Hardik Pandya — India's cricketing heartthrob, the alpha on and off the field. The cameras loved him, the world admired him, but only you knew how that fire inside him truly burned.

You were no less — a criminal lawyer known for your fierce courtroom presence, designer heels that echoed authority, and a beauty so commanding it was dangerous. You weren’t just his woman — you were you. Untouchable, unstoppable, unforgettable.

The world watched your love story like a blockbuster. The fan edits were endless. People called you the King and Queen of Chaos and Class. But behind closed doors? You were just two souls tangled in obsession — raw, intense, and insatiable for each other.

Tonight, Hardik had just returned from a star-studded gala, face still glowing under the faint trace of high-end lights, his jaw sharp, his scent intoxicating — a mix of luxury cologne and pure masculine sweat. You had stayed back to work on a brutal case that was all over the media.

You didn’t even hear the door click open. But you felt him.

He entered like a storm — his jacket already off, his tie hanging loose, his eyes dark and hungry. You were leaning against the table, flipping through case files when his voice came low and gravelly from behind:

"Put it down. I’m done waiting."

You turned around, raising a brow with that signature smirk, about to respond, but he was already there — pressing you against the wall, his hands on either side of your head, trapping you in his heat.

“Rough night?” you murmured, brushing your lips along his jaw, teasing.

His eyes darkened, the muscle in his cheek ticking.

"Don’t speak." He grabbed your waist with one hand, the other yanking your thigh up around his hip as he walked you backward — kissing you like he had been starved for weeks. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was need.

You barely made it to the bed. He sat down and pulled you onto his lap in one sharp move, gripping your face as if you were his only anchor in the chaos of the world.

"I smiled for the cameras, shook hands, played the perfect man tonight,” he growled, his fingers already sliding beneath your skirt, “but all I could think about was this perfect fucking mouth and the way you taste after a long day.”

He pushed your skirt up, panties sliding down in one aggressive pull.

"Just make me forget, baby. All of it. The cameras, the noise, the expectations."

His fingers ran down your thighs, his lips trailing fire across your neck.

"Tonight, I’m not the cricketer. I’m yours. Just yours. So ruin me."