•••
“He kissed her like she was his world, but guarded her like she was his prisoner.”
•••
Osman returned from the bathroom, steam still clinging to his skin, his damp hair slicked back. He was shirtless, a towel slung lazily around his neck, and his bare chest gleamed under the warm lighting—broad, powerful, marked by faint scars that whispered stories of battles fought and won.
Aamirah’s gaze flickered up for the briefest second before she dropped her eyes, heart slamming against her ribs. She sat on the edge of the bed, still wrapped in his shirt—his scent, his touch embedded in every thread of it. It barely covered her thighs, and beneath it, she wore nothing else. Not even modesty could save her from the memories now seared into her skin.
She tried to avoid looking at him, but his eyes had already found her.
He saw the way she flinched, the way she angled her body to keep herself hidden from his stare.
That didn’t sit right with him.
She was his. He had claimed her. Tasted every cry, every moan from her lips.
He pulled a crisp white shirt from the drawer and threw the towel aside.
“Come here, wifey,” he said, his voice low—smooth, but edged with command.
Aamirah froze.
The air shifted.
There it was—that voice.
The one that reminded her he was not just her husband, but the man she used to fear—a man whose name made men tremble. A man who ruled with iron fists, without flinching. A man who could silence a room with a glance.
Her feet touched the cold marble floor.
She took a breath and began to move.
Each step was a silent scream. A reminder of the night before—his hands, his fingers, the way he pushed her to the edge and pulled her back only to take her higher, how deep his fingers were. She was sore in places she didn’t know existed. Her thighs trembled slightly, her core still raw, humming from how he’d manhandled her.
She didn’t dare meet his eyes as she stepped toward him. She just remembers of her state.
Her fingers brushed the first button of his shirt.
Her hands were shaking.
He noticed.
He always noticed.
He tilted his head slightly as he watched her work—slow, hesitant. Her cheeks were flushed. Her breaths shallow. Her fingers grazed his chest with every movement.
“Look at me,” he murmured.
She did.
And the weight of his gaze pinned her in place.
So much heat. So much power. So much him.
Her throat dried.
YOU ARE READING
𝐂𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐁𝐲 𝐕𝐨𝐰𝐬
Любовные романы••• "Just because I haven't touched you as a husband should, that doesn't mean I won't," he said, his voice low and menacing. Her knees felt weak, and she didn't dare move from where she stood, his presence overwhelming her completely. She could b...
