Chapter 260: Chapter 260- The Devil’s Whisper

She faltered.

She felt his lips curve against her throat. A dark, wicked smirk pressed right into her pulse point.

“That I what?” he challenged softly.

“That you—” She set her jaw stubbornly. “That you forced this. That you made me… that it was all you.”

He let the lie hang in the air, pretending to consider it.

“Make me the villain,” he stated.

“Yes,” she agreed firmly, latching onto the narrative to save her sanity.

“Fine,” he said.

A low, rumbling chuckle vibrated through his broad chest and against her bare back. He sounded genuinely amused, the dark sound thrumming delightfully against her skin.

“Make me the villain, Meera.”

His hand tightened around her heavy breast, giving the swollen flesh a slow, deliberate squeeze. White beads of milk immediately bloomed from her stiff peak, trickling hotly over his fingers. Her overworked body surrendered instantly to the familiar pressure.

A sweet, filthy moan tore from her lips before she could catch it.

A helpless, breathy sound that betrayed exactly how much she loved being used by him. She clamped a hand over her own mouth, her cheeks burning crimson. Too late.

He didn’t say a word, simply rolling the slippery nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

“Stop,” she muffled into her palm. “Stop doing that while I’m— please, stop.”

His free hand drifted south.

His long fingers trailed a fiery path over the slope of her pregnant belly, slipping through the damp curls between her thighs.

He found her wet, swollen slit effortlessly.

He slid two fingers right against her entrance, dragging through her slick fluids. Her folds were incredibly puffy and thoroughly stretched—completely ruined from his thick cock. The sheer sensitivity of the bruised, tender meat made her gasp; every brush of his calloused skin sent electric jolts straight to her clit.

“Hhng—” She bit down hard on her own hand to smother the whine. “Don’t… Raven…”

“Do you know,” he murmured silkily against her ear, his fingers finding her hyper-sensitive clit and rubbing in that infuriatingly perfect, agonizing circle, “how badly I want to fuck you right now?”

She trembled violently in his lap, her traitorous hips shivering as her dripping core clamped down around his invading fingers.

“You’ve already—” she panted, her chest heaving. “You’ve already… ten times. What are you? What is wrong with you? Ten times inside me and you’re—”

“Eleven,” he corrected smoothly.

“What—”

“Throat counts.”

She dropped her head back against his shoulder, staring helplessly at the ceiling tiles.

“I’m married,” she stated numbly, desperately clinging to her last shred of reality.

“Mm.”

“I have a husband.”

“Mm.”

“He’s right over there,” she whimpered.

“He is.” His thick fingers slipped an inch inside her wet channel, stretching her open.

“Hh—!”

“And your husband,” Raven murmured, slowly sliding his wet fingers out of her aching folds, “will wake up soon. We should put your clothes back on.”

She braced her trembling hands against the edge of the sink, staring into the small, sterile mirror above the basin. It only showed her from the chest up, but it was enough. The horrifying reality of her reflection sank in, piece by piece.

Her hair.

The neat, practical bun she had worn into the hospital was completely annihilated. Dark, tangled waves framed her face in a chaotic mess—a visual record of a man wrapping his fists in her locks and pulling her head back for hours on end.

Her neck.

She tilted her head slightly, swallowing hard at the violent display. Dark, blooming hickeys patterned her throat, angry red bites fading into deep purple bruises. She touched one of the harsh marks, wincing at the tender, aching throb beneath her fingertip.

Her lips.

They were swollen, plush, and thoroughly kiss-bruised. The tasteful matte lipstick she’d applied yesterday afternoon was a complete disaster. It wasn’t gone; it was aggressively smeared, rubbed past the borders of her mouth, leaving her looking undeniably, thoroughly ravaged.

Her collarbone.

She looked lower. More bite marks peppered her collarbone.

And her breasts.

God, they looked obscene. They were heavy, engorged, aching with the agonizing fullness of sustained, relentless stimulation. Her dark areolas took up half the flesh, the nipples protruding in thick, stiff peaks that looked visibly abraded from his mouth. Even now, they were leaking, thin, wet droplets of creamy milk beading at the tips and sliding down her flushed skin.

She pressed her palms flat against the cold porcelain to steady her shaking legs. She stared into her own hollow, dilated eyes.

’You look like a well-fucked hooker.’

The intrusive thought echoed in her own voice, sharp and ruthlessly accurate.

She twisted slightly, performing the careful, unbalanced pivot of a pregnant woman to inspect her side profile. Her round, heavy belly dominated her frame. But it was her hips that held her attention.

Outwardly, they looked the same, but they didn’t feel the same. Her stance was naturally wider now, a subtle, unconscious bow to her legs. Her muscles had physically adjusted to accommodate a massive, invasive presence all night. Her thighs still felt loose, her joints delightfully liquid.

She deliberately imagined Vikram’s hands reaching for her. Testing her own mental boundaries, she pictured her husband touching her, those gentle, polite hands she’d accepted for six years.

Raven’s voice echoed darkly in her mind.

’Your body will know the difference.’

She placed a protective hand over her pregnant belly. She didn’t want to admit he was right. She didn’t have to; the empty, cold shiver of dread at the thought of her husband’s hands was answer enough.

Raven sat on the edge of the bed, casually dangling her silken panties from his large fingers. He looked entirely at ease, the picture of dark, imposing masculinity dominating the small space. He had dressed over the last few minutes with lethal efficiency, his crisp shirt buttoned and tucked.

She stared at the scrap of lace in his hand.

“I can dress myself,” she rasped.

“I know,” he replied. He didn’t offer them to her.

Swallowing her pride, she walked over to him, snatching the fabric from his grasp. She stepped into the leg holes, balancing her swollen belly as she drew them up over her thighs.

His hand ghosted over her hip.

He caught the waistband, his long fingers guiding the delicate fabric securely over the round swell of her womb. The touch was practiced, deeply possessive, as if he knew the topography of her flesh better than she did. She didn’t pull away. She was too exhausted to fight this intimate, damning little domestic ritual.

Stepping behind her, his hands grabbed her nursing bra.

He swept the straps over her shoulders, leaning in close as his fingers deftly secured the clasps behind her back. His large palms flattened against the cups from the front, pressing the soft fabric firmly against her leaking, heavy breasts. The sudden rush of his heat against her ultra-sensitive nipples dragged another helpless, broken sigh from her lips.

“Raven—”

“Mm.” He ignored her weak protest, his thumbs sliding expertly under the straps resting on her bruised shoulders. He adjusted the tension, ensuring the heavy weight of her breasts was perfectly supported.

She watched him in the mirror. This dark, terrifying creature was calmly dressing her like a cherished wife. The bizarre, twisted domesticity of his hands smoothing over her skin was maddening.

It wasn’t aggressively sexual anymore; it was something far deeper. The absolute proprietary ease of a conqueror laying claim to his spoils.

’This body belongs to me now.’

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