Heat. It was the first sensation to pierce the veil of sleep, a dense, living warmth that seemed to press in from all sides. Not the tentative morning sun, still held at bay by the heavy velvet curtains of Dante’s penthouse bedroom, but the raw, masculine heat of two bodies flanking her own.

Aira shifted, a tiny, instinctive movement. The whisper of silk against her skin was a shock of sensation—cool, smooth, and utterly foreign against her nakedness. The crimson and gold Benarasi saree, the one she’d wrapped herself in hours ago in a dizzying mix of defiance and desire, was the only thing separating her from them. No bra, no panties. Just six yards of intricate fabric, now perilously loose, draped over the curves and hollows of her body, sliding with every breath she took.