Chapter 1
The bar was nearly empty at midnight, but she sat there like the only flame still burning in the dark. Mrinali Sharma — Mira — wasn’t trying to look like sin, but every single detail about her screamed it. Her office shirt clung to her curves, the top buttons undone just enough to give a shameless peek of black lace cupping her breasts. Round, heavy, aching to spill out, they shifted every time she leaned forward to take another desperate gulp. Her bra wasn’t hidden; it teased with the way her shirt gaped when she slouched, straps sliding off her shoulder like they couldn’t handle the weight of her body either.
Her tie was loose, hanging useless between those perfect mounds, pointing down to the valley men would sell their souls to bury their faces in. Her hair was messy, strands falling wild over her flushed cheeks, sticking to her neck damp with the heat of too much liquor. Pink lips swollen, glistening wet from the rim of her glass, parted just enough to look like she’d been kissed hard — or that she was begging to be.
She was frustrated, angry at the world, drowning it in alcohol, but god she looked gorgeous in ruin. That messy, broken edge only made her sexier. Her thighs pressed together under the tight skirt, legs shifting with an unsteady rhythm. She looked like a woman who needed to be fucked just to stop thinking, just to stop feeling.
Every drink made her shirt slide looser, every tilt of her head made her cleavage rise higher. Her bra strained against her breasts like it was holding in something dangerous. She was a mess — eyeliner smudged, buttons undone, tie hanging loose — and yet she was breathtaking. The kind of breathtaking that made you hard just by watching her.
Across the room, he had been watching her for a long time. The way her breasts spilled with every careless slump, the way her lips stayed wet and parted, the way her body screamed exhaustion and hunger all at once. When her head finally dropped onto the table, cheek pressed against the sticky wood, she looked both vulnerable and filthy — like a beautiful wreck no one should touch, but everyone wanted to.
He rose, steps slow, deliberate, until he was standing at her table. A light tap against the wood. “You okay?” he asked, voice low. She barely moved, a soft mumble slipping from her lips, not even bothering to see who spoke. She was gone — drunk, broken, lost in her own storm.
With a heavy sigh, he bent down and scooped her up into his arms. Her body melted against his chest, breasts pressing into him, head lolling to the side. She smelled of liquor, perfume, and something deeper — a heat that clung to her skin no matter how ruined she looked.
He booked a room upstairs, carried her in, and laid her gently on the bed. For a moment, he just stood there, watching her chest rise and fall, the swell of her bra peeking from her shirt, the skirt riding high on her thighs. He sat on the edge, ready to leave her alone for the night.
But then her fingers clutched his shirt. A desperate, needy grip. Before he could move, she yanked him down, her lips crashing against his in a rough, drunken kiss. Hot, greedy, wet — her tongue forcing past his lips like she’d been starving for this all night.
She didn’t let him go. Her mouth clung to his, tongue sliding against his, greedy and unrelenting, kissing him like she was already fucking him through her lips. He groaned against her mouth, pinning her down into the mattress, grinding closer as he deepened the kiss until she was gasping for air and he was fucking her mouth with his tongue like it was just the beginning of what he wanted to do to her.
His hand slid down, cupping her breast over the shirt, thumb brushing the soft swell that pushed against lace. He wanted to tear the damn fabric apart, bury his face in her, leave her ruined. The urge was there, violent and hungry. But he pulled away instead, lips wet, chest rising hard.
She stared up at him, breathless, reckless, and whispered the filthiest thing she could to a stranger.
“Fuck me.”
A smirk curved on his lips. He sat back, straightening, adjusting his loosened tie and cuffs like he had all the control in the world, like she hadn’t just begged. He smelled expensive, dangerous.
“I’m divorced, madam,” he said, casual, smooth.
Her lips curved into a teasing grin as she lifted one foot, pressing it against his chest, dragging the heel of it slowly down.
“Really? A hot nerd like you… divorced?” she taunted, voice slurred with liquor and lust.
He chuckled, taking her ankle, lifting her leg to his lips. He kissed along her arch, lips dragging over her foot, murmuring a low “yes” against her skin. His tongue slid between her toes, wet, filthy, making her giggle through her haze.
“Tell me…” she teased, bold and drunk, “…does a divorce mean you’ve got a small cock?”
His eyes shot to hers, the smirk gone. He stilled, then gripped her calf hard, spreading her thighs apart so fast she gasped. Her skirt rode up, panties on display, damp and clinging. He leaned down slowly, face hovering between her legs. She froze, heart hammering.
He pressed his lips right against the soft, wet fabric covering her pussy, inhaling deep, smirking into her heat as if he owned it already. His voice dropped low, dark, a whisper that made her whole body jolt.
“You won’t escape me, little one.”
It wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t a threat. It was both. A warning and a dare.
Her laugh faltered, replaced by shivers as he mouthed her through the lace, teasing, making her feel every word against her cunt. And in that moment, she didn’t know if she was drunk, stupid, or simply doomed—
but she knew she wasn’t leaving this room untouched.
Because tonight, she hadn’t just met a man.
She’d met the monster who was going to devour her.
