The morning light had fully claimed the Sheesh Mahal chamber by the time Ranjeet stirred again. Priya lay nestled against his side, her face still smeared with the drying tracks of his cum, her hair a wild tangle of jasmine and sweat. One of his hands remained cupped possessively over her cunt, fingers resting in the sticky heat of her swollen lips. He could feel the faint, rhythmic flutter of her inner muscles, even in sleep, still quivering from the memory of his tongue and his cock.

He did not wake her with words this time. Instead, he slipped from the bed, his heavy, half-hard cock swinging with the motion, and walked naked to the carved sandalwood chest where her bridal trousseau had been unpacked. He remembered the diary’s pages, the loopy teenage handwriting that had confessed the hiding place of her most treasured sinful possession. Beneath the silk saris and the embroidered shawls, tucked into a zippered compartment of a small jewelry box, he found it.