Priya woke to the sensation of a single fingertip tracing the curve of her spine. The golden afternoon light had softened, slanting through the latticed windows in long, amber bars. She was still naked, sprawled on her belly on the rumpled silk sheets, her body a landscape of the day's devotions—fading welts from the dupatta, thin pink lines from the neem switch, patches of dried wax that pulled at her skin when she stirred. The ache between her legs was deep and satisfying, a constant, tender reminder of how completely she had been filled.
"You slept," Ranjeet's voice came from somewhere above her, dark and warm as spiced wine. "You needed it. But the sun is still high. And I have been looking at your list again."
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