Chapter 5: Favors returned
The cold marble bit into my bare thighs. Vishal stood over me, adjusting his trousers, the dismissal sharp in his voice. Monday. Nine. The words echoed, hollow, in the vast silence of the penthouse. Relief warred with a deeper, sharper unease. The job was mine. But the ground beneath me felt treacherous. He’d flipped the script. Taken something raw and unexpected. The echo of his tongue on my skin still vibrated, a phantom pulse low in my belly. Humiliation warred with a treacherous, lingering heat.
He turned towards the hallway, his back broad, powerful, already moving on. Leaving me sprawled and used on his expensive floor.
No.
The thought slammed into me, cold and hard. This couldn't be how it ended. Not with me shivering on the marble, discarded. Not with that unsettling vulnerability he’d exposed. Power wasn't just about getting what you wanted; it was about controlling the aftermath. Controlling him.
My gaze dropped. Below the open flap of his trousers, he was soft. Spent. The evidence of my earlier, degrading service. Swati, his cold, distant wife, flashed in my mind. The things he’d muttered when I had him in my throat. Rajat never… My own husband's clumsy, infrequent fumblings felt pathetic in comparison. Vishal craved something more. Something I could give him that Swati wouldn't.
He needed to need me. Again.
I pushed myself up, ignoring the stiffness in my legs, the ache deep inside where his mouth had been. Naked except for the heavy, cold gold necklace biting my throat, I moved silently. My feet were steady on the polished stone. He was almost at the threshold of the living area.
"Mr. Vishal." My voice wasn't loud, but it stopped him. Clear. Steady. No trace of the breathy desperation from before.
He half-turned, an eyebrow arched, impatience etched into the lines of his face. "What?"
I closed the distance. Close enough to smell the faint tang of sex and expensive cologne on his skin. Close enough to see the flicker of surprise in his eyes as I deliberately reached down. My fingers brushed the soft skin of his flaccid cock.
He flinched. "Tamanna—"
"Hush," I murmured, my hand wrapping around him, gentle but firm. Not demanding. Inviting. My other hand rested lightly on his hip. I looked up, meeting his gaze directly. The city lights reflected in his dark eyes. "That was… payment. For the job." I let my thumb stroke slowly along the underside. "This… this is just for us." I leaned in, my lips brushing the corner of his jaw. "You deserve more than just release. You deserve… pleasure. Real pleasure." My tongue flicked against his earlobe. "Let me give it to you. The way it should be. The way Swati never does."
He stood rigid. But he didn't pull away. His breath hitched. I felt the faintest stirring under my palm. A tiny pulse of blood. Hope surged, hot and fierce.
"Just let go," I breathed, my lips tracing the line of his jaw down to his neck. My hand worked, slow, rhythmic, coaxing. "Stop thinking. Stop being the boss. Just… feel." I kissed the hollow of his throat. "Feel how much I want to please you." My fingers tightened slightly. "Feel how hard I can make you."
A low groan rumbled in his chest. His hand came up, tangled roughly in my hair again. But this time, it wasn't to force. It was… an anchor. His hips shifted, pressing subtly into my touch. He was thickening. Lengthening. The velvet-over-steel sensation returning, slow and undeniable.
"Yes," I whispered, triumph a sweet fire in my veins. "That's it. Just like that." I sank smoothly to my knees again, but this time, it wasn't submission. It was positioning. Strategy. I took him into my mouth, not deeply, not roughly. Teasingly. Laving the head with my tongue, sucking gently, feeling him swell further, harden completely against my lips. He was thick, filling my mouth, the taste of him mingling with the lingering salt of his release. His groan was deeper, ragged. His grip on my hair tightened, pushing me down slightly.
I pulled back, letting him slip free with a wet sound. "Not here," I said, rising. I took his hand, the one not knotted in my hair, and led him away from the sterile expanse of the entryway, towards the shadows near the grand piano. His eyes were dark, glazed, fixed on me. He followed, his steps heavy with building desire.
I pushed him back gently until his legs hit the low, plush sofa behind the piano. He sank onto it. I climbed over him, straddling his lap, my knees sinking into the soft leather on either side of his hips. His hardness pressed against my core, hot and insistent even through the thin silk of my discarded panties somewhere on the floor miles away. The necklace swung heavily between my breasts. I reached down, guiding him, positioning him where I needed him. The blunt head nudged at my entrance. Wetness flooded me, a confusing mix of arousal and apprehension.
"Look at me," I commanded softly, settling down slowly, deliberately. He stared up, eyes locked on mine, his breath coming fast. His hands gripped my hips, not guiding, just holding.
The stretch was immediate. Intense. Deeper than anything Rajat had ever managed. Rajat had been hesitant, fumbling. This was… purposeful. Vishal was thick. I winced, biting my lip, forcing myself down further. A sharp, tearing pain lanced through me, white-hot and sudden. I gasped, my body instinctively trying to recoil, but his hands held me firmly.
He felt it. His eyes widened slightly, a flicker of something – surprise? – crossing his face. "Tamanna—?"
"Don't stop," I breathed, my voice tight with pain but laced with command. I pushed down the last inch, taking him fully inside. A ragged moan tore from my throat. The pain ebbed slightly, replaced by a strange, overwhelming fullness. Pressure. Possession. "Just… move." I began to rock slowly, grinding against him, finding a rhythm that minimized the sharp edges of pain and maximized the deep, insistent pressure. "Like this…"
He obeyed, his hips lifting tentatively, meeting my slow grind. His groan vibrated through me. His hands slid up my sides, rough palms skimming my ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts. He wasn't gentle, but he wasn't brutal. Focused. Absorbed in the sensation. His gaze never left my face, watching the play of discomfort and something else – a dawning, treacherous heat – flicker across my features.
"Oh god," he rasped, his thrusts growing slightly stronger, deeper. "So fucking tight…"
The pain was still there, a persistent ache beneath the building friction. But something else was growing. A warmth. A coiling tension low in my belly that owed nothing to pain. It felt… potent. Dangerous. I shifted, rising higher on my knees, then sinking back down, finding a deeper angle. He gasped, his hands clamping harder on my hips. "Fuck, yes…"
I leaned back, bracing my hands behind me on his thighs, arching my back. Presenting myself. Offering control. "Harder," I whispered. "Show me… show me what you need."
He needed no further invitation. His hands gripped my waist, lifting me, driving me down onto him with controlled force. The thrusts became sharper, deeper, punching the breath from my lungs with each descent. The ache flared, sharp and bright, but the coil of heat tightened unbearably. My head fell back, a moan escaping as he pounded up into me, the sounds of our bodies slapping together echoing dully in the large room. The piano loomed nearby, a silent, absurd witness. The necklace swung wildly.
"Turn around," he growled suddenly, his voice thick. "Now."
I understood. Reverse cowgirl. I lifted myself off him, wincing at the sudden emptiness and the throb between my legs. He shifted, giving me space. I turned, my back to him now, and lowered myself back down onto his rigid cock. The angle was different. Deeper still. More intense. His hands clamped onto my hips, fingers digging in, guiding my movements, setting a relentless, driving pace. He fucked up into me with powerful strokes, his breath harsh against my spine. I braced my hands on his knees, pushing back against him, meeting his thrusts. The pain was a dull roar now, almost secondary to the sheer, overwhelming intensity of the sensation, the raw physicality of it. His control, his strength focused entirely on possessing me. The coil inside me wound impossibly tighter, fed by the rhythm, the depth, the sheer force of him.
"God… Vishal…" His name slipped out, raw and unbidden.
One of his hands slid around my hip, fingers seeking, finding the swollen nub above where he plunged into me. His thumb pressed, circled. Hard. Precise. The coil snapped. Pleasure exploded, white-hot and shattering, radiating out from that point, obliterating the ache, flooding my body with wave after wave of intense sensation. I cried out, my body clenching violently around him, back arching. He groaned, a guttural sound of triumph, his thrusts becoming erratic, slamming into me as my body milked him.
He pulled out abruptly just as I felt his body tense. I felt hot spurts land on my lower back, warm and sticky. He slumped back against the sofa, breathing hard, his hand falling away from me.
I stayed crouched, trembling, my back to him, catching my breath. The air smelled sharply of sex and sweat. My inner thighs felt wet. Sore. Sticky. And something else. A warm, thicker trickle. I shifted slightly, looked down between my legs. Dark red smeared the inside of my thighs. More bloomed on the pale leather of the sofa beneath me.
Vishal sat forward. His gaze followed mine. He saw it. The blood. His eyes widened again, locking onto mine as I slowly turned to face him. Shock. Confusion. A dawning, intense comprehension.
"You…?" he started, voice rough. He looked from the blood to my face, then back down. "Your husband…?"
"Rajat?" I gave a small, shaky laugh that held no humor. Just a stark, raw edge. "He tried. He never… quite managed." I reached down, my fingers coming away smeared with crimson. I held them up, the dark red stark against my skin in the dim light. Then, deliberately, I brought my fingers to my lips. I tasted the coppery tang, my eyes never leaving his. It wasn't pleasure. It was ownership. A brand. "You did." I lowered my hand, letting the blood stain the sofa beside his. "You got my cherry, Mr. Vishal."
He stared at me. At the blood. At my face, where a strange, fierce satisfaction warred with the lingering haze of pain and spent pleasure. The power wasn't just about the job anymore. It was about the blood on his sofa. The irrevocable thing he’d taken. The unexpected vulnerability I now possessed. He looked… unsettled. Intrigued. Possessed himself.
He didn't recoil. He reached out, his thumb brushing a smear of blood high on my inner thigh. His touch was thoughtful. Almost reverent. A silent acknowledgment of the line irrevocably crossed.
The job was mine. But the game, I realized with a chilling, exhilarating certainty, had just become infinitely more complex. And the necklace around my neck felt less like a chain, and more like a weapon. I smiled. A slow, deliberate curve of my lips. Let him digest that.
Let him digest that.
He finally broke the silence, his voice a low scrape. “You’re full of surprises.” His thumb smeared the blood further across my thigh. “I want to hear you beg for it next time.”
I tilted my head, the necklace cool against my collarbone. “Or what? You’ll fire me?” I let my gaze drop pointedly. “Your dick seems pretty happy with my performance review.”
He barked a laugh, sharp and surprised. “It’s a greedy bastard.” He leaned closer, his breath hot on my ear. “I want to see how loud you can scream when I’m buried in that tight little cunt.”
“Promises, promises,” I sighed, pushing his chest playfully. “Your wife probably just lies there and thinks about her stock portfolio.” I felt him flinch, a victory.
“I want to come on your face,” he growled, fingers tightening on my hip.
“Better than coming home to an empty bed, isn’t it?” I whispered, tracing his lip. “At least my face would look happy to see you.”
“I’m going to make you sore for days.”
“Good,” I said, shifting to feel the ache. “Then I’ll have a reason to sit at your desk all day, squirming. Reminding you.”
“I want you to taste yourself on me.”
I leaned in, my lips a hair’s breadth from his. “I already did. You taste like power. And regret.” I licked his chin slowly. “Mostly power.”
“Tell me you’re mine.”
“I’m the best investment you’ve ever made,” I corrected, biting his earlobe. “The ROI is fucking phenomenal.”
“I want to fuck you in every room of this empty penthouse.”
“Starting with the wife’s side of the bed, I hope.” His eyes darkened, and I knew I’d hit the nerve. “Let’s go.”
He didn’t move from the sofa, just stared at the bloody leather between us. “Go?” he finally said, his voice stripped bare. “Where?” The word hung there, echoing in the vast, sterile space.
It wasn’t a challenge. It was a genuine, weary question. I saw it then, the hollowed-out look behind the arrogance. The grand piano, the view, the cold marble—it was just a gorgeous cage.
My smirk softened, not into kindness, but strategy. “To clean up, Mr. Vishal.” I stood, wincing at the fresh, throbbing ache. A visceral reminder of the transaction. “You’re a mess. I’m a mess.” I offered a hand, casual, as if helping him up from a stumble. “Your pristine penthouse has seen things.”
He looked at my extended hand, then my soiled thighs, his expression unreadable. A lock of hair fell across his forehead, messy for the first time. He took my hand. His grip was firm, anchoring. He let me pull him to his feet, our bodies close, the scent of us overwhelming. He didn’t let go. “The bathroom’s through there,” he murmured, his thumb brushing my knuckle. A tiny, unconscious gesture. “First door on the left.”
I led, pulling him gently, trailing blood and authority. He followed, silent, his bare feet scuffing the floor. The en suite was a cavern of gray slate and chrome, a rainforest showerhead looming. I turned on the faucet, testing the temperature. Steam began to rise, fogging the mirror.
I stepped under the hot spray, gasping as it stung the bites on my breasts and the deeper ache between my legs. I watched him through the glass door. He just stood there, leaning against the counter, watching the water sluice the blood from my skin in pink rivulets. He looked defeated. Hungry. Curious.
I pushed the door open. Steam billowed out. “Well?” I said, water plastering my hair to my shoulders. “You hiring me to be your cleaner, too?” The joke landed flat, but it broke the silence.
A faint, tired smile touched his lips. “Just getting my money’s worth, Ms. Kapoor.” He peeled off his ruined trousers and stepped in. The space was suddenly too small, too hot, crowded with steam and his body. He didn’t touch me. He just stood under the water, head bowed, letting it cascade over him. The quiet felt heavier than any groan.
He reached past me for the soap, his arm brushing mine. “Monday,” he said, not looking at me. “Don’t be late.” The boss was back, but the command sounded hollow, rehearsed.
“I’m never late,” I said, taking the soap from his hand. I began to lather his back, my fingers working over the tense muscles. He shuddered. A small, surrendered sound escaped him. I smiled into the steam. The power wasn’t in the take. It was in the quiet after. In the wash of water over a shared, unspeakable secret. The job was mine. The man, however, was suddenly, interestingly, adrift. And I was the only landmark in sight.