The neon lights of Mumbai blurred against the glass as the taxi pulled up outside the high-end rooftop pub. Ivanki Sharma stepped out into the humid night air, the two-month vacation stretching ahead of her like an open invitation. She had landed only hours ago, jet-lagged and restless, the weight of three years of criminal law textbooks still pressing on her shoulders. Home could wait. First, she needed the burn of alcohol and the anonymity of strangers.

She wore the Chains Backless Halter Bodycon like a second skin—black fabric clinging to every curve, the thin metal chains draping across her bare back, catching the light with every step. No glasses tonight. Just her black eyes lined with kohl, lips painted a deep red, hair falling loose over one shoulder. Flirty. Chaotic. Exactly how she liked to feel when the world got too heavy.

Inside, the pub pulsed with low bass and the clink of crystal. Ivanki ordered a strong whiskey neat and leaned against the polished bar, letting the first sip scorch her throat. That was when she felt it—the weight of a stare.

Across the room, a man sat alone at a corner table. Forest-green eyes locked on hers, unblinking, assessing. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair slightly tousled, the ink of tattoos peeking from under the rolled sleeves of his black shirt. Cold. Controlled. Dangerous in a way that made her pulse skip. Her knees went soft for a second. She held his gaze longer than she should have, a slow, deliberate smile curling her lips before she turned away.

The whiskey worked its way through her blood. Another sip. Then another. The heat between her thighs had nothing to do with the alcohol.

She needed a moment. The ladies’ room was down a quiet hallway, dimly lit, all marble and mirrors. Ivanki pushed the door open, the soft click echoing. She set her clutch on the counter and stared at her reflection—cheeks flushed, eyes bright. The chains of her dress shifted against her skin as she breathed.

She felt it again. That stare. The air changed.

Before she could turn, the door opened and closed behind her. Soft. Decisive. She looked up into the mirror and met those same forest-green eyes. He stood directly behind her now, close enough that she could feel the heat of his body. Kain Malhotra—though she didn’t know the name yet. Only the intensity.

“You’re staring,” she said, voice low and teasing, the Italian lilt slipping through.

He didn’t answer. His hands came to her waist, firm, guiding her back until the edge of the marble sink pressed against her thighs. In one smooth motion he lifted her, settling her on the cool surface, her dress riding up. She parted her legs without thinking, the bodycon fabric stretching tight.

His palms slid along her inner thighs—slow, deliberate, the calluses of his fingers a rough contrast to the soft skin. Higher. Higher. Until the tips of his fingers brushed the thin lace of her panties. Ivanki’s breath caught. A soft moan escaped before she could stop it.

“Sensitive already,” he murmured, the first words he’d spoken. Cold voice, rough around the edges. His thumb pressed against the damp fabric, circling once, twice. She arched, chains chiming softly against the marble.

He pushed the lace aside. Two fingers stroked through her folds, finding her already slick. Ivanki bit her lip, black eyes half-lidded as he worked her slowly—circling her clit, then dipping lower, teasing the entrance without entering. The wet sound of it filled the quiet bathroom. Her hips rolled forward, seeking more.

“Fuck,” she whispered, hands gripping the edge of the sink. “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t. One finger slid inside her, thick and unhurried, curling just right. Then a second. He fucked them into her with controlled strokes while his thumb kept pressure on her clit. The dual sensation made her thighs tremble. She was loud now—soft, broken moans she couldn’t swallow, the kind that echoed off the tiles.

Kain’s free hand rose to the halter of her dress, tugging the fabric down just enough to free one breast. His mouth closed over the peak, tongue hot and insistent, teeth grazing. Ivanki’s head fell back. The chains of her dress bit into her skin as she arched harder into his hand and mouth.

He pulled his fingers free. She made a needy sound at the loss. He wiped them once across her lower lip—coating it with her own wetness—before stepping between her spread thighs. The sound of his belt, the zipper. He freed himself, thick and already hard, the head glistening.

Ivanki reached down, wrapping her fingers around him, stroking once from base to tip. He let out a low breath, the first crack in that cold exterior. She guided him to her entrance, rubbing the head through her folds, coating him.

“Ride me,” he said, voice rough.

She didn’t need to be told twice. Ivanki shifted forward, wrapping her legs around his waist as he held her weight. She sank down onto him in one slow, deliberate slide—inch by inch until he was buried deep. The stretch burned sweet. A long, shaky moan tore from her throat.

His hands gripped her ass, steadying her. She began to move—rolling her hips, lifting and dropping, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the space. The chains of her dress swung with every bounce. Kain’s green eyes stayed locked on her face, watching every flicker of pleasure. One hand slid up her back, fingers threading into her hair, pulling just enough to tilt her head back.

She rode him harder. Faster. The angle let him hit that perfect spot inside her with every downward thrust. Her nails dug into his shoulders, leaving half-moons through the fabric of his shirt. He met her rhythm with sharp upward snaps of his hips, the cold control fraying as his breathing grew heavier.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

Ivanki forced her eyes open, black meeting green. The intensity there made her clench around him. He groaned—low, almost reluctant—and thrust deeper. One of his hands slipped between them, thumb finding her clit again, rubbing tight circles in time with her movements.

The dual pressure pushed her over. Ivanki came hard, thighs locking around him, a sharp cry echoing off the marble as her walls pulsed and fluttered. He held her through it, never looking away, fucking her through the aftershocks until she was trembling and oversensitive.

Only then did he let go. A few more deep thrusts and he buried himself to the hilt, coming with a guttural sound against her neck, the heat of it spilling inside her.

For a long moment they stayed locked together, breathing hard. The bass from the pub throbbed faintly through the walls. Ivanki’s forehead rested against his. Her makeup was smudged. Her dress was half off one shoulder. She felt thoroughly used and completely alive.

Kain eased out of her carefully. He set her back on the sink, reached down, and slid the ruined lace panties down her legs. She lifted her feet without protest. He balled the fabric in his fist, dark eyes still on her, and slipped them into his pocket.

“Keepsake,” he said, voice flat again, as if the last twenty minutes hadn’t cracked something open.

Ivanki laughed softly, chaotic and breathless, already reaching for her clutch. “You’re taking my underwear and not even asking my name?”

He adjusted his clothes, the tattoos on his forearms flexing as he fastened his belt. Those forest-green eyes flicked over her one last time—disheveled, flushed, still sitting on the sink with his come slowly leaking down her thigh.

“I know enough,” he answered.

Then he turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving Ivanki alone with the scent of sex, the sting of the chains against her skin, and the knowledge that her two-month vacation had just become far more complicated than she planned.