The ceiling fan in Priya's room was moving lazily, doing almost nothing to combat the May heat that had turned her Darya Ganj flat into a furnace. She lay on her bed, wearing only a thin cotton nightie, the fabric sticking to her skin in places that made her conscious of her own body in a way she rarely admitted.

"Priya, beta, paani le aana," her mother's voice drifted from the kitchen.

She didn't move. Couldn't move. Not yet.

Because Rajeev jiju was in the bathroom adjacent to her room, and the old ventilation window above the shower—long broken and never fixed—was giving her a view she knew she shouldn't be looking at.

Her elder sister's husband. Thirty-two years old. Built like the gym instructor Priya secretly followed on Instagram. And right now, completely naha raha tha, the water running in rivulets down his broad back, his dark skin glistening under the yellow bathroom light.

Priya was twenty-one. Old enough to know better. Young enough to not care.

She bit her lower lip, her hand moving under her nightie without conscious thought. The fan continued its slow rotation. Sweat beaded at her hairline. And through that cracked window, she watched Rajeev turn, his profile coming into view—sharp jawline, the hint of a tattoo on his shoulder she hadn't known existed, and lower...

*Oh god.*

He was half-hard already, the water doing nothing to cool him down either. Priya's fingers found the edge of her underwear, sliding beneath. She was already wet, had been since she'd heard the shower start twenty minutes ago.

"Kya kar rahi hai tu?" she whispered to herself, but her hand kept moving, circling her clit in slow, teasing motions as she watched him soap his chest, his hands running down his stomach, lower...

Rajeev paused. Looked directly at the window.

Priya froze, her heart hammering against her ribs. Could he see her? The light was behind him, she was in shadow. But for a long moment, he stared, his hand wrapped around himself now, stroking slowly, deliberately, his eyes fixed on that crack in the glass.

Then he smiled. Not a lot. Just the corner of his mouth lifting. And he turned fully toward the window, giving her a show that made her gasp out loud, her fingers moving faster, harder, as he worked himself with the same rhythm she was using on herself.

It was a game now. A dangerous, stupid, thrilling game.

She came silently, her back arching off the bed, her free hand stuffed into her mouth to muffle the sounds. Through the haze of her orgasm, she saw him finish too, his head falling back, his chest heaving.

They didn't speak of it at dinner. Rajeev sat across from her, making small talk with her father about the stock market, his foot occasionally brushing against hers under the table. Each touch sent electricity up her spine.

"Priya, tu aaj bahut chup hai," her sister Neha remarked, passing the dal. "Kya hua?"

"Kuch nahi, didi," Priya said, keeping her eyes on her plate. "Bas garmi lag rahi hai."

"Garmi toh sabko lag rahi hai," Rajeev said, and when she finally looked up, his gaze held hers with a heat that had nothing to do with the weather. "Par kuch cheezein... thodi aur garam hoti hain."

Neha laughed, oblivious. "Jiju, tum bhi na. Paagal ho gaye ho garmi mein."

"Paagal toh main pehle se hi tha," he said softly, still looking at Priya. "Ab bas... cheezein aur clear ho rahi hain."

That night, Priya couldn't sleep. At 2 AM, she crept to the kitchen for water, wearing only her nightie again, no underwear this time. She told herself it was because of the heat. She knew she was lying.

He was already there, leaning against the refrigerator in his shorts, no shirt, his skin still smelling of the sandalwood soap she'd watched him use.

"Bahut himmat hai tum mein," he said quietly as she entered. "Dekhna aur aana. Dono."

"Maine kuch nahi dekha," she lied, going to the sink.

"Jhooth bolna bhi aata hai tumhe." He was behind her suddenly, close enough that she could feel his body heat, not touching her but trapping her against the counter. "Maine tumhe dekha, Priya. Kitni baar tumhari aankhein mujhpe rehti hain. Main andha nahi hoon."

Her hands gripped the edge of the sink. "Jiju, please..."

"Please kya?" His breath was hot against her neck. "Please chhod do? Ya please karo jo tum dono chahte ho?"

She turned around then, her back pressed to the sink, and he was right there, his hands on either side of her, caging her in. Through his thin shorts, she could feel how hard he was already, and the memory of him in the shower made her dizzy.

"Yeh galat hai," she whispered, even as her hands found his chest, her fingers tracing the muscles she'd watched him build.

"Galat?" He laughed softly, darkly. "Tumne dekha tha na mujhe? Kya woh sahi tha?"

"Main—"

"Chup." His thumb pressed against her lips, then traced them, his eyes following the movement with an intensity that made her thighs clench. "Bas ek baar bol do. Ek baar keh do ki tum nahi chahti. Main chala jaunga. Kabhi nahi aaunga tumhare paas."

Priya looked up at him—her sister's husband, the man who'd been part of her family for three years, the fantasy she'd been touching herself to for months. The taboo of it made her wetter than anything ever had.

"Main... main nahi keh sakti," she breathed.

"Kya nahi keh sakti?"

"Ki mujhe nahi chahiye." Her hands slid down his stomach, her fingers hooking into his waistband. "Kyunki mujhe chahiye, Jiju. Bahut zyada."

He groaned, the sound vibrating through his chest, and then his mouth was on hers, hungry and demanding, his tongue sliding past her lips as his hands finally—finally—touched her, pulling up her nightie, finding her bare and wet and ready.

"You whore," he muttered against her lips, his fingers sliding through her folds, making her whimper. "Tumne underwear bhi nahi pehni?"

"Garmi thi," she gasped as he circled her clit with expert precision.

"Chhii," he laughed darkly. "Jhoothi. Tum bas ready thi. Mere liye."

He lifted her onto the kitchen counter, spreading her legs wide, her nightie bunched around her waist. The risk of it—their parents sleeping two rooms away, her sister in the next room—made everything sharper, more intense.

"Rajeev," she moaned as he lowered his head, his tongue replacing his fingers, licking her with long, devastating strokes that made her grip his hair, her hips bucking against his mouth.

"Jiju bol," he commanded, looking up at her with dark eyes, his chin wet with her. "Jab tak tum mujhe Rajeev bulaogi, main ruk jaunga. Jiju bolo. Apne jiju se chudwana chahti ho na?"

The word—chudwana—spoken in his deep voice, sent a shiver through her. It was so dirty, so wrong, so exactly what she needed.

"Please, Jiju," she begged, not caring how desperate she sounded. "Please... karo. Abhi karo."

He stood up, pulling down his shorts, his cock springing free, thick and hard and exactly as she'd imagined. He stroked it once, twice, his eyes roaming over her spread out on the counter like a feast.

"Neha so rahi hai," he said, positioning himself at her entrance, rubbing the head through her wetness, making them both groan. "Uske baaju wale kamre mein. Aur main yahan hoon, uski behen ko chodne wala hoon."

"Ha," Priya whimpered, arching toward him. "Please, Jiju, ab mat—"

He thrust into her in one hard movement, filling her completely, stretching her around him. They both froze, the sensation overwhelming, the wrongness of it making it perfect.

"Kaisa lag raha hai?" he growled, starting to move, slow and deep, each thrust hitting places that made her see stars.

"Bohot achha," she gasped, wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. "Aur tez, Jiju. Please, aur tez."

He obliged, his hips snapping against hers, the sound of their bodies meeting filling the kitchen along with their ragged breathing. Priya had never felt anything like it—the stretch, the fullness, the knowledge that she was taking her sister's husband while her family slept nearby.

"Meri ho jaao," he muttered against her neck, his thrusts getting harder, more desperate. "Bas meri. Neha se zyada. Kisi se zyada."

"Main sirf aapki hoon," she promised, feeling her orgasm building, tightening in her belly. "Sirf aapki, Jiju. Hamesha."

He reached between them, his thumb finding her clit, rubbing in tight circles as he fucked her harder, faster, the counter creaking beneath them.

"Abhi aa jao," he commanded. "Mere saath. Abhi."

Priya shattered, her orgasm crashing through her with a force that made her bite his shoulder to muffle her scream, her body convulsing around him, milking him. Rajeev groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic, and then he was coming too, filling her with hot spurts, his face buried in her neck, her name—and "Jiju", always "Jiju"—falling from his lips like a prayer.

They stayed like that for long moments, breathing hard, still joined, the fan in the kitchen doing nothing to cool their overheated skin.

"Kal raat," he finally said, lifting his head to look at her, his eyes soft now, almost tender. "Neha ko shopping bhejunga. Ghar pe aana. Mere room mein. Poora din."

Priya nodded, already feeling him hardening inside her again, ready for round two right here if she let him.

"Main aaungi," she promised, kissing him slow and deep, tasting herself on his tongue. "Baar baar aaungi, Jiju. Jitni baar bulaoge."

He smiled against her lips, starting to move again, slower this time, savoring her.

"Yeh sirf shuruaat hai, Priya," he whispered. "Abhi toh humne bahut kuch karna hai. Bahut kuch."

And as he carried her to the living room sofa, laying her down and settling between her thighs again, Priya knew he was right. This was just the beginning of their garmiyon ki raat—and the taboo that would burn hotter than any Delhi summer.