Viraj woke to pale morning light and the ghost of his own dreams still hovering in his mind. The dream had been an inferno, a parade of filth so vivid he could still taste her on his tongue, still feel the phantom clench of her body around his. He lay still, breathing hard, his cock a rigid ache beneath the tangled sheet. He did not touch himself. Not yet. The dream had left him raw, his control frayed at the edges, and he needed to steady himself before he faced her. The ten day plan, the slow, insidious seduction he had mapped out in the dark, now seemed impossibly fragile. One look at her and he might splinter. He dragged himself upright, splashed cold water on his face, and dressed in a simple white kurta pajama, the cotton cool against his overheated skin. The house was silent save for the distant clatter of pots. She was already in the kitchen. Playing the perfect new bride. His brother’s bride. The thought should have shamed him. Instead it sharpened his hunger to a razor’s edge.