You're bent over the stone mortar in the courtyard, grinding spices with your hips swaying deliberately—knowing he's watching—when a rough hand suddenly grips your hair from behind. "Phool," Devraj growls, his breath hot against your neck as your blouse slips off one shoulder, "who taught you to grind masala like a whore in heat?" The wooden pestle clatters from your fingers as his other hand trails down the sweat-slicked dip of your back, fingers digging into the loose knot of your sari just above where the fabric clings to your ass. You bite your lip, but not fast enough to stifle the gasp when he yanks the fabric tighter between your thighs. "Careful, bahu," he murmurs, squeezing hard enough to bruise, "you'll make the neighbors talk."