She stepped out of the bathroom, and the air hit her damp skin like a slap. Cool and close, carrying the smell of him—male sweat and the cedar chest and something darker underneath. The towel was thin against her body, barely covering her, and she could feel every place the fabric touched, every place it didn't. Her hair hung wet against her shoulders, dripping slow trails down her back.

Arshad was lying on the narrow cot, propped on one elbow, his chest bare. The single bulb above him threw sharp shadows across the planes of his stomach, the ridges of muscle, the dark skin gleaming faintly where the light caught it. His eyes were on her, heavy and patient, and he didn't speak. Didn't move. Just watched her the way he'd watched her that first night on the stairs, like she was something he'd already decided to take.

The silence stretched. She could hear the fan blade knocking overhead, steady as a heartbeat, and the small sounds of the house settling beyond the walls—the creak of wood, the far-off hum of the city. Her toes curled against the worn floor mat. She should say something. Should explain the minutes she'd taken, the way she'd stood in front of the mirror trying to find the woman who'd walked in there.

"You took your time." His voice was low, rough at the edges, and it didn't sound like an accusation. It sounded like a fact he was noting, filing away.

She swallowed. "I—"

"Come here."

Not a request. Not an invitation. The words fell into the space between them and lay there, and she felt her body answer before her mind caught up—one step forward, then another, her bare feet carrying her across the small room until she stood at the edge of the cot, looking down at him.

He didn't reach for her. Just watched, his gaze traveling up her body slowly, from her ankles to her knees to the towel clutched at her chest. She felt the weight of it like a hand, like he was undressing her without touching her. The damp ends of her hair dripped onto her shoulder, and she shivered.

"You're clean," he said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

"Good." His hand moved, reaching up, and his fingers closed around the edge of the towel where she held it. He didn't pull. Just held it, his knuckles brushing the swell of her breast through the thin fabric, and waited.

She let go.

The towel fell, pooling at her feet, and the air hit her bare skin. She stood there naked in front of him, the damp cooling on her thighs, her nipples tightening under his gaze. His eyes moved over her—the curve of her hips, the dark triangle between her legs, the bruise on her neck where he'd marked her hours ago—and something shifted in his face. Hunger. Possession. Satisfaction.

"Get on the bed," he said.

She climbed onto the cot, the frame groaning under her weight, and the rough blanket scraped against her knees. The mattress was thin, the springs old, and she could feel every coil beneath the fabric. He shifted, making room for her, and she hesitated—not sure where he wanted her, not sure what he was asking.

His hand found her wrist, and he pulled, guiding her until she was straddling his hips, her knees on either side of his thighs. The heat of his body rose through her, and she felt him against her—hard, thick, pressing against her inner thigh through the thin cotton of his shorts. Her breath caught.

"Look at me."

She raised her eyes to his, and the weight of his gaze pinned her in place. His hands settled on her hips, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh above her bones, and there was no roughness in it. Only claim. Only the quiet certainty of a man who knew she was where she belonged.

"You're nervous," he said. It wasn't a question.

She shook her head, then stopped. "I don't—I've never—"

"Never what?"

"Ridden," she whispered, the word strange on her tongue. "I've never been on top."

Something flickered in his eyes. Interest. Pleasure. His thumb traced the bruise on her neck, a faint pressure that made her shiver. "Your husband never let you?"

The mention of her husband—of Vikram, of the man whose photograph lay face-down in her bedroom, whose bed she hadn't slept in for weeks—sent a cold curl through her stomach. She shook her head.

"He liked you beneath him," Arshad said. Not a question. "On your back. Taking it."

She didn't answer. Couldn't.

"That's what he thought you were for." His voice was low, almost thoughtful. "Something to lie under. Something to use." His hands tightened on her hips, and he shifted beneath her, the length of him pressing harder against her thigh. "He never knew what you were really for, did he?"

Her breath came short. "What—what am I for?"

His smile was slow, dark. "You're for me, Neha. On your knees. On your back. On top. Every way he never had you. Every way he never saw you." He pulled her forward, and she felt him slide against her, the thin cotton of his shorts the only barrier. "He doesn't know what he had. But I do."

Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat. The words should have shamed her. Should have made her pull away. Instead she felt the heat pooling low in her belly, the slickness building between her thighs, her body betraying her in the oldest way.

"Do you want to ride me?" His voice was quiet, patient, like he had all night. Like he'd wait forever for her answer.

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

"Say it."

"I—" She swallowed. "I want to ride you."

"Good girl." His hands moved, hooking into the waistband of his shorts, and he pushed them down, freeing himself. She looked down at him—thick, dark, already hard, the head glistening—and her mouth went dry. He'd been inside her so many ways. In her mouth. In her cunt. In her ass. But she'd never watched him like this, never been the one to take him.

"Come here," he said, and his hands found her hips again, guiding her forward. She felt him against her, the heat of him, the length of him pressing at her entrance, and she gasped.

"Slow," he said. "Take me slow."

She reached down, her fingers closing around him, and the feel of him in her hand made her tremble. She guided him to her, the head pressing against her slick flesh, and then she began to lower herself.

The first inch stretched her, and she gasped, her nails digging into his chest. He was so thick, so deep, and she felt herself opening around him, taking him in inch by inch. He watched her, his eyes dark and fixed on her face, his hands steady on her hips.

"That's it," he murmured. "Take all of me."

She sank lower, the stretch burning sweet, and then he was fully inside her, seated to the hilt, and she felt so full she couldn't breathe. Her head fell back, her hair brushing her bare shoulders, and she stared at the rough ceiling, at the cracks in the plaster, at the bare bulb flickering overhead.

"No more hiding from me, Neha," his voice cut through the fan's whir, low and firm. "You're mine. Show me."

His words settled into her like stones dropping into still water. She was full of him, stretched around him, every inch of her body aware of where he ended and she began—except there was no ending, no beginning. Just the thick, burning reality of him seated inside her, and the weight of his gaze demanding something she didn't know how to give.

The fan blade knocked overhead. Once. Twice. The sound marked time the way a heartbeat marked life, and she could feel her own pulse hammering in the place where they were joined, a rhythmic clench around him that she couldn't control. His hands stayed on her hips, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh, not guiding, not moving. Just holding her there, keeping her still while he waited.

The room smelled of him. Cedar and sweat and the faint, clean sting of the soap she'd used in his bathroom—her smell now tangled with his, impossible to separate. The edge of the cot's wooden frame pressed against her inner thigh, a hard, unforgiving line that reminded her this was not her bed. Not her husband's bed. This was his narrow cot in a servant's room at the back of the house, and she was naked atop him, filled by him, her wet hair dripping onto his chest.

"Show me," he repeated, softer now, and the gentleness was worse than the command. It slid under her skin, found the place where her shame lived, and wrapped around it like a hand. "Show me you're mine. Not his. Not the good wife. Mine."

She didn't know how. Her body knew how to lie beneath a man, knew how to open her legs and close her eyes and wait for it to be over. That was what Vikram had taught her, in the dark of their marriage bed, with his quick hands and his quicker finish. But this—this was different. This was her above him, her in control, her body the instrument of her own undoing. She didn't know the choreography. She didn't know the steps.

But her hips moved before her mind could catch up. A small, experimental roll, instinctive as breath, and the shift of him inside her sent a jolt through her belly that made her gasp. His hands tightened on her hips, not to stop her—to encourage her. To let her know he felt it too, that the smallest movement was enough to undo them both.

She did it again. Slower this time, deliberate, learning the angle, the way he filled her differently when she tilted her pelvis forward, the way the head of him dragged against a spot inside her that made her vision blur. Her nails pressed harder into his chest, and she felt the ridges of his muscles beneath her palms, the heat of his skin, the steady thrum of his heart under her fingers.

"That's it," he breathed. "That's it, Neha. Feel how deep I am."

She felt it. God, she felt it—every inch of him, the thick stretch of her walls around his girth, the way he seemed to reach places she'd never known existed. She rolled her hips again, finding a rhythm, slow and tentative, and the cot groaned beneath them, a low complaint of old wood and tired springs. The sound should have embarrassed her. Instead it grounded her, reminded her this was real, this was happening, this was her—riding a servant in his narrow bed while her husband's photograph lay face-down in her bedroom across the house.

His thumb found the bruise on her neck again, pressing faintly, a reminder of the mark he'd left hours ago. The skin was tender there, still sensitive, and the pressure sent a shiver down her spine that pooled low in her belly. She felt herself clench around him, involuntary, desperate, and his eyes darkened in response.

"Again," he said. "Do that again."

She didn't know what she'd done. But she rolled her hips the same way, searching for the angle that had made her clench, and when she found it, the pleasure arced through her like lightning. His hands moved, sliding up her sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts, and she gasped, her rhythm faltering.

"Don't stop," he commanded, and his voice was rough now, the patience fraying at the edges. "Ride me, Neha. Use me. Take what you need."

Take what she needed. She didn't know what she needed. She only knew that her body was moving now, finding its own rhythm, rising and falling on him in a slow, rolling wave that made the breath catch in her throat. Her wet hair swung against her shoulders, leaving damp trails on her skin, and the bare bulb above them flickered, casting shifting shadows across his face.

He watched her. Not with the cold, predatory gaze she'd grown used to. Something else moved in his eyes now—something hungrier, more personal. He watched her the way a man watches a woman he's claimed, not a woman he's conquered. The distinction blurred in her mind, but her body understood it. Her body knew the difference between being taken and being wanted.

She rose higher on her knees, almost pulling off him, and the emptiness that opened inside her was unbearable. She sank back down, taking him to the hilt, and the sound she made was not a gasp—it was a moan, low and raw, torn from somewhere she didn't know she had. His hands gripped her hips, steadying her, and she felt his thumbs press into the hollows of her hip bones, anchoring her to him.

"That's my girl," he murmured, and the words wrapped around her, warm and possessive. "That's my randi. Riding me like you were made for it."

The word should have stung. It had stung before, in the beginning, when he'd first forced it from her lips. Now it settled into her like a key turning in a lock, and she felt something inside her give way. She was his randi. She was his. And in this narrow cot, in this small room at the back of her husband's house, she was exactly where she belonged.

Her rhythm steadied, found a deeper groove. She braced her hands on his chest, fingers splayed over the dark planes of muscle, and she rode him with a focus that surprised her—every roll of her hips deliberate, every rise and fall measured. The fan blade knocked overhead, marking time, and the cot groaned beneath them, and she could hear her own breathing, ragged and loud in the small room.

His hands moved again, sliding around her waist, pulling her forward until her chest pressed against his. The shift in angle made him sink deeper, and she gasped against his shoulder, her lips brushing his hot skin. He held her there, one hand splayed across her lower back, the other tangled in her wet hair, and he whispered against her ear.

"Feel that? Feel how deep I am? That's where you belong, Neha. Right here. Around me."

She couldn't answer. Couldn't form words. She could only feel—the thick length of him inside her, the rough scrape of his stubble against her cheek, the steady thrum of his pulse where her lips pressed to his throat. Her hips moved in small, desperate circles, chasing something she couldn't name, and the pressure built low in her belly like a coil winding tight.

"Please," she whispered, not knowing what she was asking for. "Arshad, please—"

"Please what?" His voice was dark, patient, the voice of a man who had all night. "Tell me what you need."

She didn't have the words. She only had the ache, the desperate, building pressure that demanded release, and she pressed her forehead to his shoulder and rolled her hips harder, faster, chasing it. His hands guided her, steady and sure, and she felt herself climbing, climbing, the edge just out of reach.