The first rays of the Mumbai sun filtered through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the penthouse, painting the rumpled silk sheets in shades of bruised purple and gold. Riya stirred in the massive bed, her body feeling heavy, anchored by a delicious, lingering ache in her core and her silk-bruised thighs. Every muscle in her body was a map of the night before—a constant, pulsing reminder of Professor Vikram’s thick, relentless possession.

She turned her head, her obsidian hair sprawling like spilled ink across the white pillows. Vikram was already awake. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to her, a magnificent expanse of scarred and muscled skin. He was already nursing a cup of black coffee, the steam curling around his sharp jawline. He didn't look like a man who had spent the night breaking a woman; he looked like a king contemplating his next conquest.