Spice and Smoke by Suleikha Snyder Page A

the man was constantly at Avi Kumar’s side, but still the images flashed before his eyes. Like he was in the cheap seats of an adult cinema hall. Then the picture changed, fashioning him as the leading man.
    Damn. Damn. Damn.
    Just once, said the ugly voice in his head. It was pushing, wheedling. Sirf ek bar. Be with him just once. It won’t hurt. You will still be sober. Sam was a master of rationalization. After all, ganja and gin had been his idea of sobriety for years. Now that same talent for self-delusion was shoving him back at Viki, telling him that falling off this wagon was not so bad. It wouldn’t wreck him. Not this time. All he had to do was hold back his heart, na ? Guard it and keep it safe…well out of the path of the high.
    Sam could almost feel the moment he gave in. Like he’d clicked a switch marked “surrender”. It was comfortable, like sliding into his favorite True Religion jeans, or a broken in pair of sandals…or Vikram’s mouth.
    When Viki bid his khaas dost Michael good evening, Sam shadowed him…feeling as blissed-out as if he were chasing the dragon.
     
     
    He felt, rather than heard, Sam’s footsteps trailing him. Felt them in every corner of his soul. This was how it had been on the tour. Pacing one another through dark hotel hallways. Nothing asked, nothing offered. All of it simply taken, riding the adrenaline wave of being on stage and screamed for and adored.
    He was just entering his rooms when Sam, lean and hungry like a feral tomcat, caught up with him. Just like a cat, he peered up at him, wanting to be stroked, but too aloof to beg for it. “ Kya chatha hu , Sam? What do you want?”
    His only answer was a rough exhalation. It was enough.
    They had barely shut the door behind them before they crashed into the wall, hands scrabbling for purchase. Vikram’s every sense was screaming for him to stop, to run, but still he kept kissing Sam. It was too much. Familiar lips. Familiar tongue. The same heat. Like petrol and a match. The scrape of Sam’s day-old stubble against his skin lit fire within him. It burned through his defenses, and he clutched the back of Sam’s head, threading his fingers through his hair . Yeh mera hai. This is mine. Maybe he was growling that traitorous sentiment, but he would not admit it. Nahin. No. They were chest to chest, groin to groin, and Vikram met Sam’s teeth with his, with sloppy, violent kisses that spoke far more profoundly than pretty declarations.
    Sam’s fingers bit into the skin beneath his waistband, urging the madness on. Sam never talked without profanity, and now the most eloquent sins tore from his throat. “Motherfucker. Kaminey. Saala. Haram kohr. ”
    They shed their jeans, lost Viki’s shirt, and nearly went sprawling over the sofa instead of landing safely on its cushions. No perfect choreography for this. No pretense of tenderness, of care. Nothing except fingers roughly pulling at each other’s cocks. Viki knew Sam liked short, fast strokes. Sam knew Viki liked it when he licked him from groin to knee. Even years apart couldn’t erase what their bodies knew.
    Vikram lowered his head, licking a slow, tortuous path up Sam’s chest. Sam paid him back in kind by biting down at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Hard enough that makeup would have to cover up the irregular imprint of his teeth tomorrow. They bit and licked and pulled and pushed, until Sam’s body arched beneath Viki’s, and Viki’s pressed down between Sam’s narrow thighs, and they each came with messy spurts and mingled groans.
    He breathed Sam in: that unique combination of smoke and sex and sandalwood…and minutes didn’t even tick by before Sam was pushing at his chest. They were still warm and sweaty—three years ago they would have lain together for hours, tangled like knots—but Sam’s dark eyes were cold, distant. Like he’d just gotten off with a stranger in the back alley of a club.
    “This doesn’t mean anything,” he