I didn’t come to the art auction for the paintings. I came to claim .The Taj Mahal Palace was dressed in gold tonight—chandeliers shimmering like flirtatious eyes, servers floating past in black tuxedos holding trays of champagne I had no intention of sipping. Art collectors hovered like moths around canvases worth more than most people's lives.

But all I wanted was the butterfly.

Not the painting.

There was a girl ,She stood at the far end of the gallery, alone, in a wine-colored satin dress that hugged her like it had secrets. She wasn’t the type to wear jewelry—too obvious. Her wrist held a vintage gold watch, and her neck was bare. Vulnerable. Daring.

She was studying the Lalithya Monarch, the butterfly oil painting that had stirred an uproar in the art world for its sensual overtones. The wings looked like torn silk, the body delicate but powerful.

Much like her.

“Who is she?” I asked the auction manager, who practically tripped over his tongue.

“Oh she ? ” he muttered. “Private collector. Built her own art fund. Ruthless at auctions. Doesn’t lose , I don't know her name exactly but i have heard that she is not someone to be dealing with"

I grinned,then I walked.

She didn’t look at me as I stopped beside her. Didn’t flinch, didn’t move. Only said, “If you’re here for the painting, you’re already too late.”

Her voice—calm, cool, like she owned room and the silence inside it.

“And if I’m here for something else?” I asked, letting my eyes linger on the curve of her mouth.

She turned her head slowly. Hazel eyes. Full

lips painted a deep, dangerous red.

“You’ll still leave empty-handed,” she said.

Fuck. She was exactly the kind of trouble I didn’t know I needed.

“I’m Veer.”

“I didn’t ask.” She said .

I laughed, low. “I like how you assume I lose often.”

“I don’t assume,” she said, stepping closer. “I observe. You’re rich. Bored. Spoiled. You’ve probably never wanted anything enough to fight for it.”

“And you?”

She tilted her head. “I want only what I earn and that painting is mine.”

“I could buy it out from under you.”

“You could try.”

God, she was fire wrapped in silk.

The auction started. I took a seat two rows behind her, watching the way her bare back flexed slightly as she raised her paddle. She didn’t hesitate. Every move was calculated, deliberate, confident.

The price climbed. So did the heat in my chest.I kept bidding—not because I wanted the damn painting, but because I wanted to see her eyes when I stole it.

She turned once. Looked straight at me. And smiled.

Predator to predator.

When the final bid came, I raised my paddle with the calm of a man who’d just lit the match.

The gavel fell.

" Sold ".

The room buzzed, but all I could hear was her heels as she walked straight toward me.

She stopped, so close I could smell her perfume—jasmine and ambition.

“That was a mistake,” she murmured.

“I like mistakes that taste expensive.”

She smiled like she’d already planned her revenge.

Then, without warning, she reached into her clutch and handed me a card. White, clean, embossed in gold.

One Night. No Names. No Feelings. No Repeats.

Her personal contract. Sex. Just sex. No strings.

“Meet me at this hotel tomorrow night,” she said. “Bring the painting.” Then she walked away.

I stood there holding the card, heartbeat pounding in my throat. I hadn’t even touched her yet. But I already knew—She was the butterfly. And I was about to get burned.

The St. Regis suite was pure luxury—floor-to-ceiling windows glowing with the Mumbai skyline, velvet drapes drawn just enough to let the city watch if it wanted to. I arrived with the painting in one hand, a hard-on in the other.

I don’t usually get nervous before sex. I like it wild, fast, dirty. No names, no games.

But this? This was something else.

Her contract card burned in my pocket. One night. No names. No feelings. No repeats.

I was already planning to break all three.

She opened the door herself, barefoot, wrapped in a black satin robe. Her hair was up again, messy like she'd just stepped out of a dream. Her eyes flicked to the painting I held, then to the bulge beneath my slacks.

"Right on time," she said.

I stepped inside, letting the door shut behind me. "Always am. I brought what you wanted."

"Which part?" she asked, walking away without waiting for an answer.

I followed her in. She led me to the bedroom. No pretense, no champagne, no music. Just her and me and the pull of something dangerous.

She pointed to a low marble table beside the bed. "Put the painting there."

I did. Then turned.

She was undoing the sash of her robe slowly, like she knew I was watching.

I swallowed hard.

"Are we sticking to your contract rules?" I asked, voice rough.

She let the robe fall to the floor.

My mouth went dry.

She wore nothing but heels and a small gold anklet. Her body was art—sculpted, sensual, utterly confident. No hesitation. No shame.

"You can leave if you’re scared," she said, stepping toward me.

I grinned. "Scared? I haven’t even started yet."

She walked up close, until her bare chest brushed against my shirt.

"No talking during," she said.

"No problem."

Her hand reached down, unzipping my pants with a single, fluid motion. I kissed her then—hard. She didn’t moan, didn’t melt. She kissed me back with teeth and challenge.

We crashed onto the bed like two storms meeting mid-sky.

I pinned her wrists above her head, mouth tracing down her throat, over her collarbone, to the curve of her breast. She arched but didn’t beg. Her silence was louder than any scream.

She let me take control.

But never once did she surrender.

I tasted every inch of her—slowly, deeply. She gasped when my tongue circled just right, and her legs clamped around me like steel. I didn’t stop. Didn’t let her catch her breath.

By the time I slid inside her, she was drenched and breathless.

So was I.

She gripped my back, nails sinking in as I moved—slow first, then faster, deeper. Every thrust dragged a sound from her lips that she tried to swallow.

She was fire beneath me. And I was already burning.

"Look at me," I said, breaking our only rule.

She did.

And something shifted in the air. Something neither of us wanted to admit.

I lost track of how long we stayed tangled—legs, lips, limbs. At some point, she flipped me. Rode me like she wanted to forget the world.I let her.

When we finally collapsed, she was on her side, staring at the ceiling like she didn’t want to look at me again.

I reached for the sheet. She pulled away.

"No staying," she said quietly.

I sat up, heartbeat still racing. "You're really gonna pretend that didn’t shake you?"

"It was sex. You’ll recover." She said

I laughed, bitter. "You're cold, you know that?"

She stood, gathering her robe. “You read the contract. I told you—no feelings.”

"You didn’t say no obsession."She paused. Just for a second.

Then walked to the door and opened it.

“Goodnight, Veer.”Not goodbye. Not see you again.

Just that one cold word.

I stepped into the hallway, heart pounding, ego bruised, cock still half-hard.

I wanted her again. Worse.

And for the first time in my life, one night wasn’t enough.

I didn’t sleep that night.

Not because of what we did. But because of how it felt.

The sex? Mind-blowing. But it wasn’t just her body that stayed with me. It was the way she shut me out with such quiet finality. The way she kissed like she needed it, then acted like it meant nothing.

She disappeared by morning. No texts. No trace. No thank-you, no “let’s do that again.”

Most women I sleep with are eager for a second round. She acted like she was doing me a favor.

So, naturally, I became obsessed.

I ran for name through my assistant— i manage to find only her first name, no last name. Still, Mumbai talks. And when a woman like her walks into an auction and drops two crores without blinking, people notice.

Turns out, she didn’t just collect art—she built a damn empire curating it. Privately, under a tight alias. Gallery owners respected her. Investors feared her.

She was self-made. Untouchable.

And I wanted to touch her again.

Three days later, I found her.not by luck. By design.

There was an exclusive art gala in Lower Parel—invite-only. One of my family’s hotels was a silent sponsor. So I bought my way in.

And there she was.

Across the rooftop garden, dressed in silver silk, holding a glass of wine like it was armor. Her hair was in soft waves this time. Looser. Less guarded.

Until her eyes met mine.

I watched the flicker of annoyance cross her face. Quick. Beautiful.

She turned her back.

So I walked right up to her. "Ignoring me already? You must really miss me."

She sighed without turning. “Veer, this isn’t your playground.”

“No, but it could be yours. That is… if you weren’t so damn busy pretending you didn’t feel anything.”

She faced me then, lips tight. “What do you want?”

“You.” I said without hesitation .

“One night. We had it.”

“I’m not done.”

“That’s not my problem.”

She tried to walk away. I caught her wrist—not hard, just enough to stop her.

"You can lie to yourself all you want, but that night wasn’t just sex."

Her eyes narrowed. "Yes, it was."

"Then why haven’t you forgotten it either?"

She froze.

I let go of her wrist.

“I don’t want love,” she said. “I don’t believe in it. I don’t need messy emotions. I’ve worked too hard for control, and I won’t lose it to some spoiled rich boy who thinks his desire is a compliment.”

Ouch. Direct hit. Still, I grinned.

“Good thing I don’t want love either,” I murmured, stepping closer. “Just you. Again. No hearts. No flowers. Just heat.”

Her lips parted. For a second, I saw it—want. Need. Hunger.

She blinked it away.

"You don’t know how to be casual,” she whipered. “You’re already chasing.”

“Maybe I like the hunt.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be caught.”

We stood there, locked in a war of unspoken things. Her breath was shallow. So was mine.

Then she said, "New contract. Five nights. No repeats after that. We set the rules. No ownership. No jealousy. No strings."

I raised an eyebrow. "And what do I get if I follow the rules?"

She leaned in, her lips brushing my jaw.

"Me. On my knees. In your bed. No mercy."

Fuck. “Done,” I growled.

She stepped back with a smirk. "You get the first night tomorrow. Don’t be late."

Then she walked away again—every step like a promise I intended to collect.

And I already knew:

Five nights wouldn’t be enough.

Arrived ten minutes early.

She told me not to be late, but she didn’t say anything about being eager. And hell—I was eager.

Second night of the contract. The suite was different this time—bigger, darker. Curtains drawn. Lights low. A single red candle flickered on the edge of the bed like an invitation to hell.

She stepped out from the shadows.

Black lingerie. Lace and leather. Thigh-high stockings. No words.

Kaira just walked to me, slow as sin. Yes, Kaira is the name of that fallen angel from hell . She looked at me with her dominating eyes and handed me something.

A silk tie.

“You tie me,” she whispered. “You take control. Tonight, I don’t want to think.”

I stared at her, jaw clenching.

“You trust me that much?” I asked, voice husky.

“I don’t trust anyone,” she said, eyes locked on mine. “That’s why I want you to take it from me.”

I moved behind her, slid the tie around her wrists, and bound them gently—but tight enough to remind her she wasn’t in charge anymore.

She let out a slow breath, like surrender tasted better than control.

I guided her to the bed, sat her on the edge, and dropped to my knees.

"You wanted this, kaira ?" I murmured, parting her thighs. “All of me. No mercy.”

She exhaled sharply as I kissed the inside of her knee, then higher. My mouth moved slow. Teasing. Her hands were tied, but her hips tried to chase my tongue.

When I finally tasted her, she gasped. A soft, strangled sound that broke every defense she’d built. I held her legs wide as I devoured her, flicking and circling and pulling more of those gorgeous sounds out of her.

Her thighs trembled.

But she didn’t beg.

Not yet.

When I pulled back, her lips were parted, eyes glassy.

“You want to come?” I asked.She nodded.

I leaned in close. “Then ask.”

She hesitated. “No feelings. No power games—”

“This isn’t power,” I growled. “This is surrender. And you’re craving it.”

Her jaw clenched. Then, softly—

“Please, Veer…”

Fuck.

I untied her, flipped her onto her stomach, and pulled her hips up. She looked back over her shoulder, hair wild, lips bruised from my kisses.

I slid into her from behind, slow and deep.

Her moan hit me straight in the chest.

I gripped her waist, drove into her harder, deeper, faster. The sound of our skin, her breathless gasps, the filthy things I whispered in her ear—mine, deeper, louder—it was all a rhythm I never wanted to end.

She came violently, shaking against me, calling out my name like it betrayed her.

I followed with a grunt, spilling inside her, losing myself completely.

For a moment, we were just two bodies—sweat and heartbeat, tangled limbs and silence.

She lay still, catching her breath.

I brushed her hair off her back. “You okay?”

Her voice was quiet. “You didn’t have to untie me.”

“I wanted to feel you grab me when you fell apart.”

She didn’t respond.

I watched her eyes flicker up to the ceiling like she was building her walls back, brick by brick.

“Don’t stay,” she said finally.

I nodded. “Not tonight.”

But I didn’t move right away.

Instead, I leaned in and kissed her bare shoulder.

One soft kiss.

And for a second, she didn’t pull away.

She just whispered, “This isn’t supposed to feel safe.”

“It doesn’t,” I said. “It feels like war.”

She turned her face toward me. “Then why do I feel like losing?”

I didn’t have an answer.

Because , I was already losing too.

Third night.

I should’ve been used to her by now. But every time I saw her, it was like my blood thickened. Like my body remembered things my head kept trying to forget.

The rules were still clear.

No repeats after night five.

No jealousy.

No feelings.

No falling.

And yet.

She opened the door wearing nothing but one of my shirts. The black one she’d stolen from the suite last time, sleeves rolled up, the hem brushing her bare thighs.

"Didn't think you'd notice I kept it," she said casually.

“I noticed,” I replied, stepping in. “I also noticed you're not wearing anything underneath.”

Her lips curled. “Keeps things efficient.”

“Efficient is boring,” I growled.

“I’m not here to entertain you, Veer.”

“Yes, you are."

I kissed her before she could argue.

She didn’t fight back this time. She kissed me like she’d missed me—which was interesting, considering she hadn't replied to a single message all week.

I pushed her against the wall. Her legs wrapped around me. My hands slipped beneath the shirt, and I lifted her in one motion.

Her head fell back as I sucked on her throat, biting just enough to mark her.

"Someone might see," she whispered breathlessly.

"Good."

I carried her to the bed and threw her down.

“Face down.” I said .

She blinked.

“You heard me.” this time with dominance.

She hesitated for a beat. Then rolled over and offered herself to me, slowly, deliberately, like she was daring me to do my worst.

I stripped fast—shirt, pants, everything—and climbed on top of her, one hand pressed against the small of her back, the other fisting her hair.

When I slid into her, we both groaned.

She was tight. Wet. Furious with need.

I moved hard and fast. Not out of lust. Out of frustration. Out of the ache of wanting more and knowing I wasn’t supposed to.

She clawed at the sheets. Bit down on the pillow. Whispered my name between gasps.

“Faster,” she breathed.

I gave her what she wanted.

Her body shook as she came around me, her moans swallowed by the mattress. But I didn’t stop. I flipped her onto her back, pinned her hands above her head, and slammed into her again.

She cried out, her eyes locked on mine. Open. Unfiltered.

Raw.

“You feel too good,” I whispered. “You ruin me.”

Her breath hitched. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t afford to be ruined.”

I stilled inside her.

She looked away, blinking too fast. Like maybe she was afraid she’d said too much.

I kissed her.

Not rough Not dirty but Soft.

She didn’t kiss me back at first.

Then she did.

Slow. Lingering. Like she’d forgotten we weren’t supposed to care.

When we finally broke apart, I rested my forehead against hers.

“I don’t want this to end in two nights,” I murmured.

She stiffened.

“That’s not the deal,” she said.

“Screw the deal.”

“No,” she whispered. “That’s exactly why we made it.”

I watched her get up, wrap a sheet around herself, and walk to the window. Her back was to me, but I could feel her walls slamming back into place.

“I don’t believe in immature feeling Veer. I don’t believe in losses in live nor in business. I’ve built everything by keeping things clean. Controlled. If you pull me under, I won’t float. I’ll drown.”

I got up and walked behind her, slid my arms around her waist.

“You don’t have to float,” I whispered. “I’ll hold you.”

She turned her face slightly.

And for a second, she almost believed me.

But then she pulled away.

“We have two nights left,” she said quietly. “Don’t make them harder.”

Too late they were already impossible.

Fourth night.

I should’ve walked away. Should’ve treated her like any other contract—burn it out, fuck it clean, move on.

But every time I looked at her, something in me paused. Something unfamiliar. Dangerous.

I wasn’t supposed to care.But I did.

When I reached her flat in Bandra, I expected the usual: a door slightly ajar, music playing, her silhouette framed like a goddamn fever dream.

Instead, it was silence. Locked door. A message on my phone.

Come in. I left it open for you. Bedroom.

Cryptic.

I stepped inside. Dim lights. Vanilla and musk hanging in the air. Something tight pulled in my gut.

Her bedroom door was cracked. I pushed it open slowly.

And stopped breathing.

She was lying on the bed. Nude. Arms stretched above her. Tied to the headboard with black silk.

Waiting.

Her lips curled when she saw me. "You're late."

"You're tied up," I said, voice gravel.

“You like it when I give in.”

“Dangerous thing to admit.”

I walked closer, unbuttoning my shirt. Her eyes followed every movement. She was watching me like prey watches a predator—and still, somehow, like she was in control.

I ran a finger from her throat down to her navel.

“You didn’t even flinch,” I murmured.

She smiled. “I trust your hands.”

That one sentence wrecked me more than the sight of her body ever could.

I stripped fast. Got on the bed. Straddled her.

I didn’t take her immediately. No. I kissed her wrists where the silk bit into her skin. I licked down her neck, over her breasts. I kissed her thighs, biting lightly, leaving my mark.

Her breath hitched.

But she stayed quiet.Not tonight, baby.

I brushed her with my fingers, slick and warm and aching.

“You’re dripping for me,” I whispered, sliding two fingers in.

Her moan hit me square in the spine.

“I want to ruin you tonight,” I said. “Make you remember me in every place I touched.”

“Then stop talking,” she rasped.

I laughed low, dark.

Then I made good on the promise.

I went down on her until she writhed, moaning my name,

"Veer ! Veer !", tugging helplessly at the silk. Her first orgasm hit her hard, her body clenching, trembling, as she cried out into the sheets.

And then I gave her no pause.

I flipped her, untied her, pressed her chest to the mattress, and entered her from behind.

Raw. Deep. Possessive.

Her knuckles turned white on the sheets. I fisted her hair, pulled her up against my chest, and whispered in her ear:

"Say my name."

“Veer,” she gasped.

"Louder."

“Veer."

She sounded like she was falling apart. And maybe… maybe she was.

I came inside her with a roar, heart pounding, hips jerking, everything in me unraveling.

We collapsed.

Hot skin. Messy hair. No space between us.

And for once, she didn’t move away.

She stayed.

Her head resting on my chest. Her fingers tracing lazy circles over my stomach.

“Tell me something real,” I said softly.

She didn’t answer for a while.

Then, quietly—almost too quiet—

“When I was sixteen, I sold fake paintings to rich men just to keep the lights on. I slept in a storage unit behind a failed gallery. I had nothing but a sketchbook and a lockpick.”

I froze.

She kept tracing circles. “Now, I have more than I ever dreamed. But I still feel like I’m one bad kiss away from losing it all.”

I didn’t say anything.

Just pulled her tighter against me.

She let me.

For a while, we just breathed.

Then she whispered something that nearly broke me.

“One night left.”

I wanted to tell her, Screw the contract. Stay. Let me keep you.

But I didn’t.

Because I knew if I said it too soon, she’d run.

So instead, I kissed the top of her head.

And told myself one more night would be enough.

Even though I already knew:

It wouldn’t be.

And someone’s about to break.