𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 | 𝟏𝟖+

𝟐𝟏. Teach me to kiss 🌶

･:*࿔.ೃ⋆❀˚༺☆༻°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Author pov

Ikshita walked into the foyer, her heels clicking against the marble like a deliberate announcement of her arrival. Outside, a lavishly sleek dark-blue Jaguar gleamed under the early morning light — too smooth, too royal, too perfectly his taste.

"So," his voice came from behind her, smooth and annoyingly calm, "ready to roam around, Princess?"

Ikshita turned, the corner of her lips curving upward in a smirk that could start a war. "Hell yes."

Her confidence was almost theatrical — but then again, she was in her element. The thrill of freedom, of taunting him, of breaking his control in small delicious ways — it made her heartbeat race faster than the car outside ever could.

While biting into a croissant, she caught herself remembering last night's words — his promise to take her around the city before they left.
The promise itself had sounded simple then. But now, it was the perfect opportunity to annoy the hell out of the mafia boss.

Oh, how poetic.
She grinned to herself. Irritate the devil in his own car. Flawless plan, Ikshita.

But she didn't know — Aakarsh Mehrotra wasn't the kind of man to simply get irritated. He was the kind who enjoyed the fire, who leaned in when people thought he'd pull back. And right now, he was all set to see her flustered, restless, beautifully off-balance.

He stood near the doorway, hands casually tucked into his pockets, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows — dangerous and effortless, both at once. His eyes lingered on her — longer than they should have.

"You look..." he paused, head tilting slightly, "...excited."

Ikshita turned, arching a brow. "Excited? For what? The ride or your irritating commentary?"

He smiled faintly, eyes flicking to the Jaguar. "Both, I suppose."

"Also, I am excited! It's my first time in India," she said, her voice bubbling with genuine energy — that kind of brightness that could make even the dullest morning feel alive.

"Hmm?" he hummed, that low, lazy tone of his carrying more weight than it should. His eyes — sharp, unreadable — dropped, tracing her from head to toe. From the messy bounce of her hair, to the knotted white shirt tied at her waist, to the faded denim shorts that barely played fair. His gaze was slow, assessing, and completely unapologetic.

"So you'd be wearing these?"

Her smile faltered, the air suddenly shifting between them. "What's wrong with my clothes?" she shot back, crossing her arms — more out of reflex than modesty.

She knew how she looked. She had checked twice in the mirror before stepping out. The outfit screamed adorably dangerous — just the way she liked it. Cute enough to charm, confident enough to disarm.

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he rounded the car, his tone maddeningly casual when he finally spoke.
"No issue," he said, slipping on his sunglasses. "Just... we'll be travelling through dhabas, small pit stops — not exactly your NYC brunch cafés or LA rooftop bars."

Her jaw dropped a little. "Excuse me? Are you calling me high-maintenance?"

He smirked, opening the car door for her with an elegant tilt of his head. "No," he replied smoothly. "I'm just saying, try not to start a riot when someone offers you chai in a steel glass and then stare you like a glass doll."