabric shredding easily. His hand plunged between her legs, fingers finding her slick, swollen folds without hesitation.
“Oh god!” Hande gasped, arching back against him, her head hitting the glass. His fingers were rough, demanding, sliding through her wetness, circling her clit with relentless pressure. “Yes! Fuck, Amartya, yes!” She reached back, fumbling for the buckle of his belt, her fingers clumsy with urgency. She got it open, yanked down his zipper, shoved his trousers and briefs down his hips in one frantic motion. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, pulsing against her bare ass.
He growled again, a sound of pure animal need. He withdrew his fingers, slick with her arousal, and gripped his cock, guiding the swollen head to her soaked entrance. He pressed forward, not slowly, not gently, but with a single, powerful thrust that buried him to the hilt inside her.
Hande screamed. It was a raw sound of shock and overwhelming pleasure, the sudden, brutal fullness stealing her breath. The glass vibrated faintly against her back. He held himself deep for a heartbeat, letting her feel every inch, the stretch, the burning heat. Then he pulled back almost all the way, leaving just the tip inside, before slamming back in with punishing force.
“Fuck!” he grunted, his hips pistoning. “So fucking tight… wet…”
Hande braced her hands against the cool glass, pushing back against each thrust, meeting him with equal ferocity. The view of Istanbul blurred into streaks of light as he fucked her hard and fast from behind. The slap of skin against skin, his ragged breaths hot on her neck, her own gasps and moans – the room filled with the raw, explicit soundtrack of their coupling. His hands gripped her hips hard enough to bruise, holding her steady as he drove into her.
“Harder!” she demanded, pushing her ass back against him. “Fucking ruin me!”
He obliged, his thrusts becoming even more brutal, deeper, each one hitting her cervix, sending shockwaves of intense pleasure-pain through her core. She could feel the sweat slicking his chest against her back, hear the desperate, animal sounds tearing from his throat. One hand slid around her front, fingers finding her clit again, rubbing in tight, frantic circles.
The dual assault was too much. The coil deep in her belly tightened unbearably fast. “Amartya! I’m… I’m gonna…!” Her warning dissolved into a wordless cry as the orgasm detonated. It ripped through her, violent and all-consuming, her inner muscles clamping down hard on his cock in rhythmic pulses. Her legs trembled violently, only his grip on her hips keeping her upright.
Feeling her convulse around him tipped him over the edge. With a guttural roar that seemed to shake the glass, he buried himself deep inside her one last time. She felt the hot, thick pulse of his release flooding her, the rhythmic spurts echoing the frantic pounding of her own heart against her ribs. He held himself there, shuddering, his forehead pressed between her shoulder blades, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
Slowly, the frantic energy bled away, replaced by a trembling exhaustion and the slick, intimate mess between them. He softened inside her, slipping out. Hande sagged forward, her forehead resting against the cool glass, her body humming with aftershocks. Amartya leaned heavily against her back, his arms wrapping around her waist, holding her up. His breathing slowly evened out against her skin.
The vast panorama of Istanbul glittered silently beyond the glass, indifferent to the raw, explicit scene that had just unfolded against it. Hande closed her eyes, a slow, triumphant smile spreading across her sweat-slicked face. Tuba had seen. Tuba knew. And now… now Amartya knew exactly what Hande could make him feel. The taste of victory was sweeter than any dessert, laced with the salt of sweat and sex. She pressed back against him, feeling the possessive weight of his arms. Mine. The word echoed in the silent, charged aftermath. All fucking mine.