The sitting room still hummed with the aftershocks of Indira’s departure, the air thick with the scent of sweat and sandalwood, the musk of spent arousal clinging to every surface. Akhil’s fingers twitched around the brass serpent buckle, his knuckles white, the leather collar coiled like a sleeping viper in his palm. His cock pulsed against the rough fabric of his athletic shorts, the denim abrading his oversensitive skin with every shift of his thighs. He should have been sated—should have been limp, drained—but the collar’s weight in his hand sent a fresh jolt of hunger through his veins, his balls already heavy again, aching.