You’re brushing your long black hair by the vanity when you hear the door shut.

Click.

You glance at him through the mirror.

Ravi. Still in his courtroom blues. Shirt rolled at the sleeves, top button undone. He’s watching you — that gaze heavy, unreadable, the one he wears when something’s tearing at him from the inside.

You sign slowly, your motions fluid. “Long day?”

He doesn’t answer.

He’s across the room before you can blink, the wood floor creaking beneath his polished shoes. He’s behind you now, fingers brushing your wrist, then gliding up your bare arm.

Your skin prickles. He hasn’t touched you like this in days. Maybe weeks. He’s been good lately — gentle, focused, kind. But tonight something’s shifted.

You meet his eyes in the mirror.

“I saw the pictures,” he murmurs. “From the charity event. That designer asked for you personally, didn’t he?”

You nod.

His jaw ticks.

“And he touched your arm in front of the cameras.”

A pause. A breath.

“I didn’t like that.”

You turn on the stool slowly, the hairbrush falling to the floor. Your olive-green silk nightgown whispers over your thighs. His eyes drop to where the fabric clings to the curve of your hips. His throat moves — a swallow. Like he’s trying to control himself.

You tilt your head, signing slowly. “He’s gay.”

“I know,” Ravi growls. “Doesn’t matter.”

And then he kisses you.

No warning. No hesitation.

Just heat. Teeth. Tongue.

Possession.

He lifts you from the stool with both hands like you weigh nothing, setting you down on the edge of the bed. His lips are everywhere — your neck, your cheek, your jaw. He kisses with the desperation of a man who’s been starving silently and finally lost patience.

You clutch at his shirt, nails dragging over the fine cotton. He grabs your face with both hands, foreheads touching, breath ragged.

“You’re mine,” he breathes. “Say it.”

You don’t speak. You sign it against his chest — fingers curling, pressing: Mine. Yours. Ours.

That breaks something in him.

His mouth returns to you, more urgent now. His hand slips under the silk of your nightgown, sliding up your thigh, grazing the soft inside until he reaches the heat of you.

“Fuck—” he whispers. “You’re already wet.”

You nod, biting your lip.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he confesses into your skin. “Couldn’t focus in court. Couldn’t breathe. I kept picturing you in this—” he tugs the nightgown higher, bunching it around your hips— “spread out, waiting.”

Your breath hitches as he pushes your legs apart. He watches your face. Watches how your eyes flutter when his fingers press, circle, dip. He always watches.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmurs.

You sign blindly — Then prove you do.

He growls.

And then he’s on his knees.

He yanks the nightgown over your head and tosses it aside. His lips trail down your stomach, over the swell of your belly, the dip of your hip, until his mouth finally reaches the core of you.

And then it’s just fire.

He devours you — no softness now. Just hunger and heat and the sound of your breathless, strangled gasps. You grab the headboard, arching into his mouth. He holds your thighs open, spreading bruises with his fingers, groaning like a man starved when you start to tremble.

When you come — shaking, silent scream on your lips — he doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t give you time to breathe.

He rises, unbuckling his belt with one hand, staring down at you like you’re both prayer and sin. His voice is hoarse.

“You take me so damn well. Always.”

You pull him forward, hand sliding down, guiding him.

When he enters you — slow, deep — you both moan. His body curls over yours, the heat of him anchoring you to the earth. He thrusts slow, grinding, pushing impossibly deep, his hands locked under your thighs to keep you open for him.