The penthouse door clicks shut behind us, and the cool rush of air-conditioning hits my bare arms. The space opens up in front of me—polished marble floors reflecting the city lights streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows, a plush L-shaped couch in charcoal grey, a small bar set up against one wall with bottles I don't recognize, and beyond a half-open door, what looks like a studio space with professional lighting rigs and a marked spot on the floor. Everything smells like sandalwood and money.

Dev's hand tightens on my waist, fingers pressing into the soft skin above my hip, and he pulls me back against him for a second. His breath hits the back of my neck, warm and carrying the woody scent of his cologne. Then his free hand comes down hard on my ass—*smack*—the sound bouncing off the marble, the sting shooting straight through the thin saree fabric and into my skin. I gasp, my body jerking forward.