Ethan's POV
The silence of the penthouse was a lie.
To anyone else, the room was still, the only sound the distant, rhythmic thrum of New York City breathing below us.
But in my head, the noise was deafening.
It was the sound of my own pulse hammering against my eardrums, the echoes of Meera's high-pitched, broken moans, and the phantom sensation of her skin against my lips.
I sat on the edge of the bed, my back to her, trying to force my lungs to take in steady increments of air.
It wasn't working.
Every time I closed my eyes, I was back between her legs.
I shouldn't have been surprised by how much it affected me, yet here I was, a grown man undone by the memory of a single act.
My mind was a loop, a high-definition reel of the last hour.
I kept coming back to the moment I had finally urged her legs apart.
I've seen beauty before, but Meera was something different—something primal and untainted.
Her skin was a deep, rich mahogany, a smooth and flawless brown that looked like poured silk under the amber glow of the city lights.
And then, there was the center of her.
I couldn't stop thinking about it.
That hot, small, brown Indian virgin pussy.
It was a masterpiece of contradictions.
Dark and earthy on the outside, shielding a hidden world that was a startling, delicate shade of blossom-pink on the inside.
The sight of it had nearly broken my resolve right then and there.
She had been so scared, her hands trembling as she tried to push me away, her "wild cat" bravado from the flight evaporating the second things got real.
But I had seen the desperation behind the fear.
She had been waiting for this—waiting for me—for so long that the anticipation had become a physical weight she didn't know how to carry.
When I finally pressed my face into her, the scent hit me first.
It wasn't just the smell of a woman; it was the scent of her—a mix of travel-weary musk, the sweetness of the soap she'd used in India, and the raw, heavy aroma of her own arousal.
I remembered the way she tasted.
She was sweet, metallic, and hot—so incredibly hot.
The heat radiating from her core felt like a physical brand against my tongue.
I had wanted to devour her, to claim every hidden millimeter of that pink interior, but I had forced myself to be patient.
I wanted her to feel everything.
I wanted her to realize that she didn't need techniques or experience; she just needed to surrender.
The memory of her first moan was what kept me hard now, straining against my trousers until it was a dull, throbbing ache.
It wasn't a quiet sound.
It was a sharp, jagged cry of surprise that turned into a low, melodic hum as I found my rhythm.
I had been relentless.
I thought of the way my tongue had flicked against that tiny, swollen pearl, and how she had bucked off the bed, her fingers clawing at my hair.
She had gone from a terrified girl to a creature of pure, unadulterated instinct in the span of a few minutes.
Being the first man to see her like that—to taste her, to feel the specific, tight vibrations of her first real climax—was a heavy responsibility.
It was a drug I knew I'd never be able to quit.
I looked down at my hands.
They were still shaking.
I had given her an oral orgasm that seemed to shatter her very soul, and I had done it while remaining fully clothed from the waist up.
I had played the part of the stoic protector, the experienced man showing her the ropes, but inside, I was screaming.
The contrast of her dark thighs draped over my shoulders was burned into my retinas.
I could still feel the phantom pressure of her heels digging into my back as she reached the peak.
Her moans had been the best thing I'd ever heard—better than any music, better than the sound of a closing deal.
They were the sounds of a woman being woken up.
But now, she was drifting into a post-coital haze, and I was left with the fallout.
My own body was a temple of frustration.
I was rock hard, the blood engorging me until I felt like I might actually bruise.
I had told her to take it like a good girl, and she had.
She had taken everything I had to give, and in return, she had given me a vision of herself that I would carry to my grave.
I stood up, the movement causing a sharp spike of protest from my groin.
I walked to the window, looking out at the city that was supposed to be our fresh start.
America.
We had landed with nothing but our luggage and this simmering, unresolved fire between us.
I had managed to settle her, to give her the release she had been starving for, but the dynamic had shifted.
She wasn't the poor girl anymore.
She was a woman who knew exactly what I tasted like, a woman who had seen me on my knees for her.
I turned back to look at her.
She was a dark silhouette against the white sheets, her breathing deep and even.
She looked peaceful.
Sated.
I, on the other hand, was a wreck.
I thought about the way she looked right before she came—her eyes rolled back, her mouth open in a silent scream, her body taut like a bowstring.
That small, brown, perfect part of her pulsing against my lips.
It was the most intimate thing I had ever done, and I had done it in a room overlooking a city that didn't even know we existed yet.
The hunger I felt for her wasn't gone; it had just changed shape.
It was no longer about the wait or the flight or the tension.
It was about the future.
It was about the fact that I had opened a door for her that could never be closed again.
I reached for the button of my trousers, my jaw tight.
I couldn't go to sleep like this.
Not with the scent of her still on my skin.
Not with the sound of her moans still ringing in my ears.
She had been my good girl tonight.
But as I looked at her sleeping form, I knew that tomorrow, the game would be entirely different.
I stood there for a long time, just watching her.
The way the light hit the curve of her hip, the way her hair was a dark mess across the pillows.
I felt a surge of possessiveness so strong it felt like a physical blow to the chest.
She was mine.
In this cold, foreign city, she was the only thing that was real.
And after what happened tonight, there was no going back.
I had mapped her body with my mouth, and I knew every secret she had been hiding.
The small thing I had promised her had turned out to be the catalyst for something much larger.
I was still hard, still aching, still drowning in the memory of her, but for the first time in my life, I didn't mind the pain.
It was a reminder of what we had.
A reminder of the girl who had arrived in New York as a virgin and woken up as something else entirely.
I walked back to the bed slowly.
Stood over her.
Watching her sleep.
Her lips were slightly parted.
Her chest rising and falling gently.
So innocent in sleep.
So completely unaware of the effect she had on me.
I reached down.
Brushed a strand of hair from her face.
She stirred slightly.
Murmured something.
My name?
I couldn't tell.
But it didn't matter.
She was here.
She was mine.
And I would spend the rest of my life making sure she never regretted this night.
Never regretted choosing me.
Never regretted crossing oceans and continents and every boundary she had ever known.
For me.
For us.
For this.
I finally lay down beside her.
Pulled her close.
She curled into me instinctively.
Her head on my chest.
Her hand over my heart.
Even in sleep, she reached for me.
Even in dreams, she chose me.
I pressed my lips to her hair.
Breathed her in.
Closed my eyes.
And for the first time in weeks, felt something close to peace.
Not because I was satisfied.
Not because the hunger was gone.
But because she was here.
Because she was real.
Because she was finally, completely, irrevocably mine.
And nothing in this world or any other would ever take her from me.
I would kill for her.
I would die for her.
I would wait forever for her.
But tonight, I would just hold her.
And let the weight of her presence be enough.
My little star.
Finally home.
Finally mine.