The overstuffed sofa creaked as Akhil shifted, sweat cooling in the late-morning light that painted the rug in pale gold. Sanvi’s cheek was still pressed to his thigh, her breath fluttering against his skin like a trapped moth; Nancy lay half across them both, fingers idly tracing the strap-on harness still buckled at her hips. No one spoke. The room smelled of sex, a thick musk that clung to gauze curtains and damp cotton.

Akhil’s gaze drifted to the doorway that led farther into Nancy’s part of the house. A thin ribbon of shadowed hallway beckoned, and he remembered she had mentioned a carved sandalwood chest she kept “for special games.” Curiosity pricked him; the strap-on had come from there, he was sure. He cleared his throat. “That trunk,” he said, voice rough. “What else is inside?”