Anaya drifted in a sea of brimming, liquid warmth. The world outside the Crimson Room had ceased to exist. There was only the weight of Vikram upon her, the slow, steady rhythm of his breath against her sweat cooling skin, and the profound, sacred fullness between her legs. His seed was a hot, thick brand inside her, a liquid seal of his ownership that her inner muscles still clasped with weak, fluttering pulses of gratitude. She was a vessel filled to overflowing, a chalice finally brimming with the wine it was made to hold.

Vikram stirred first. He lifted his head, and the candlelight caught the harsh planes of his face, softening them with a gilded glow. His eyes, dark and fathomless, traced over her features, her kiss bruised lips, the fine sheen of perspiration on her brow, the look of utterly shattered, blissful vacancy in her half lidded eyes. A possessive satisfaction curled his lip. He watched her, a collector admiring his most prized, most exquisitely used possession after a perfect performance.