Anaya drifted up again not from sleep but from a doze, still suspended in that warm, honeyed haze. The plug was a steady, grounding pressure in her ass, and the sticky mess between her thighs had cooled to a slick, clingy reminder of his promises. Vikram was no longer beside her; she heard the soft clink of glass somewhere in the room. Turning her head, she saw him at a small sideboard, pouring dark, amber liquid from a crystal decanter. The crimson glow traced the muscles of his back, the firm swell of his ass. He had pulled on loose black trousers that hung low on his hips, but his chest was bare, still glistening with a faint sheen of sweat. He turned, catching her gaze, and smiled that slow, predator’s smile.

“The sleeping beauty stirs,” he said, crossing to her with a glass of what looked like whiskey. He sat on the edge of the chaise, his free hand immediately cupping her cheek, thumb brushing her swollen lips. “And I find myself hungry again.”