With a single, measured movement, he reached down with his left hand, caught the sodden waistband of his night-cloth, untied the wet knot, and stripped the dripping fabric entirely from his hips. He tossed the soaked cloth over the edge of the charpai onto the stone floor with a dull, wet slap. Meera gasped, her breath catching violently in her throat. There was no longer a single thread between them. Seated directly upon his bare lap, she felt the raw, stone-hard heat of his manhood pressing flush against the soft flesh of her inner thigh—broad, heavy, and undeniably vital, carrying the immense, unspent vigor of a man whose strength age had refused to touch. The sight and the feel of him, completely unmasked in the early light, sent a dizzying tremor straight to the pit of her stomach. Vikram’s hand tightened on her hip, holding her firmly anchored right where she was, refusing to let her slide away. "You wanted to see the man who shelters you, Meera," he whispered, leaning his forehead against hers, his breath hot against her parted lips. "You wanted to know if this old heart still beats with fire. Well? Speak, girl." Meera could only look down, her chest heaving as her full, milk-laden breasts brushed against the hair on his chest, her hands trembling where they rested over his heart. "Ji..." she breathed, the word dissolving into a helpless, shuddering sigh of complete surrender. "You are... you are my lord. There is no one like you." Vikram let out a low, victorious sound, wrapping both his massive arms around her back, pulling her vast, rounded weight entirely against him as they sat locked together in the drenched, quiet room, the village forgotten beyond their walls.