Vikram’s breath slowly steadied against her hair, but his hands were not idle. They roamed her body with a new, reverent hunger, tracing the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist, the full, heavy swell of her breast. The taste of his own seed still lingered in her mouth, a possessive seal upon her lips. Anaya lay pliant in his arms, but her entire being was focused on the one part of her that remained untouched, unfilled. The emptiness of her cunt was no longer a passive ache; it was an active, screaming void. A starving, grasping thing that had a voice of its own. It was a second mouth, and it was sobbing.

"You are trembling, meri randi," he murmured, his fingers tracing the top of her mound, deliberately avoiding the swollen, pearled button of her clit. "Is your cunt speaking to you?"