Forbidden Flames

### Forbidden Flames

In the quiet lanes of a joint family home in Lucknow, 28-year-old Meera lived with her husband Amit, his parents, and his elder brother Rohan—her jija-ji. Amit was a decent husband, working long hours at his family business, but their marriage had settled into a predictable routine. Intimacy was infrequent, hurried, and left Meera yearning for more—passion, attention, the kind of touch that made her feel truly desired.

Rohan, 32, was different. Recently divorced, he’d moved back home. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a quiet intensity and a gentle smile that lingered on Meera a little too long. He helped around the house, cooked sometimes, and always noticed her—complimenting her new saree, asking about her day when no one else did. Late-night conversations in the kitchen while others slept turned into something deeper. Shared glances across the dinner table. Brushing hands while passing dishes.

One humid monsoon evening, Amit was away on a business trip to Delhi. The parents had gone to a relative’s wedding, leaving Meera and Rohan alone in the house for the first time. Rain pounded the roof as they sat in the living room, watching an old Bollywood movie. Meera wore a simple cotton saree, her hair loose and damp from the humidity.

“Tea?” Rohan asked, standing.

She nodded, following him to the kitchen. As he poured, their eyes met. The air felt thick, charged.

“Meera,” he said softly, voice low. “You deserve to be happy. Really happy.”

Her breath caught. “Jija-ji… what are you saying?”

He stepped closer, setting the cups down. “I see how you look when you think no one’s watching. How you smile less these days. I… I care about you. More than I should.”

She should have stepped back. Instead, she whispered, “I feel it too. Every time you’re near.”

Rohan cupped her face gently, thumb brushing her cheek. Their first kiss was slow, tentative—then hungry. Years of restraint melted away. Meera pressed against him, tasting tea and longing on his lips.

“We shouldn’t,” she gasped, even as her hands clutched his kurta.

“I know,” he murmured against her neck. “But I can’t stop wanting you.”

He lifted her onto the kitchen counter, saree pallu slipping. His mouth trailed down her neck, over her blouse, hands sliding up her waist. Meera arched into him, moaning softly as he unhooked her blouse, kissing the swell of her breasts.

“No one’s ever touched me like this,” she confessed, voice trembling.

Rohan looked into her eyes. “Then let me show you how you should be touched.”

He carried her to his room—the one at the end of the corridor, far from the others. Laid her on the bed like something precious. Slowly undraped her saree, kissing every inch revealed. When he reached her petticoat, he paused.

“Tell me to stop if you want,” he whispered.

“Don’t,” she breathed. “Please don’t stop.”

He parted her thighs, mouth finding her center through damp lace. Meera gasped, fingers tangling in his hair as his tongue worked slowly, expertly—circling, teasing, then firm and relentless. Pleasure built in ways she’d never known. When she came, it was intense, shattering—her body shaking as she cried out his name.

Rohan moved up, kissing her deeply, letting her taste herself. “You’re so beautiful when you let go,” he said.

She pulled at his clothes urgently now, needing him. When he entered her—slow, deep, filling—she wrapped her legs around him, meeting every thrust.

“Rohan… jija-ji…” she moaned, the forbidden word making it hotter.

He groaned, pace quickening. “Say it again.”

“Jija-ji… harder… please.”

He flipped her over, taking her from behind, one hand in her hair, the other rubbing her clit. She came again, clenching around him, and he followed—pulling out at the last second, spilling across her back with a low growl.

They lay tangled afterward, rain still falling outside. Guilt hovered, but so did bliss.

“This is dangerous,” Meera whispered, tracing his chest.

“I know,” he replied, kissing her forehead. “But I don’t regret it. Do you?”

She shook her head. “No. I’ve never felt so… alive.”

Over the following months, their affair became a secret dance—stolen moments when the house was empty, quick touches in passing, late-night visits to each other’s rooms. Each time, Rohan worshipped her body, making her come again and again, whispering how much he desired her, how beautiful she was.

Meera knew it couldn’t last forever. Society, family, Amit—they loomed. But in Rohan’s arms, she felt wanted, cherished, sensual in a way she’d never been.

One night, after another intense encounter, she rested her head on his chest. “What are we doing?”

He stroked her hair. “Loving each other… even if we shouldn’t.”

She closed her eyes, heart full and aching. For now, it was enough. These forbidden moments with her jija-ji were the most alive she’d ever felt—and she wasn’t ready to let them go.