Aaya woke in slow, syrup-thick layers, her consciousness rising through a haze of bone-deep satisfaction. The velvet chaise cradled her like a cupped palm, and before she even opened her eyes she felt it: the wet, warm leak of his seed still oozing from her used hole, pooling on the fabric beneath her thighs. She was still open, still gaping slightly, her inner walls lax and swollen from the hours of brutal attention. The sensation drew a soft, involuntary moan from her lips.

Vikram was already awake. He had been watching her for some time, propped on one elbow, his dark eyes tracing the curve of her hip, the swell of her breast, the way her ruined cunt still fluttered weakly in her sleep. At her moan, his hand slid down her belly, fingers parting her slick folds with a wet, obscene sound.