Chapter 11: Taken Home

SAESHA POV

The car ride blurred past me.

City lights smeared against the tinted glass, glowing gold and white, but my eyes were too heavy to hold them. My body slumped against the leather seat, every muscle humming with soreness. My wrists still bore faint red lines from his tie. My thighs burned with every shift, sticky reminders of everything he’d done to me in that office.

I should’ve been embarrassed. Wrecked like that, used until I cried, fucked until I passed out on his couch. But the truth sat heavy in my chest: I wanted more.

Even now, when I could barely keep my eyes open.

Veeraj’s hand rested heavy on my thigh, claiming me even in silence. He didn’t look at me much—his gaze was fixed on the road ahead, sharp, ruthless, the same expression he wore in boardrooms. But the weight of his palm anchored me. It said: mine.

I shifted, a soft whimper slipping out. His grip tightened immediately.

“Sleep, Principessa,” he ordered, his voice low. “You’ve earned it.”

I bit my lip, whispering, “I don’t want to sleep. I want…”

“You want what?” he asked, not glancing away from the road.

My cheeks burned. The ache between my legs flared. “You.”

A dark chuckle rumbled from his chest. “You can barely keep your eyes open, and you’re still begging for cock. Filthy little thing.”

Heat rushed through me, shame and desire tangled tight. My thighs pressed together helplessly.

His hand slid higher, brushing the edge of my dress. “Don’t tempt me to pull over and remind you who you belong to.”

A shiver ran through me. But exhaustion dragged my lashes lower. My head tipped against the window.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, almost to himself, as the car hummed toward the mansion. “Even when you’re too tired to say it. Especially then.”

———

I woke to the scent of him.

Not leather and smoke this time. Him.

The bed was softer than anything in my father’s house, sheets smooth, thick, smelling of cedar and something darker. I blinked slowly, adjusting to the dim light. My body still ached, sore and stretched.

And Veeraj was there.

He sat in the chair by the window, jacket off, shirt open at the collar, a glass of whiskey in his hand. The lamplight carved shadows across his jaw, his throat, the lines of muscle under his shirt.

But his eyes—his eyes were on me.

Watching me like I was prey he’d already devoured but wasn’t finished with yet.

“You slept,” he said simply.

I swallowed, my throat dry. “You let me.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t?” His smirk was sharp, dangerous. “I fuck my possessions until they break, but I take care of them too.”

His words sent a pulse through me, low and hot. My thighs clenched under the sheets.

He set the glass down and stood, crossing the room with that slow, predator grace that made my pulse spike. His hand tugged the blanket down, exposing me inch by inch until I lay bare in front of him.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his gaze devouring every mark, every bruise he’d left. “Wrecked and sore, but still wet for me.”

I whimpered, because he was right. My body betrayed me, slick and needy even in exhaustion.

He dragged a finger through my folds, slow, deliberate, then brought it to my mouth. “Taste yourself, Principessa.”

Heat scorched me, but I obeyed, sucking his finger into my mouth. His groan was low, wrecked.

“You’ll never escape me now,” he growled. “Your taste is mine. Your body is mine. Even your sleep belongs to me.”

He climbed onto the bed, his weight pressing me into the mattress, his mouth hovering at my ear.

“You want to sleep, Saesha?” he whispered darkly. “Then sleep with me inside you.”

Before I could answer, he pushed into me, slow, stretching me open all over again. My breath caught, my eyes fluttered, my body shaking from the raw, aching pleasure.

“Shh,” he soothed mockingly, kissing my temple as his cock seated deep. “Don’t fight it. Don’t even move. Just let Daddy keep you full while you drift off.”

Tears stung my eyes, not from pain but from the twisted tenderness of it. The filth, the shame, the way he made it sound like care even while using me.

“You’re mine,” he whispered again, his thrusts shallow now, lazy, just enough to keep me awake on the edge of sleep. “My hole. My toy. My Principessa.”

I buried my face in his chest, too tired, too wrecked, but the orgasm built anyway, slow and relentless. My body convulsed around him, clenching, squeezing, milking.

He groaned, deep and guttural, spilling inside me again, heat flooding me until it overflowed.

And then, finally, his arms wrapped around me, his lips pressed to my hair, his voice soft in a way I almost didn’t recognize.

“Sleep,” he ordered. “Daddy’s not going anywhere.”

My lashes lowered. My body went slack.

And I slept, cock-drunk, sore, claimed—safe in the arms of the man I should’ve feared most.

End of Chapter 11

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