Anaya woke to the soft grey light of another overcast dawn. The sheet was tangled between her legs, and her body still held the deep, satisfied soreness of the previous day's feast. Her cunt was tender, her nipples raw from his mouth, her throat slightly hoarse from the sounds he had pulled from her. She reached for Vikram, her hand sliding across the mattress, seeking the warmth of his body, the solid weight of him. But his side of the bed was empty and cool.

She sat up, her heart quickening. He was always there when she woke. His absence felt like a cold draft across her bare skin. Then she heard it, his voice, low and steady, coming from the study down the hall. She slid out of bed and pulled on the thin cotton shift that lay folded on the chair. The fabric whispered over her sore nipples and settled against her naked hips. She did not bother with undergarments. She had not worn them in weeks. Her cunt was always wet now, always ready, and underwear would only be a barrier between her flesh and his access.