The haveli in Lucknow's old city had been in the Agarwal family for four generations. High ceilings, courtyards that trapped the afternoon heat, and walls thin enough to hear whispered conversations three rooms away.

Anjali had known what she was marrying into—the joint family system, the expectations, the constant presence of relatives. What she hadn't anticipated was Vikram.

Her *devar*. Her husband's younger brother. Twenty-two years old and finishing his MBA, all broad shoulders and nervous energy and eyes that followed her whenever she moved through the house.

"Anjali, Vikram ko chai de do," her mother-in-law called from the puja room. "Woh terrace pe padh raha hai."

Anjali picked up the tray—two cups, because she knew he would insist, because she wanted to anyway—and climbed the narrow stairs to the roof. The October sun was mild, pleasant, nothing like the brutal Delhi summers she'd grown up with.

Vikram sat cross-legged on the charpai, books scattered around him, his kurta sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looked up when she emerged, and something in his expression—hunger quickly masked by politeness—made her stomach tighten.

"Bhabhi," he said, the word sounding different when he said it. Thicker. More intimate somehow.

"Chai," she said, setting the tray down, sitting on the edge of the charpai because the only chair was piled with his textbooks. "Aur aapke liye kuch meetha bhi laayi hoon. Peda. Aapko pasand hain na?"

"Aapko kaise pata?" He was looking at her hands, she noticed. Her hands, her neck, the way her dupatta kept slipping off her shoulder no matter how many times she pulled it back up.

"Ghar mein sabko pata hai, Vikram," she said, keeping her voice light. "Aapki pasand, aapki na-pasand."

"Meri sabse badi pasand ka pata hai?" He asked it softly, not looking at his books anymore, looking at her mouth.

Anjali's breath caught. She should stand up. Should go downstairs. Should absolutely not ask—

"Kya?"

He leaned forward, close enough that she could smell him—sandalwood soap, old books, and something uniquely male that made her thighs press together under her saree.

"Aap," he whispered. "Meri sabse badi pasand aap hain, Bhabhi. Jab se aayi ho... bas yahi sochta hoon."

The words hung between them, heavy and dangerous. Anjali felt her face flush, felt her pulse hammering in her throat. Six months of marriage. Six months of a husband who touched her perfunctorily on weekends, who was currently in Mumbai for another "urgent business trip," who had never looked at her the way his brother was looking at her right now.

"Yeh... yeh galat baat hai, Vikram," she said, but her voice lacked conviction. "Main aapki—"

"Bhabhi hoon," he finished for her, and his hand moved, just an inch, his fingers brushing against hers where they rested on the charpai. "Haan, pata hai. Har second pata hai. Isliye raat ko neend nahi aati. Isliye jab aap paas aati ho, toh saans lena mushkil ho jaata hai."

Anjali should pull her hand away. Should stand up. Should remember that she was twenty-five and married and the elder in this dynamic, responsible for maintaining boundaries.

Instead, she turned her hand palm-up, letting his fingers slide between hers, the touch sending electricity up her arm.

"Aap... aap bachche ho," she tried, even as she laced their fingers together.

Vikram laughed, low and humorless. "Bachcha? Bhabhi, main college jaata hoon, par main bachcha nahi hoon. Aur jo main sochta hoon aapke baare mein... woh bilkul bachchon wali baatein nahi hain."

He shifted closer, his knee pressing against her thigh through the layers of her saree. Anjali could see the tension in his jaw, the way his throat worked as he swallowed. He was hard, she realized. She could see the outline of him straining against his cotton pants, and the knowledge that she—*bhabhi*, the respectable married woman of the house—could do this to him...

It went to her head like cheap liquor.

"Kya sochte ho?" The question escaped before she could stop it, her voice husky, unrecognizable. "Kya sochte ho mere baare mein, Vikram?"

His eyes darkened. His grip on her hand tightened.

"Raat ko," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper that she had to lean in to hear, close enough to feel his breath on her cheek. "Jab aap sone jaati ho... main sochta hoon ki main aapke peeche aaya. Aapke kamre mein. Aapke pati ki jagah."

Anjali's free hand found his chest, resting over his heart, feeling it race beneath her palm. "Aur?"

"Aur main... main aapke baal kholta hoon. Yeh saree... yeh saree utarta hoon. Bahut dheere se. Taaki aap dekh sako ki main kitna desperate hoon, kitna control khota hoon aapke liye."

His hand released hers, moving to her waist, his fingers finding the edge of her blouse where it met her saree pallu. Anjali didn't stop him. Couldn't stop him. Six months of loneliness, of feeling like a decorative object in this house, and here was someone who looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered.

"Vikram," she breathed, and it wasn't a protest, it was permission.

He took it, pulling her closer, his mouth finding her neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses there that made her head fall back, her fingers tangling in his hair. He was inexperienced—she could tell from the eager, slightly clumsy way he touched her—but that only made it hotter, this raw, unpracticed desire focused entirely on her.

"Bhabhi," he groaned against her skin, his hands moving to her breasts over her blouse, squeezing with a desperation that made her moan. "Itna time se... itna time se soch raha hoon. Aapko chhune ka, aapko..."

"Kya?" She pulled his face up, making him look at her, his pupils blown wide with arousal. "Kya karna chahte ho, Vikram? Bol ke dikhao."

The command—*bol ke dikhao*—seemed to unlock something in him. He pushed her back gently until she was lying on the charpai, him hovering over her, the books tumbling to the floor forgotten.

"Main aapki blouse ke hooks kholna chahta hoon," he said, his fingers already working at them, fumbling slightly. "Dekhna chahta hoon... woh jo aapke neck se neeche dikhti hai. Hamesha dikhti hai. Sapno mein."

Anjali arched her back, helping him, and then her blouse was open, her breasts spilling out into his waiting hands. He made a sound—broken, reverent—and buried his face between them, licking and sucking at her nipples with an enthusiasm that had her writhing beneath him.

"Ha," she whispered, her hands gripping the rough rope of the charpai, looking up at the sky to remind herself they were outside, exposed, anyone could come up the stairs. The risk made it sharper, more intense. "Aur?"

Vikram looked up at her, his mouth wet, his expression dazed. "Main... main aapki saree uthaana chahta hoon. Dekhna chahta hoon ki aap... ki aap gili hain ya nahi. Mere liye."

"Toh karo," she challenged, lifting her hips slightly. "Check karo. Dekho ki aapki bhabhi kitni gili hai aapke liye."

He made a strangled noise and pushed her saree up, bunching it around her waist, his hand trembling as he traced the edge of her petticoat, then slid beneath it. Anjali spread her legs for him, shameless now, past the point of no return.

"Oh," he breathed when he found her, his fingers sliding through wetness that soaked her underwear completely. "Oh god, Bhabhi, aap toh... aap toh..."

"Gili hoon?" She smiled, wicked, feeling powerful for the first time in months. "Bahut zyada. Aapke sapno se zyada, Vikram. Ab dikhayenge ki aap kya kar sakte hain? Ya sirf bolne mein hi acche ho?"

That seemed to snap his hesitation. He pulled her underwear down—roughly, desperately—and then his mouth was there, his tongue licking through her folds with an enthusiasm that made her cry out, her hand flying to her own mouth to muffle the sound.

"Vikram," she gasped, looking down at him, his dark head between her pale thighs, the contrast obscene and perfect. "Vikram, please..."

He looked up at her, his chin wet, his eyes wild. "Aapko maza aa raha hai?"

"Ha, pagal," she laughed, breathless. "Bahut zyada. Par ab aur chahiye. Tumhe bhi chahiye, haina?"

She sat up, pushing him back until he was sitting and she was kneeling between his legs. His erection was obvious, straining against his pants, and Anjali felt a surge of power as she undid the drawstring, pulling him free.

He was thick, darker than she'd imagined, pulsing in her hand as she stroked him slowly, watching his face contort with pleasure.

"Bhabhi," he panted, his hips bucking into her touch. "Please... please ab raha nahi jaa raha."

"Toh kya karna hai?" She teased, but she was already positioning herself over him, her saree pooled around her waist, her blouse hanging open. "Bol ke dikhao. Apni bhabhi se kya chahiye?"

"Chodna," he groaned, his hands gripping her hips, guiding her. "Aapko chodna hai. Please, Bhabhi, please..."

Anjali sank down onto him slowly, both of them gasping at the sensation. He was big, stretching her in ways her husband never had, filling her completely. For a moment, they stayed like that, joined, looking into each other's eyes, the *devar* and the *bhabhi*, the taboo thick between them like honey.

"Move," he begged, his fingers digging into her hips. "Please, Bhabhi, move."

She did, rising and falling on him with slow, deliberate movements, watching him fall apart beneath her. He was so responsive, so open with his pleasure, his mouth falling open, his eyes rolling back when she shifted her angle and ground down just right.

"Yahan?" She asked, doing it again, feeling the head of his cock drag against that perfect spot inside her.

"Ha, ha, wahin," he chanted, his hands moving to her breasts, squeezing, pinching her nipples. "Bhabhi, aap... aap bahut achhi ho. Bahut sexy. Main... main..."

"Abhi mat aana," she commanded, riding him faster, feeling her own orgasm building. "Ruko. Mere saath aana. Control karo, Vikram. Apni bhabhi ke liye control karo."

He groaned, his jaw clenched, clearly fighting his release. Anjali leaned down, kissing him deeply, her tongue sliding against his, and then she sat up again, one hand between her legs, rubbing her clit as she bounced on him.

"Almost," she panted. "Almost there... Vikram..."

"Main... main nahi ruk pa raha," he gasped, his hips thrusting up to meet her, harder, faster. "Bhabhi, please..."

"Ab," she cried out, her orgasm crashing through her, her body clamping down on him, milking him. "Ab, Vikram, ab!"

He came with a shout that he barely managed to muffle, his face pressed against her chest, his cock pulsing inside her, filling her with heat. Anjali kept moving through it, slower now, drawing out every last shiver of pleasure for both of them.

When it was over, when they were both breathing hard and sticky with sweat, she collapsed against him, her head on his shoulder, his arms wrapped around her.

"Yeh... yeh phir hoga?" He asked, his voice small, vulnerable.

Anjali laughed, pressing a kiss to his neck. "Tumhari bhaiya Friday ko aa rahe hain, Vikram. Do din hain."

She felt him smile against her hair. "Do din. Kitni baar?"

"Jitni baar tum chaho." She sat up, fixing her blouse, her saree, trying to make herself look presentable even though she could feel him dripping down her thighs. "Par dheere se. Ghar mein sab hain."

"Toh bahar?" His eyes lit up with mischief. "Mere paas ek dost hai. Uske flat pe—"

"Shh." She pressed a finger to his lips, smiling. "Pehle is baar ko digest karo, chhote devar. Phir sochte hain agle step pe."

She stood up, smoothing her hair, and walked to the stairs. At the top, she looked back. He was still sitting there, dazed, happy, looking at her like she hung the moon.

"Shaam ko," she said softly. "Puja ke baad. Mere kamre mein aana. Pati nahi hai, toh koi dekhne wala nahi."

And then she descended, leaving him there with his books and his fantasies, knowing he would spend the rest of the day counting minutes until evening.

Anjali smiled to herself as she entered the kitchen. The *devar* had been conquered. And there were still two days left to explore just how deep this particular taboo could go.