Chapter 1: Midair Temptations
The private jet cut through the night, a blade of silence in the desert darkness. The cabin was a capsule of warmth and wealth, bathed in low amber light that made the mahogany bar gleam. Divakar Singh Rajput swirled three fingers of aged Macallan, the ice cube a slow-turning planet in the amber universe of his glass. The scent of the whiskey, peat and oak, mixed with the softer, more intoxicating note of Shanaya’s perfume—jasmine and vanilla, a promise he knew by heart.
She was curled in the expansive leather seat opposite him, a cashmere throw over her legs. Their four-year-old daughter, Riya, was a warm, sleeping weight in her lap, a tiny fist clutching the silk of Shanaya’s blouse. With her free hand, Shanaya reached across the space between them. Her manicured nail, a flawless pearl, traced the line of his jaw, the slight stubble there.
“You’re thinking too loudly, jaan,” she murmured, her voice a soft melody beneath the jet’s hum.
Divakar caught her hand, brought her knuckles to his lips. Her skin was impossibly soft. “Just the deal. The final numbers.”
It was a half-truth. The deal—the acquisition of the Vega Grande hotel and casino—was monumental, the reason for their relocation from Mumbai to Las Vegas. But the numbers currently holding his attention were on the tablet balanced on his knee, partially shielded by his arm.
A resume. Gabriele “Gabi” Sterling. Thirty. British. Degrees from LSE and Wharton. Fluent in four languages. A list of high-stakes hospitality contracts that read like a tour of the world’s most exclusive playgrounds. And then, the final attachment, not a professional reference, but a series of photographs. They were tasteful, yet unmistakably personal. Gabi at a ski chalet, laughing, her cheeks flushed. Gabi on a yacht, her blonde hair whipped by the wind, her smile confident and direct. The last one was from a charity gala. She wore an emerald green gown that left one shoulder bare, her gaze connecting with the camera with an intelligence and a challenge that felt like a physical tap on Divakar’s shoulder.
“Hiring someone new?” Shanaya asked. Her smile was still there, a beautiful curve on her perfect lips, but her eyes had flicked to the tablet.
Divakar minimized the window. “For the Vega Grande. A chief operations officer. The board is insisting on local expertise.”
“And this one has the required… expertise?” Shanaya’s tone was light, but the nail she had been tracing his jaw with now rested, still, against his skin.
Before he could answer, a shift in the air announced a presence. Gabi herself stepped from the forward galley, holding two small porcelain cups of espresso. She moved with an easy, economic grace that spoke of gym-honed discipline beneath her tailored trousers and simple silk shell.
“Forgive the intrusion,” she said, her British accent clipping the words into something both elegant and sharp. She set a cup before Divakar. “Your espresso, Mr. Rajput.” She turned to Shanaya, offering the second cup with a slight, respectful dip of her head. “Mrs. Rajput. Decaf, as you requested.”
“Thank you, Gabi,” Shanaya said, accepting the cup. Her model’s eyes, used to assessing competition, took in the younger woman’s understated allure, the cool poise. “You’ve settled in well on short notice.”
“It’s a remarkable aircraft. And a remarkable opportunity.” Gabi’s gaze slid to Divakar, just for a beat too long. “The Vega Grande portfolio is thrilling. I’ve already drafted some initial thoughts on revitalizing the high-roller suites.”
“Eager,” Divakar said, sipping the espresso. It was bitter, perfect.
“One must be, to catch the eye of Divakar Singh Rajput.” She smiled, not at him, but at the sleeping child in Shanaya’s lap. “She’s beautiful. The quiet up here must be a blessing.”
With another smooth nod, she retreated to the forward lounge, leaving a silence that felt different than before. The scent of her perfume—something clean and metallic, like chilled gin—lingered, clashing faintly with Shanaya’s jasmine.
Shanaya took a slow sip of her decaf. She didn’t look at the tablet again. “She’s very capable.”
“Yes.”
“And very aware of it.”
Divakar said nothing. He looked out the window at the nothingness, the void they were hurtling through. The tension was a live wire, coiled on the polished table between them.
Later, with Riya asleep in the private aft cabin, the tension found a different outlet. The master suite was all subdued lighting and platinum-toned silk. Shanaya stood by the bed, unpinning her hair. The dark cascade fell around her shoulders, a frame for the stunning, haunted look on her face.
“This move…” she started, then shook her head.
Divakar came up behind her, his hands settling on her hips. He felt the familiar, electric thrill of her body under the costly fabric. “It’s the right move.”
“I know.” She leaned back into him, her head against his chest. “But it feels like we’re jumping into a deep end where I can’t see the bottom.”
He turned her to face him. “I am the bottom,” he said, his voice low. “I will always be the ground beneath your feet.”
He kissed her then, not with gentle reassurance, but with a claiming hunger that sparked an immediate, equal fire in her. This was their language, refined over a decade. Her hands fisted in his shirt, pulling it from his trousers. His fingers found the zpper of her dress, a swift, hushed sound in the quiet cabin.
The dress pooled at her feet, revealing the body that had graced billboards—full, high breasts, a waist he could span with his hands, hips that flared with lush, perfect symmetry. She was, simply, breathtaking. He backed her towards the bed, his mouth leaving hers to trail down her throat, to capture a nipple. She gasped, arching, her fingers tangling in his hair.
“Divakar…” His name was a plea and a command.
He pushed her down onto the silk duvet, his own clothes discarded in hurried, clumsy moments. The sight of her, naked and wanting, her skin glowing in the low light, usually erased every other thought in his head. But tonight, a phantom image flickered at the edge of his consciousness—a cool, blonde confidence, a challenge in a pair of intelligent eyes. It sent a forbidden, corrosive heat through his veins.
He knelt between her thighs, spreading her open with his hands. She was already wet, glistening. He bent his head, not to kiss her, but to taste her. His tongue found her core, a slow, deliberate lick that made her cry out and buck against his mouth. He worked her with a focused intensity, using his tongue, his lips, the edge of his teeth, until her thighs trembled and her breaths came in broken sobs. He felt her climax build, her hands pulling at his shoulders, but he drew back, denying her.
“Look at me,” he growled, his voice rough.
Her eyes, dark with need, fluttered open. He positioned himself at her entrance, the broad head of his cock pressing against her. In one slow, relentless thrust, he filled her completely. She gasped, her internal muscles clenching around him with a shocking, silken tightness.
He set a brutal, driving pace. Each thrust was a punctuation in the silent cabin, the slap of skin on skin, the creak of the leather bedframe. He fucked her with a desperation that went beyond passion, trying to exorcise the ghost of that other gaze, to reclaim something he felt slipping away even as he held her tighter.
“You are mine,” he grunted into the sweat-damp hollow of her neck, his hips pistoning. “Say it.”
“Yours,” she choked out, her nails scoring his back. “Always yours.”
He drove into her, deeper, harder. The coil in his gut tightened unbearably. With a final, ragged shout, he came, spilling himself inside her in hot, pulsing waves, his vision whiting out at the edges. He collapsed atop her, their hearts hammering a frantic, discordant rhythm against each other.
In the heavy silence that followed, broken only by their ragged breathing, he felt her tears on his shoulder. They were warm and silent. He didn’t ask why. He knew. He had just fucked his wife with the anger and hunger of a man trying to outrun a temptation he hadn’t even touched yet. And she had felt it.
He rolled off her, staring at the ceiling. The jet hummed on, carrying them toward a glittering desert city and a future that suddenly felt fraught with unseen fault lines.
After a long moment, Shanaya rose without a word and walked to the ensuite bathroom. The click of the lock was the loudest sound Divakar had ever heard.
He lay there, the scent of sex and her perfume and that faint, lingering trace of gin-and-metals in the air. He reached for his phone on the nightstand, the screen blinding in the dark. He pulled up the email with Gabi Sterling’s resume.
With a stab of his thumb, he typed a new message to his head of HR. The Sterling candidate is not a fit. Withdraw the offer. Find another.
He sent it. Then he threw the phone onto the empty silk beside him. It was the right decision. The only decision.
From behind the bathroom door, he heard the soft, shuddering sound of his wife trying to suppress her sobs. The sound carved a hollow space right through the center of his chest. He had averted one danger, only to realize with a cold, sinking clarity that the real damage might already be done, right here in this silk-lined room, miles above the earth.
He had averted one danger, only to realize with a cold, sinking clarity that the real damage might already be done, right here in this silk-lined room, miles above the earth.
The sound from the bathroom cut through him, a sharp, serrated thing. He stared at the locked door. The phone with its sent email felt like a pathetic token now. A fucking Band-Aid on a hemorrhage.
He swung his legs off the bed. The cool air hit his sweat-slicked skin. He didn’t bother with a robe. He walked to the bathroom door, pressed his palm flat against the polished wood.
“Shanaya.” No answer. Just the muffled run of water and that heart-breaking hitch of breath beneath it. “Open the door.”
“Go away.” Her voice was thick, watery. “Just… go check your numbers, Divakar.”
The dismissal stung. He turned the handle. Locked. A simple, flimsy bolt on a thirty-million-dollar jet. He stepped back, then drove his shoulder into the door, right beside the handle. The frame splintered with a satisfying crack. The door flew inward.
Steam billowed out, dense and fragrant with her jasmine bath oil. She stood under the rainfall showerhead, her back to him, head bowed. The water sluiced down the incredible curve of her spine, over the perfect swell of her ass, down the long legs he’d worshipped for a decade. She didn’t turn.
He stepped into the steam, into the spray. The hot water hit him, shocking his skin. He moved behind her, his body slotting against the shape of her, his chest to her wet back, his erection, already hard again with a grim, determined urgency, pressing into the cleft of her ass.
She stiffened. “Get out.”
“No.” His hands came around her front, one splaying possessively over her flat stomach, the other rising to cup her breast. Her nipple was a tight, hard bead against his palm. He squeezed, not gently. She gasped. “You think I don’t know you? You think I don’t feel every fucking tremor in you?”
“You fucked me like I was someone else,” she spat, trying to twist away.
He held her fast, his mouth at her ear. “I fucked you like I was trying to find you. Because you were already gone.” He bit her earlobe. “I’m here now. Look at me.”
He turned her in his arms, the water cascading over both their faces. Her mascara was a dark, tragic smudge under her eyes. She looked wrecked. And so fucking beautiful it made his chest ache.
“I sent the email. She’s gone. It’s done.”
“It’s not about her!” The cry was ripped from her throat. “It’s about you looking at that tablet like it was a menu. It’s about you thinking, even for a second, that you might want to taste something new.”
He grabbed her face, his thumbs hard against her jawbone. “The only thing I want to taste is you.” He crashed his mouth down on hers. It wasn’t a kiss; it was a takeover. She fought it for half a second, her fists beating once against his shoulders, then she opened for him with a desperate, hungry sob. Her tongue met his, a furious, wet clash.
He walked her back until her shoulders hit the cool, tiled wall. He broke the kiss, panting. “Look at me.” Her eyes were wide, dark pools of hurt and need. “This is mine. You are mine. Every part. Every thought. Every fucking sigh.”
He dropped to his knees on the shower floor. The water pounded his back. He hooked her left leg over his shoulder, spreading her open. He didn’t tease. He buried his face in her pussy, his tongue spearing into her with a relentless, driving rhythm. He licked and sucked and devoured, his stubble rough on her inner thighs. He fucked her with his tongue, deep and dirty, then sealed his mouth over her clit and sucked, hard.
Her fingers clenched in his hair, pulling, pushing. A broken stream of Hindi curses and pleas fell from her lips. Her hips bucked against his mouth. “Divakar… please… I can’t…”
He didn’t let up. He drove her over the edge, feeling her sex clamp around his tongue, her whole body convulsing as a raw, screaming orgasm tore through her. He lapped at her, easing her through the shocks, until her leg trembled violently on his shoulder.
He stood up. His cock was a rigid, throbbing bar against her stomach. He was breathing hard. “Tell me you know.”
“I know,” she whispered, her eyes glazed.
He lifted her easily, her back against the wall. She wrapped her legs around his waist. He positioned himself, the head of his cock nudging her soaked, sensitive entrance. He pushed inside, a slow, inexorable invasion. She was so tight, so hot, her inner muscles still fluttering from her climax. She cried out, her head falling back against the tile with a thud.
He held still, buried to the hilt, their faces inches apart. Water streamed over them. “Who do you belong to?”
“You.”
“Say my name.”
“Divakar.” It was a prayer.
He began to move. Deep, pulling thrusts that shifted her whole body against the wall. The sound was obscene—wet skin, slap of flesh, the slick, rhythmic plunge of him into her. He fucked her with a focused, possessive fury, each drive a punctuation mark in his argument.
“This pussy… is my pussy.” Thrust. “This mouth…” He kissed her, swallowing her moan. “My mouth. These tears…” He licked the salt and water from her cheeks. “Mine. Everything. Mine.”
She was sobbing again, but now it was mixed with ragged cries of pleasure. Her nails dug into the muscles of his back, surely drawing blood. The water began to run lukewarm, then cool. He didn’t notice. The world had narrowed to the feel of her gripping him, the sight of her beautiful face surrendering to him, the animal truth of their joining.
His orgasm built, a coil of lightning in his base. “Come with me,” he commanded, his voice a guttural rasp. “Now.”
He slammed into her, once, twice more, and felt her shatter around him, her cunt milking him in fierce, rhythmic pulses. With a hoarse shout, he let go, pumping his release deep inside her, jet after hot jet, claiming her all over again in the most primal way he knew.
He stayed there, inside her, holding her weight, his forehead pressed to the cool tile beside her head. Their breathing slowly synced. The water ran cold.
He carefully lowered her, her legs wobbling. She leaned into him, her face buried in his neck. He turned off the shower. The sudden silence was deafening.
He wrapped a thick, cotton towel around her, then one around himself. He led her, quiet, back to the bed. They lay down in the damp tangle of sheets. She curled into his side, her hand on his chest, over his pounding heart.
“I’m scared,” she whispered into the dark.
He kissed the top of her head. “I know.” He didn’t offer empty platitudes. The fear was real. They were flying toward a gilded cage of their own making, and the lock had just shown its first, hairline crack. He held her tighter, as if his arms alone could keep the world at bay. Outside the window, the first faint hints of dawn bled into the black, outlining the jagged teeth of mountains far below. Vegas was somewhere ahead, in all its glittering, hungry silence.