The weight of him lifted off her shoulder, and the cool air found the place his mouth had been. She felt the ring of his teeth there, a small ache of pressure, a mark she could not see but knew was forming. The fan turned overhead, the blades combing the sandalwood-scented dark, and she lay still beneath him, her breath shallow, watching the black of his eyes as he began to move.

His mouth dragged down her collarbone, slow and deliberate, the flat of his tongue tasting the salt that had dried on her skin. She felt the heat of him pass over the hollow of her throat, the dip between her breasts, and her body arched without her asking it to, her spine leaving the red silk for a moment before settling back. His hands were on her ribs, rough and wide, spanning the bones as if measuring her, and the roughness of his palms against the softness of her skin was a friction she felt in her teeth.

"You sweat," he said against her sternum, his voice a low vibration she felt through her chest. "The whole night, you sweat, and you think I don't notice."

She did not answer. She could not. His mouth was already moving lower, and the words had nowhere to land but in the space between them, where they hung and then dissolved into the wet heat of his tongue on her breast.

He circled her nipple slowly, the tip of his tongue tracing the dark areola, and she felt the sensation gather and pull, a thread drawing tight from her chest down into her belly. Her hands found the sheets beneath her, gripping the red silk, and her hips rose off the mattress in a small, involuntary lift. He noticed. She felt his breath change against her skin, a low sound that might have been amusement, and then his mouth closed over her, and he sucked.

The pull of it was deep, a drawing that went through her breast and into her, and she heard herself make a sound she did not recognize, a thin whimper that was swallowed by the fan's turning. His hand came up and closed over her other breast, his fingers pressing and kneading, the calluses of his palm scraping her nipple, and the twin sensations—the suction of his mouth and the rough grip of his hand—tangled in her and became one thing she could not separate.

He pulled his mouth off her with a wet sound, and she felt the air on her slick skin, cool and sudden. His eyes lifted to hers, black and depthless, the same black she had seen in the lamp-light, and he held her gaze as he lowered his head again, his tongue flat against her nipple, lapping at her like she was something he was meant to taste.

"You taste like everything I've been missing," he said, and the words were low and rough, spoken against her skin, and she felt them as much as heard them, a vibration that ran through her breast and into her ribcage.

She opened her mouth to speak, to say something—she did not know what—but his teeth closed around her nipple before the words could come, and he pulled. It was not a bite, not yet. It was a testing, a gentle tension that drew the sensitive flesh taut, and she felt the sharp edge of his teeth against the softness of her, the promise of pain held in check. Her breath caught, her chest arching up into him, and she felt the wet heat of his tongue against the pulled skin, soothing where his teeth had pressed.

He held her there, his teeth around her nipple, his eyes on hers, and the room seemed to narrow to the point of contact between them. The fan turned. The pipe knocked somewhere in the wall. Vikram breathed through the wall, four feet away, and she lay beneath a demon who was tasting her like she was a meal, and she could not find the part of herself that should have been afraid.

His teeth closed.

The pain was sharp and sudden, a bright flare that shot through her breast and down into her belly, and she cried out, a real sound this time, torn from her throat. Her hips bucked against him, and she felt the wet heat of her own arousal between her legs, a response she could not control and did not want to name. He held the bite, his teeth sunk into the tender flesh of her nipple, and she felt the sting of it, the pressure of his jaw, and then the slow, deliberate draw of his mouth as he sucked, pulling the blood to the surface.

She felt him swallow against her skin. A small, wet sound, the shift of his throat, and she realized with a distant, dizzying clarity that he was drinking her, that the blood from the small wound he had made was on his tongue, and that he had wanted it.

He released her nipple, and she saw the dark bead of blood well up in the wake of his teeth, a small red pearl against the brown of her areola. He licked it away before it could fall, his tongue flat and warm, and she felt the sting of the wound clean and sharp under the soothing of his mouth.

"Good," he said, and the word was a low rumble against her skin. "You feel that. You feel all of it."

His mouth moved lower, trailing down the curve of her ribs, his tongue tasting the salt that had gathered in the hollows of her belly. She felt the heat of his breath on her navel, and her body trembled, her hands fisting in the red silk, her hips lifting toward him in a plea she could not voice. He ignored the lift, his mouth continuing its slow descent, his hands sliding down her sides, gripping her hips, holding her still.

She felt his teeth graze her hipbone, a light scrape that made her gasp, and then his tongue was in the crease of her thigh, tasting the skin there, the place where the torn lace had left its thin wound. He licked it, slow and deliberate, and she felt the heat of his mouth on the raw place, a sensation that was almost pain and almost pleasure and entirely too much.

"You're wet," he said, and his voice was thick, changed. "You've been wet since I put my mouth on you. You think I can't feel it?"

She shook her head, a small, jerking motion, though she did not know what she was denying. His hands spread her thighs, pushing them apart, and she felt the cool air on the slick heat of her, and then his mouth was there, his tongue flat against her cunt, and she lost the thread of thought entirely.

The first taste of him was a shock, a wet heat that spread through her and made her cry out, her hips bucking against his mouth. He held her down with his hands on her thighs, his grip bruising, and he licked her slowly, deliberately, from the bottom of her cunt to the top, where her clit swelled and ached. She felt his tongue circle her, tease her, and then press flat against her clit, and she saw white at the edges of her vision.

"Say it," he said, his voice muffled against her. "Say what you are."

She could not. The words were lost in the heat of him, in the drag of his tongue, in the ache that was building in her belly, low and insistent. He licked her again, and she felt her own wetness on his lips, felt him swallow it, and the intimacy of it undid her.

"Say it," he repeated, and he pressed his mouth to her clit and sucked, and she felt the pleasure spike through her, sharp and blinding.

"Yours," she gasped, the word torn from her. "I'm yours."

He made a sound against her, a low hum of satisfaction, and then his tongue was inside her, pushing into her cunt, and she felt the stretch of it, the wet slide, and she came apart. Her orgasm hit her without warning, a wave that crashed through her and left her trembling, her thighs shaking against his head, her hands gripping the red silk so hard she felt the threads give. He drank her, his tongue lapping at her as she came, drawing out the pleasure until she was sobbing with it, her body wrung empty.

He pulled his mouth away, and she felt the cool air on her slick, sensitive flesh, and she could not move, could not speak, could only lie there and shudder. She felt his weight shift, felt him move up her body, and then his mouth was on hers, and she tasted herself on his lips, salt and musk, and she opened to him without thinking, her tongue finding his.

He pulled back, and his eyes were black, depthless, the same black she had seen in the lamp-light, and he looked at her for a long moment, his gaze moving over her face, her body, the small wound on her breast where his teeth had been.

"You're still here," he said. "You're still whole."

She did not understand what he meant, and she did not ask. She lay beneath him, her body aching and wet, the taste of herself in her mouth, the ring of his teeth on her shoulder, and she watched him, waiting.

He lowered his head, and his mouth found the wound on her breast again, and he licked it, slow and gentle, the sting of it sharp and clean. Then he moved lower, his tongue trailing down her belly, and she felt the heat of him between her thighs, and she knew the night was not over.

"You'll understand," he said, his voice a low murmur against her skin. "Before the night is over, you'll understand everything."

And she believed him.

His mouth found the crease of her thigh again, the place where the torn lace had left its thin red line, and he licked it with the same slow deliberation, his tongue tracing the wound as if it were a path he had been waiting to walk. She felt the sting of it, the raw place smarting under the wet heat of his mouth, and then his teeth closed on the skin of her inner thigh, not hard enough to break, but hard enough to leave the shape of his jaw pressed into her flesh, a claim she would feel in the morning when she tried to walk.

"You feel that," he said, not a question. His breath was hot against the mark he had made, and she felt the air of his words stir the slick hair between her legs. "You feel it, and you don't run. You never run. You lie here and you take it, and you think I don't know what that means."

She did not know what it meant. She could not hold the thought long enough to ask. His hands were on her hips again, turning her, and she went without resistance, her body moving under his direction like it had learned the language of his hands before her mind had caught up. He pulled her onto her side, her back to his chest, and she felt the length of him against her, the hard muscle of his thighs against the backs of hers, his arm banded across her ribs, holding her against him.

His mouth found her shoulder, the ring of teeth marks he had left there, and he licked it, slow, tasting the skin he had marked. She felt his tongue trace the curve of each tooth, a careful map of his own work, and then his hand slid down her belly, his fingers parting her, finding her slick and swollen and open. He made a sound against her shoulder, a low hum of possession, and she felt his fingers slide into her, one, then two, the stretch of them a familiar ache, and she gasped, her hips pushing back against him.

"You're open for me," he said, his voice thick against her skin. "You're always open for me. Even when you're afraid. Even when you're lying in your husband's bed and you can hear him breathing through the wall."

The words landed in her like stones, heavy and real. She felt the truth of them in her body, in the way her cunt clutched at his fingers, in the wetness that slicked his hand, in the shame that was somehow part of the pleasure, tangled with it, inseparable. She heard Vikram's breathing through the wall, the steady rhythm of sleep, and she felt his name rise in her throat, a word she had not spoken since he had left her in this bed, and she pushed it down.

"Don't," she whispered, and she did not know if she meant don't stop, or don't make me hear it, or don't make me say it. He heard her anyway, the way he heard everything, and he pulled his fingers out of her slowly, dragging against the walls of her, and she felt the emptiness of it, the sudden absence, and she made a sound she did not recognize.

He turned her onto her back again, and she saw his face above her in the dark, the black of his eyes swallowing the lamplight, and he was beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with beauty. He lowered himself over her, his weight settling between her thighs, and she felt the hard length of his cock against her, slick with her own wetness, and she lifted her hips without meaning to, a plea she could not voice.

"You want it," he said, and it was not a question. "You want me to take you in your husband's bed, with him four feet away, and you want to feel me inside you. Say it."

She shook her head, the same small jerking motion, the denial that was never quite a denial, and he smiled, a thin cruel smile that she had seen before, and he reached down and took himself in his hand, guiding the head of his cock to her entrance, pressing just enough to part her, to let her feel the heat of him, the promise of him, and then he stopped.

"Say it," he repeated, his voice low and patient, and she felt the tip of him against her, the pressure of him, the almost of it, and she could not bear the almost.

"Yes," she gasped, the word torn from her. "Yes, I want it. I want you inside me. Please."

The please came out of her unbidden, a word she had not meant to say, and she felt the shame of it burn through her, and then he pushed, and the shame was swallowed by the fullness of him, the stretch of him entering her, and she cried out, a sound she could not hold back, her hands flying to his shoulders, her nails digging into the dark muscle of his back.

He was deep inside her, deeper than she remembered, and she felt the pulse of him against the walls of her, the weight of him filling her, and she could not breathe. He held himself there, motionless, his eyes on hers, and she felt the silence of the room around them, the fan turning, the pipe knocking, Vikram's breathing through the wall, and she lay beneath this demon with his cock inside her and she could not find the part of herself that should have been afraid.

He began to move, slow and deep, drawing almost all the way out before pushing back in, and she felt every inch of it, the drag of him against her, the way he filled her and then left her empty, the ache of the absence between each stroke. She felt her body open to him, take him, and she heard herself making sounds she had never made, small broken sounds that were swallowed by the turning of the fan.

"Look at me," he said, and she did, her eyes finding his in the dark, the black of them depthless, and he held her gaze as he fucked her, slow and deliberate, each thrust a claim, each withdrawal a question she could not answer. She felt the pleasure build in her, low and insistent, coiling in her belly, and she felt the wrongness of it, the wrongness of this bed, this man, this moment, and she could not stop it.

"You're going to come," he said, and it was not a question. "You're going to come on my cock, in your husband's bed, and you're going to say my name when you do."

She shook her head, the denial automatic, and he smiled again, and he reached down and found her clit with his thumb, pressing and circling, and she felt the pleasure spike through her, sharp and blinding, and she could not hold it back.

She came with a cry that she could not swallow, her body arching against him, her cunt clenching around his cock, and she heard herself say his name, the word torn from her, "Arshad," and she felt him pulse inside her as he came, his seed spilling into her, hot and thick, and she felt the wrongness of it and the rightness of it, tangled together, inseparable.

He held himself inside her until she stopped shaking, and then he pulled out, slow, and she felt the emptiness of it, the loss of him, and she lay there, trembling, the seed of him leaking from her onto the red silk, and she could not move.

He lowered his head and licked the wound on her breast again, the sting of it sharp and clean, and then he moved lower, his mouth trailing down her belly, tasting the sweat that had gathered there, and she felt the heat of him between her thighs again, and she knew the night was not over.

And she believed him.