Standing. No, not quite standing — bent, the forward angle of someone whose upper body was angled down while their hips were back. The round, unmistakable silhouette of a pregnant belly hanging forward. Her breasts — visible in shadow, the full, heavy swing of them with each movement, the pendulum quality of weight shifting forward and back.
Her hands.
Reaching back. The shadow of her hands gripping something behind her — the headboard rail, the way fingers wrapped around something solid when the body needed an anchor.
And behind her.
A man.
The shape of shoulders. Hands at her hips. The forward-back, committed, rhythmic motion of someone who was in the middle of something and was not stopping.
The flesh sound came a second later.
'Pah.'
Soft. Contained. But in the three-AM silence of this room it carried.
'Pah. Pah.'
Vikram did not move.
His eyes were fixed on the curtain.
