The ceiling fan turned slow overhead, its blades combing the humid air, carrying the smell of jasmine oil off her skin in lazy circles. Dipanwita lay propped against the pillows, one knee bent, the black lace of her bra a dark crescent against the pale sheet, and she had just reached for her phone when her thumb slipped.

The call connected before she could stop it.

Nandu's face filled the screen—round, startled, the office driver who ferried files between floors and never quite met her eyes in the elevator. His mouth opened. Closed. His brow furrowed, not with desire but with the sudden terror of a man who has been caught looking at something he shouldn't.

"Didi—" His voice cracked. "Didi, I didn't—this was—"

She let the silence hang one beat. Two. Then she laughed, low and warm, the sound rolling up from her chest, and she watched the fear in his face soften into something else entirely.

"Nandu," she said, drawing his name out. "You called me."

"No, didi, I swear—your thumb—"

"My thumb slipped." She shifted against the pillows, a small deliberate movement that made the lace dip and the lamplight find the curve of her breast. "But you didn't hang up."

His throat worked. The camera angle caught him in profile, the dashboard of his car behind him, the dark of a parked street through the windshield. He was still in his uniform, the grey shirt rumpled from a long shift. His hands were on his thighs, and she could see the knuckles gone white.

"I can hang up," he said, but he didn't move.

"You don't want to."

"Didi, if anyone from the office—"

"No one is watching, Nandu." She let her voice go soft, almost sleepy. "It's late. The office is closed. It's just you and me, and a phone call that was an accident." She smiled. "Unless you want it to be something else."

His breath came out shaky. "Didi, I can't—you're—"

"I'm what?"

"You're the memsahib's friend. You're—" He stopped. Swallowed. "You're too good for—"

"For a driver?" She tilted her head, and the lace slipped a fraction lower. "Is that what you were going to say?"

He didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on the screen, on her, and she watched the war in his face—the fear of consequences fighting the thing that was rising in him anyway.

"You think I don't know what you look at, Nandu?" She let her hand drift to the strap of her bra, tracing it with one finger. "You think I don't notice when you hold the elevator door a little too long? When you find reasons to walk past my cabin?"

"Didi—"

"I notice everything."

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "I never meant any disrespect."

"I know." Her voice was warm, forgiving, absolute. "That's why you're still on this call."

She watched him process that, watched the fear slowly drain out of his face and something hungrier take its place. The mattress creaked as she shifted, bare skin against the worn cotton, and she let the sound carry through the speaker.

"Tell me something, Nandu."

"Anything, didi."

"Do you know how to bet?"

He blinked. "Bet?"

"Yes. A game. I like games." She smiled, slow, letting him see her teeth. "We'll make a bet. If you win, you can ask me for anything. Anything at all."

"And if you win?"

"Then I ask you for something. And you give it to me."

His eyes went wide. "Didi, I—"

"Are you scared?"

"No." He said it too fast. "I mean—what kind of bet?"

"Simple. I'll ask you a question. If you answer honestly, you win. If you lie, I win." She leaned closer to the camera, letting the lace dip, letting him see the shadow between her breasts. "Can you be honest with me, Nandu?"

His voice was rough. "Yes, didi."

"Good. Here's the question." She paused, letting the silence stretch. "When you drive me home at night, when you watch me walk to the door—what are you thinking?"

His face flushed dark. "Didi—"

"Honest, Nandu. Remember the bet."

He looked away from the camera. Looked back. His jaw worked. "I think about—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I think about what it would be like to touch you."

"Touch me where?"

"Didi, please—"

"Where?"

"Your—" His voice dropped to a whisper. "Your saree. The way it moves when you walk. I think about—" He closed his eyes. "I think about pulling it open."

She let the words sit in the air between them. The fan turned overhead. The lamp glowed warm on her skin.

"That's very honest," she said softly. "You win."

His eyes snapped open. "I—I win?"

"Yes. You can ask me for anything." She smiled. "Go on, Nandu. What do you want?"

The silence stretched. She could hear his breathing through the speaker, fast and shallow. His hands were shaking on his thighs. She watched him gather himself, watched him decide to be brave.

"Didi," he whispered. "Didi, mujhe handle marwa do."

Let me handle you.

She laughed, soft and delighted. "That's what you want? To handle me?"

"Yes, didi. I want—I want to touch you. I want to feel you." His voice was cracking. "I think about it all the time. When I'm driving. When I'm waiting outside the office. When I'm lying in bed at night."

"Tell me more."

"I think about—" He stopped. His eyes were dark, hungry. "I think about being in the basement. The parking lot, under the office. Where it's dark."

"The basement?"

"Yes." He leaned closer to the camera, his voice dropping. "I think about you coming down there. In your saree. In the dark. And I think about—"

"About what?"

"About not being alone."

She felt something shift in her chest, a slow warm pulse. "Who else is there?"

He swallowed. "The other drivers. All of them. The ones who watch you walk past. The ones who hold the door. The ones who—" He stopped. "We talk about you, didi. When you're not there. We talk about what we'd do."

"Do you?" Her voice was silk. "What would you do?"

"I'd—" He was breathing hard now. "I'd be the first one. I'd be the one to—"

"To what?"

"To take you." His voice broke. "To hold you down. To feel you—feel you around me. And then—" He stopped. His eyes were glazed. "And then the others. They'd take their turn. And I'd watch. I'd watch you take all of them, and I'd know I was first."

The fan turned overhead. The lamp glowed. Dipanwita felt the heat building low in her belly, a slow and familiar ache.

"Nandu," she said softly. "Look at me."

His eyes snapped to the camera.

"Unbutton your shirt."

He fumbled with the buttons, his hands shaking, and she watched the grey uniform fall open to reveal his chest—lean, dark, a thin line of hair running down his sternum. He was not a young man. His body carried the weight of years of work, of lifting and carrying and driving. She found it beautiful.

"Now your belt."

His hands moved to his waist. The belt came open. The zipper hissed down. And then he was pulling himself out, his cock thick and dark in his hand, already half-hard, growing harder as she watched.

"Look at that," she murmured. "You've been hiding this from me, Nandu?"

"Didi—" His voice was a strangled sound.

"Stroke it."

His hand moved. Slow at first, then faster, and she watched his face contort with pleasure, his eyes fixed on her through the screen. The sound of his hand moving on his cock came through the speaker—slick, rhythmic, wet.

"Tell me what you're thinking about," she said. "Right now."

"The basement," he gasped. "I'm thinking about the basement. About you. About the others watching. About being first."

"Good boy." Her voice was warm, approving. "You like that, don't you? The thought of all those men watching me. Watching you take me."

"Yes, didi. Yes."

"And what would you do to me, Nandu? If you were the first one in that basement?"

His hand was moving faster now, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "I'd—I'd push you against the wall. I'd pull your saree open. I'd—I'd put my mouth on you. I'd taste you."

"Taste me where?"

"Everywhere." His voice broke. "I'd taste you everywhere. And then I'd—"

"You'd what?"

"I'd fuck you." The word came out raw, desperate. "I'd fuck you so hard you'd forget your own name. I'd make you scream. I'd make you say my name."

"Say it, then."

"Nandu." His voice cracked. "I'd make you scream Nandu."

His hand was a blur now, his hips bucking into his fist, and she watched the pleasure build in his face, watched his mouth fall open, watched his eyes roll back.

"That's it," she whispered. "Let me see you."

His breath hitched. His body went rigid. And then he came with a choked gasp, his face half-turned from the camera, his hand still moving as the cum spilled over his fingers and dripped down his shaft.

Dipanwita leaned in, her voice a silken whisper.

"Good boy. Now tell me, Nandu—what would you do if you were the first one in that basement?"

The screen froze on his wide, hungry eyes as she waited for his answer.

"Say it again," she breathed, her voice barely above the hum of the ceiling fan. "But slower this time. I want to hear every word."

Nandu's hand was still wet, his chest heaving, the grey uniform shirt hanging open around his lean frame. His eyes were glazed, still caught in the aftershock of his release, but he obeyed. He always obeyed now.

"I'd be—" He swallowed. "I'd be the first one."

"The first one where?" she prompted, letting her finger trace the lace strap again, a slow circle around her shoulder.

"In the basement." His voice trembled. "Under the office. Where it's dark."

"And what would you do there?"

The camera shook slightly—his hand was trembling. "I'd wait for you, didi. I'd hear your footsteps on the stairs."

"Go on."

"You'd be wearing your saree. The green one. The one with the gold border." His voice was dropping into something almost reverent. "You'd come down the stairs slow, and I'd be standing by the pillar, and you wouldn't see me at first—"

"But you'd see me."

"Yes, didi." His breath hitched. "I'd see everything. The way the saree moves when you walk. The way your hips—" He stopped, his throat working.

"My hips what?"

"The way they sway. The way the fabric clings." His voice cracked. "I'd watch you walk past me, and I wouldn't move. I'd let you think you were alone. And then—"

"And then?"

"And then I'd step out. Quiet. Behind you. And I'd put my hand on your shoulder."

Dipanwita felt the heat coil low in her belly, her thighs pressing together beneath the sheet. "And what would I do?"

"You'd freeze. You'd know it was me, but you wouldn't turn around. You'd just stand there, didi, with my hand on your shoulder, and I'd feel you trembling."

"Why would I tremble?"

"Because you'd know what was coming." His voice was raw now, stripped bare. "You'd know I wasn't going to let you go."

She let the silence stretch, the fan turning overhead, the lamp warm on her skin. "And then?"

"And then I'd pull you back against me." He was breathing hard again, his cock stirring in his hand. "I'd press myself against you, didi. From behind. And you'd feel how hard I am. You'd feel me through your saree."

"Show me," she whispered. "Show me how you'd hold me."

His hand moved to his cock, slow, deliberate. He didn't look away from the camera. "Like this. I'd hold you like this, one arm around your waist, my mouth at your ear."

"What would you say to me?"

"I'd say—" He closed his eyes. "I'd say, 'Didi, you've been walking past me for two years. You've been letting me open doors for you, carry your bags, drive you home. You think I didn't notice?'"

"Notice what?"

"The way you look at me when you think I'm not watching." His hand moved faster. "The way you lean forward when I open the car door. The way your saree rides up when you sit in the back seat, and you don't fix it. You don't fix it, didi. You want me to see."

The accusation landed like a touch. She felt her breath catch, and she let him see it—let him see the way her chest rose, the lace straining.

"You're very perceptive, Nandu."

"I'm a driver," he said. "I notice everything. That's my job." His voice dropped. "And I've noticed you, didi. I've noticed everything about you."

"Tell me."

"The way you smell. Jasmine and something else. Something expensive. I breathe it when I open your door." He was stroking himself now, slow and deliberate, matching his words. "The way your lipstick leaves a mark on your teacup. I take your cup to the kitchen sometimes, after I drop you. I hold it where you held it."

Dipanwita's skin flushed. She hadn't known that. The thought of it—his rough hands cradling the porcelain where her lips had been—sent a shiver through her.

"That's very sweet," she murmured. "And very dirty."

"I know, didi. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry." She shifted on the bed, the sheet rustling. "I like it. I like knowing you think about me when I'm not there."

"I think about you all the time." His voice was desperate now. "All the time. When I'm driving. When I'm eating. When I'm trying to sleep. I see your face, didi. I see your mouth. I see the way you cross your legs in the back seat, and I think about being between them."

"Slow," she reminded him. "Say it slow."

He took a breath. Forced himself to slow. "I think about being between your legs. I think about pushing your saree up. Your thighs—" He swallowed. "Your thighs are so soft, didi. I can tell. Even through the fabric. I think about putting my mouth on them. Kissing them. Biting them, just a little."

"And then?"

"And then I'd push your legs apart. And I'd—" His voice broke. "I'd taste you, didi. I'd put my mouth on you and taste you, and I'd make you wet, and I'd make you moan, and I'd make you forget that I'm just a driver."

"You're not just a driver," she said softly. "You're the first one."

His eyes went dark. "Yes, didi. I'm the first one."

"Say it again."

"I'm the first one in the basement." His hand moved faster, his hips bucking. "I'm the one who takes you first. I'm the one who opens you up. I'm the one who makes you come before the others even get close."

"And the others?"

"They watch." His voice was ragged. "They stand in the dark and watch. And I make you face them, didi. I turn you around and hold you against me, and I make you look at them. All of them. Waiting."

"How many?"

"Four. Five. I don't know. Enough that you'd lose count." He was panting now, his fist moving slick and fast. "Enough that you'd know you were theirs. Ours. The didi everyone wanted, and now she's down in the basement, and she's—"

"She's what?"

"She's wet," he gasped. "She's so wet, didi. I can feel it. I can feel how much you want it. You want to be used. You want to be passed around. You want to be the didi who—"

"Who what?"

"Who says yes." His voice broke on the word. "Who says yes to all of us. Who lets us take turns. Who moans my name first, and then the others, and then—" He shuddered. "And then you can't remember any of our names, because there are too many, and you're too full, and you're too—"

"Too what?"

"Too beautiful," he whispered. "Too beautiful to be real. Too beautiful to be down there with us. But you are. You're there. And you're mine. At least for the first few minutes."

Dipanwita felt the ache between her legs throb, a deep and insistent pulse. She pressed her thighs together, the friction of the sheet against her bare skin a poor substitute for what she imagined.

"Nandu," she said, her voice low and velvet. "Look at me."

His eyes snapped to the camera, wild and hungry.

"If I came down to that basement," she said slowly, "if I came down there in my green saree, knowing what you and the others wanted—do you think I'd say yes?"

"I—" He swallowed. "I think you'd say yes, didi. I think you've been saying yes for years, in your own way. The way you walk. The way you look. The way you let us open doors for you, like you're letting us in."

"And if I said yes," she whispered, "what would you do first?"

His hand froze on his cock. His chest heaved. "I'd get on my knees," he said. "I'd get on my knees and look up at you, and I'd tell you thank you."

"Thank me for what?"

"For choosing me. For letting me be first. For—" His voice cracked. "For seeing me, didi. For seeing me at all."

The words landed somewhere deep in her chest, unexpected and warm. She hadn't expected tenderness from him. She hadn't expected him to make her feel something other than the thrill of control.

"You're a good man, Nandu," she said softly. "A good man with very dirty thoughts."

"Is that bad?"

"No." She smiled, slow and knowing. "It's perfect."

His hand resumed its motion, faster now, desperate. "Didi, I'm—I'm close again. Can I—"

"Show me," she said. "Show me what you'd do to me in that basement. Show me how you'd take me."

He groaned, his head falling back, his hand a blur on his cock. "I'd push you against the wall. I'd lift your saree. I'd—I'd tear your petticoat. I'd pull your panties down—"

"What color?"

"Red." His voice was strangled. "Red lace. I'd pull them down to your ankles, and I'd—I'd lift you up. I'd hold you against the wall, didi, and I'd—"

"You'd what?"

"I'd push inside you." He gasped. "I'd push inside you and feel you—feel you so tight, so wet, so—" His body convulsed. "Didi, I'm—"

"Come for me," she whispered. "Come for me, and think about being first."

He cried out, a choked sound, his body arching as he spilled over his fist, thick and white, dripping down his knuckles onto his uniform. He shuddered through it, his eyes squeezed shut, his mouth open, and she watched every second of it.

When he opened his eyes again, they were dazed, almost confused, like he'd forgotten where he was.

"Didi—"

"Shh." She smiled, warm and satisfied. "You did so well, Nandu."

"I—" He looked down at his hand, at the mess he'd made. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"Don't apologize." She shifted against the pillows, the lace of her bra catching the lamplight. "You won the bet. You asked for what you wanted. And you got it."

"Did I?" His voice was small. "I mean—I got to—but I didn't get to—"

"Touch me?" She tilted her head. "No. Not yet."

"Yet?"

"The bet was that you could ask for anything. You asked to handle me. And I'm not saying no, Nandu." She let the words hang. "I'm just saying not tonight."

His face fell, then brightened, then fell again, a flicker of confusion. "But—when?"

"When the time is right." She smiled, slow and enigmatic. "When I decide."

"But didi—"

"Patience," she said, and the word was a command, soft and absolute. "You've waited this long. You can wait a little longer."

He opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. His hand was still wet, still trembling. "Yes, didi."

"Good boy." She reached for the lamp, her fingers brushing the switch. "Now go home. Clean yourself up. And think about what I said."

"About the basement?"

"About being the first one." She smiled. "Because when I come down there, Nandu, I want you to be ready."

His eyes went wide. "You—you're really going to—"

"I'm not promising anything," she said. "But I'm not ruling anything out either."

She watched him process that, watched the hope and hunger war in his face. Then she reached out and ended the call, the screen going dark.

The room was quiet again, the fan turning overhead, the lamp glowing warm. Dipanwita lay back against the pillows, her body humming with a slow, satisfied heat.

She thought about Nandu. About the basement. About the other drivers he'd spoken of, the ones who watched her walk past, who held doors, who breathed her perfume from her teacup.

She thought about the green saree with the gold border, still hanging in her wardrobe.

She smiled into the dark, the phone warm in her hand, the taste of control still sweet on her tongue.

Tomorrow, the jeweler. The emeralds. Ramesh and the old market.

And someday soon, a basement full of men who thought they were choosing her.

Let them think it. She was the one collecting them, one by one, and she was just getting started.

She let the silence stretch, watching his face through the dark of her bedroom, the phone warm against her ear. His breathing was still uneven, still catching in that post-climax haze, and she knew exactly how to use it.

"Nandu," she said, her voice low and almost tender. "You want to be first in that basement, don't you?"

"More than anything, didi." His voice cracked on the word.

"More than the other drivers? More than the ones who watch me walk past and breathe my perfume from your teacups?"

"Yes. God, yes."

"Then I need something from you." She shifted against the pillows, the lace of her bra whispering against the sheets. "Not a promise. Not a fantasy. Something real."

He was quiet for a moment. "What do you need?"

She smiled into the dark. "The office, Nandu. You work there. You know things." She paused, letting the weight settle. "I want you to bring me something from that office. Something that proves you're willing to put yourself in my hands completely."

"I don't—I don't understand. What kind of something?"

"A key," she said slowly. "A file. A secret. Whatever you can get your hands on that would get you in trouble if anyone knew you took it." She let the words hang. "Something that puts you in my power, Nandu. Not the other way around."

The silence on the other end of the line was different now. Not the stunned, post-orgasm fog, but something sharper. Something careful.

"Didi, I'm just a driver. I don't have access to—"

"You see things, though." She cut him off, her voice soft but absolute. "You hear things. You know which doors are locked and which ones aren't. You know when the office is empty, when the security guard takes his tea break." She paused. "You told me yourself, Nandu. You said the drivers talk. You said they watch me. You said you'd do anything to be first."

"I meant anything, but—"

"Did you?" She tilted her head, though he couldn't see her. "Or did you just mean anything that felt good in the moment?"

The silence that followed was thick enough to taste. She could hear him breathing, could almost see him sitting there in whatever dark room he'd retreated to, his hand still sticky with his own release, his mind racing to catch up with what she was asking.

"I could lose my job," he said finally. "If anyone found out—"

"You could." She let the words sit. "But you'd still have me, Nandu. And that's what you want, isn't it? To be the one I choose?"

"Yes, but—"

"No buts." Her voice was velvet and steel. "You want to be first in that basement. You want to push me against the wall and lift my saree and pull my panties down. You want to feel how tight I am, how wet I am." She paused. "I'm not saying no. I'm saying I need to know I can trust you. And trust isn't built on pretty words, Nandu. It's built on what you're willing to risk."

He was quiet for a long moment. She could hear the gears turning in his head, the calculation, the fear, the hunger warring with caution.

"What if I get caught?"

"You won't." She said it with absolute certainty, as if it were already decided. "You're smart, Nandu. You know the office. You know when to move, when to wait. And I'm not asking you to rob the place. I'm asking you to bring me something small. Something that matters to someone. Something that proves you're mine."

The word hung between them. Mine.

"I don't know, didi." His voice was smaller now, less certain. "This is—this is different from what I thought—"

"Of course it's different." She laughed, soft and warm. "You thought I was just a pretty woman in a saree who liked to tease. You thought the basement was a fantasy, something we'd whisper about in the dark. But I'm real, Nandu. And what I want is real. The question is whether you're brave enough to give it to me."

She heard him swallow. Heard the shaky exhale.

"What would you do with it?" he asked. "The thing I bring you?"

"I'd keep it safe," she said. "I'd keep it secret. And I'd know that you'd given me something no one else could give. Something that made you mine in a way that no amount of pretty words could match." She paused, letting the silence stretch. "And then, when the time was right, I'd come down to that basement. And you'd be first."

His breath hitched. She could hear the want in it, the desperate edge that made her smile into the dark.

"What if—what if I bring you something and you still don't—"

"I will." Her voice was soft, almost kind. "I'm not a liar, Nandu. I don't make promises I don't intend to keep. You bring me something that proves you're willing to risk everything for me, and I'll give you what you've been dreaming about since the first time you saw me." She paused. "But you have to trust me. And I have to trust you. That's how this works."

The silence stretched. She could feel him teetering on the edge of it, the weight of what she was asking pressing down on him.

"I need to think," he said finally. "I need to—"

"Take your time." She was generous, magnanimous. "But not too much time, Nandu. The basement won't be empty forever. And I won't be patient forever."

"You're—you're really serious about this." It wasn't a question. It was a realization.

"I'm always serious, Nandu." She smiled into the dark. "That's the first thing you should learn about me."

Another silence. Then, quieter, almost to himself: "I thought you were just playing with me. I thought this was—I thought you were just a fantasy."

"I'm not a fantasy, Nandu." Her voice was soft, almost tender. "I'm a woman who knows what she wants. And right now, what I want is to know if you're man enough to give it to me."

She heard him exhale, long and shaky. Heard the rustle of fabric as he shifted, the creak of a bed frame.

"The office," he said slowly, as if testing the word. "You really want me to take something from the office."

"I want you to bring me something that proves you're willing to put yourself in my hands," she corrected. "The office is just the easiest place for you to find it. Unless you have something else in mind."

"I don't—I don't have anything else."

"Then the office it is." She made it sound simple, inevitable. "You're a smart man, Nandu. You'll figure it out. And when you do, you'll bring it to me. And then we'll see what happens next."

The silence that followed was different from the ones before. It was heavier, more loaded. She could feel him thinking, could almost see the conflict playing out across his face.

"What if I say no?" he asked finally. "What if I tell you I can't do it?"

"Then you're not the man I thought you were." She said it simply, without cruelty. "And I'll find someone else who is. There are plenty of men who want to be first in that basement, Nandu. The question is whether you want it badly enough to earn it."

She heard him suck in a breath. Heard the barely suppressed sound of frustration, of want, of fear.

"You're not like I thought you were," he said. "You're not—you're not just a pretty woman who likes to tease."

"No," she agreed. "I'm not."

"You're dangerous."

She smiled into the dark, the phone warm against her ear. "Yes, Nandu. I am. And if you're smart, you'll decide whether that excites you or scares you. Because it can't be both."

The silence stretched, long and heavy. She could hear his breathing, could feel the weight of his indecision pressing down on the line between them.

"I'll think about it," he said finally. "I'll—I'll think about what you said."

"Do that." She was generous, letting him have his time. "But don't take too long, Nandu. The world doesn't wait for men who can't make up their minds."

"Didi—"

"Goodnight, Nandu." She ended the call before he could say anything else, the screen going dark in her hand.

The room was quiet again, the fan turning overhead, the lamp glowing warm. Dipanwita lay back against the pillows, her body humming with a slow, satisfied heat.

She thought about Nandu. About the weight of what she'd asked him to do. About the look on his face when he'd realized she wasn't just playing.

She thought about the key he'd bring her, or the file, or the secret. About the power it would give her, the hold it would give her over him.

She thought about the basement, about the other drivers who watched her walk past, who held doors, who breathed her perfume from her teacup.

She thought about the green saree with the gold border, still hanging in her wardrobe.

And she smiled into the dark, the phone warm in her hand, the taste of control still sweet on her tongue.

Tomorrow, the jeweler. The emeralds. Ramesh and the old market.

And someday soon, a basement full of men who thought they were choosing her.

Let them think it. She was the one collecting them, one by one, and she was just getting started.

She reached for the lamp, her fingers brushing the switch, and the room fell into darkness. She lay there for a moment, listening to the sound of her own breathing, feeling the slow, satisfied pulse of power in her veins.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.

She picked it up, squinting at the glow of the screen. A message from Nandu, three words that made her smile widen in the dark:

I'll do it.

She typed back slowly, savoring the moment: Good boy. I knew you would. We'll talk soon.

She set the phone down, the screen fading to black, and lay back against the pillows. The fan turned overhead, stirring the scent of jasmine oil and damp sheets, and she closed her eyes, her body still humming with the slow, satisfied heat of a game well played.

One by one, she was collecting them. And Nandu, with his trembling hands and his desperate eyes, had just handed her the key.