The kitchen held the lingering aromas of cumin and sautéed onions, but the air between them was charged with a different kind of heat. Aditya’s hands, still cupping Shweta’s silk-covered breasts from behind, felt her heartbeat accelerate at his whispered promise. Her chopping slowed, the knife making softer, less decisive taps against the wooden board.

“Lunch can wait,” Aditya murmured, his lips grazing the shell of her ear. He felt her shiver. “I have a different hunger to attend to first.”