Aaya woke to the scent of honey and smoke, sweet and dangerous. Her body was still a collection of pleasant aches, a roadmap of his possession. She lay on a soft, padded table, no longer the velvet chaise. Her wrists were bound above her head with silk cuffs, not tight enough to hurt, just enough to remind her that movement was a privilege, not a right. Her ankles were similarly spread and secured, leaving her open and utterly exposed. The air was warm, but her skin prickled with anticipation.

Vikram stood at a small brazier, its coals glowing a deep, sullen orange. In his hand, he held a long, slender candle, its wax a deep, blood red. He turned, and the firelight danced in his eyes, a promise of exquisite torment. He was fully naked now, his cock already thick and curving upward, a testament to his own hunger.