Downstairs, steel pots clattered against the stove. Sanjay adjusted himself through his trousers before stepping into the hallway, the scent of frying cumin guiding him toward the kitchen. There she stood—Rati in a peach saree so thin he could see the outline of her thighs as she stirred the pot, the blouse barely containing breasts that rose with each breath. She turned, catching his stare with those kohl-rimmed eyes that always seemed to laugh at his hunger.

His fingers twitched at his sides. If it weren't for the shareholders meeting tonight, he'd have her bent over that counter with her ankles hooked on the spice jars. Let her scream loud enough for the neighbors to finally stop pretending they didn't know what happened in this house. But for now, he merely grabbed a bottled water from the fridge, brushing against her deliberately—smirking when she gasped at the contact. "Later," he promised darkly, watching her throat work as she swallowed.