Lakhan knew he wasn’t supposed to fall for monsters anymore. Well, not since that embarrassing incident of 1987, at least. But he couldn’t help lusting after the one in front of him. The beast was, he believed, obviously male, although there was no discernable bulge. He was lusciously dark, the result of deep-chocolatey South Indian genetics, with, of course, long hours toiling in the hot Indian sun, Lakhan assumed. His face was as delicious as his build, with full lips and wide-set black eyes framed by thick charcoal eyebrows. His nine arms were muscular, sexier than the arms of any two-armed man. The horned tail was to die for. With his lengthy nose and prominent chin, both geometric in their sharpness, the beast’s face was as angled as Lakhan’s was round.