One of the books from the 'Fine As Wine' series.
It can be read as standalone.
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❝When archenemies fall for each other, it doesn't just sparkle... Stars explode to rain stardust on their bodies as they make love to each other and satisfy their s...
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"Hey, what happened?" Yashoda's slender fingers gently stroked Veer's thick, dark hair, his head nestled comfortably in the cradle of her lap. The afternoon sun dappled through the leaves of the ancient banyan tree, casting dancing shadows on his face. His usually smooth forehead was creased; each line etched on his forehead whispered tales of burdens he carried. It pained her to see him like this.
For the past week, Veer had been distant, avoiding her. He hadn't even kissed her, and her soul craved his love yet he remained silent. This silence was unusual for him; he had never stopped kissing her before, never before had he withheld his affection, and this sudden deprivation felt like a slow, agonizing death, her life force ebbing away with every unkissed moment.
Tears, hot and unwelcomed, welled up in her eyes, and a few escaped, which she quickly wiped away.
Veer was lost in his thoughts, oblivious to her tears. He was consumed by what had happened at his home the previous week. The thought of shattering Yashoda's innocent world, of witnessing the disappointment and pain clouding her beautiful eyes, was unbearable. He couldn't relinquish her, couldn't bear the thought of a life without her radiant presence.
He had to find a way, to navigate this treacherous path and win over his parents' approval before the inevitable clash. An unsettling premonition, a creeping sense of urgency, fueled his resolve. Time was of the essence, and he couldn't afford to falter.
His gaze finally settled upon her, and the sight of her wiping away silent tears pierced his heart like a thousand needles. A wave of remorse washed over him. His darling, the embodiment of sunshine and laughter, was weeping because of him. How could he have been so ignorant?
"Jhalli..." he murmured, his voice a tender caress as his hand reached to hold her cheek.
Yashoda's eyes met his beautiful, pitch-black ones. How could a man be so beautiful? His eyes were framed by thick, long lashes, casting a shadow that seemed to embrace the world. Her fingers traced his face, landing on his lips.
"Hmm?" she tilted her chin, a silent question in her eyes.
His lips parted, inviting her to slide her index finger inside, a silent invitation that she couldn't resist. He sensed her initial hesitation, but she was Yashoda—his Yasho—the embodiment of both boldness and beauty, and she knew exactly how to drive him wild. With a slow, seductive touch, she slipped her finger into his mouth. His lips closed around it, warm and eager, as his tongue began to trace its length in languid circles, a tantalizing preview of what else it could do, a promise of what he could do. Her breath caught, every stroke of his tongue sending shivers through her, communicating desires that words could never convey.
