Spice and Smoke Read Online Free Page A

firelight dance on a sheet hung for privacy, and a man’s sensual voice sings of the temptation of beauty.
    He wants her so badly he cannot only taste it but breathe it as well. Wrapped in a thin, dry cloth, washed clean of makeup, Trishna has never looked lovelier. Harsh pulls her into his arms, and she makes a token sound of protest before meeting his kiss with anything but shyness.
    They shouldn’t do this. There are a dozen reasons why it is forbidden. But when she slants her mouth against his, presses against his bare chest, whispers his name…all sense flees him. He bears her down into the cushion of their still-drying clothes, nudging her thighs apart with his knee. The blunt head of his cock teases her sex; he still hesitates, even though she is wet and ready and saying, “Yes.” Her nails dig into his shoulders, urging him on, and it seems an eternity until he finally gives in…burying himself deep inside her with one, sure stroke.
    “I love you, Harsh,” she cries out.
    “I love you, too,” he gasps against the generous curve of her breast. “I never stopped. I never will.”
     
     
    The ride back to the hotel was quiet, except for the driver’s radio, turned just loud enough to afford them some privacy, and the tapping of Harsh’s fingers against the screen of his iPhone. Michael knew it was a tacit message of, “Keep your bloody thoughts to yourself,” since Harsh was entirely too well behaved to say such a thing aloud. When he’d come back from the veranda, Harsh had stared at him like “I’ve been shagging Avi Kumar” was tattooed on his forehead. Never mind that less than ten minutes would’ve been a right poor showing if he’d indeed been off doing so.
    People had thought worse things of him, of course. It was only natural. He was famous. He was rich. Going from modeling to blockbuster cinema, it was taken for granted that several lakhs’ worth of cocaine had gone up his nose and he slept with anything willing. He ignored it all, felt secure knowing exactly what his principles were even if the rest of the universe had no idea. But somehow feeling this disdain from Saint Harsh was almost unbearable. They weren’t mates, but they got on well. They had done several pictures together with no problems.
    Michael kept quiet for several kilometers, counting the bumps in the road and watching auto rickshaws go by at ridiculous speeds. Until the lights of the hotel were visible in the distance. “Out with it,” he said then. “ Jo bolna chahiye, bolo. ”
    Harsh’s clear green gaze flashed over his face like a searchlight before returning to the screen of his fancy mobile. “What makes you think I have anything to say to you?”
    A laugh, or something like it, burst from his lips before he could stop it. “Because you haven’t said one word to me since we left the muhurat .”
    Harsh likely saw the same absurdity in the moment, because his grim frown turned into a grim smile. He tucked his mobile into his jacket and ran a hand through his hair. “It’s just this: I think you are making a mistake with Avi Kumar.”
    This from the bloke who hadn’t taken his eyes off Avi Kumar’s wife all evening? Michael sighed, stretching his legs out in front of him as far as the roomy interior of the car would allow. “You weren’t there with us, Harsh. You don’t know if I made a mistake or not,” he pointed out. “You only know what’s in your own heart.” What was in the man’s heart was written all over his face as well. “You’re not so great of a performer as you think. Maybe they will have to take away your FilmStar Award.”
    Harsh either didn’t comprehend him or didn’t want to. “What bakwas are you talking?”
    “Trishna,” he said, simply. “You are the one making a mistake.”
    Harsh let loose with a string of filthy words in both English and Hindi. The kind of language his adoring audience of grandmothers and teenage girls would find shocking. Even the driver twisted