Vikramaditya stood silently at the edge of the bed, his sharp gaze fixed on the sleeping woman sprawled across the sheets. Dharna’s body was covered in the marks he had left — hickeys blooming across her skin like bruised roses, her lips swollen from his kisses, her cheeks flushed from exhaustion. “What are you doing to me?” he murmured, his voice low, almost reverent. His thumb brushed against her cheek, tracing the warmth of her skin, then lingered on her lips. Dharna stirred faintly, her lashes fluttering open. Her eyes, heavy with sleep, met his. Hooded, hazy, yet filled with a dangerous allure. In that moment, she looked like nothing but a pure seductress, her vulnerability wrapped in temptation. He could not resist. Control slipped from his grasp, and he claimed her again. The room filled with the rhythm of their bodies, the sound of her muffled protests, the echo of his hunger. Even after several rounds, satisfaction eluded him. He wanted more — always more — but she was too
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