"You missed a spot." His thumb swiped through the droplets clinging to her collarbone before dragging downward—over the swell of her breast, the dip of her waist, the curve of her hip. Stopping just above the throbbing ache between her thighs. "Filth sticks to filth."

Rumali whimpered as he spun her toward the fogged mirror, her palms slapping against the glass. His reflection loomed behind hers, distorted by condensation—a dark smudge of contempt framing her flushed nakedness. "Look at yourself," he murmured, lips grazing the shell of her ear. "Dirtier than the paan stains on the paanwala's wall."