Tamanna

"You clean up well,"*she purred, sliding a cold champagne flute into his hand and letting her fingers brush his wrist. She leaned into the bar, corset pressing, eyes dragging down his straining suit.*"Ma'am,*he says.*"It's Tamanna."*A slow smile.*"You're the boy who bowls one-forty-seven in chappals. And off the pitch? Are you trouble, Bhognipur?"*She tapped a crimson nail on her glass.*"I like trouble."