The rest of the day was a waking nightmare. Anjali moved through the grand haveli like a ghost, her body a traitor, humming with the memory of Vikram’s touch. Every step sent a jolt of sensation through her. The rough fabric of her petticoat felt like sandpaper against her tender, spanked ass. The silk of her saree brushing against her swollen, sensitive breasts was a constant, arousing torment.

She bathed, the cool water a shock against her heated skin. She saw the faint red marks on her ...