Under the Monsoon Sky

A story soaked in rain and wrapped in desire.

It was the kind of evening that made the village sigh. The monsoon had arrived in full glory, bringing with it a thick curtain of rain and a scent that hung heavy in the air — earthy, intoxicating, and oddly... arousing.

Kavya stood by the wooden window of her grandmother’s ancestral home, watching the rain play over the fields. Her white cotton kurti clung to her skin — damp and teasing. It wasn’t meant to be sensual, but the storm had its own plans.

Behind her, the creaking of the old door made her jump slightly. She turned. It was Armaan — the boy next door. Not a boy anymore, actually. He’d returned from the city with broader shoulders, a little beard, and eyes that undressed her even when they didn’t mean to.

“The power’s out,” he said, placing a flickering lantern on the table. His voice was deeper than she remembered.

“So is the rest of the village,” she replied, trying to sound casual. But her heart was drumming in her chest like the storm outside.

A crack of thunder, loud and angry, startled her. Without thinking, she grabbed his arm. Their eyes met. It was a split second, but something shifted.

He didn’t say a word. Instead, his fingers reached up, slowly, deliberately, and tucked a wet strand of hair behind her ear. That small touch sent shivers down her spine — and it wasn’t because of the cold.

“You’ve changed,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

“So have you,” she replied, stepping closer.

The rain drummed louder, as if to drown out the sound of their breathing. Kavya’s fingertips brushed against his shirt — soaked, transparent in places. She could see the rise and fall of his chest, the way his muscles tensed as her fingers explored without truly touching.

They stood like that, suspended between hesitation and hunger. And then, with a sudden hunger, his lips found hers. The kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t polite. It was needy, messy, wet like the rain that poured around them.

They stumbled backwards, lips never parting, until they hit the wooden cot. He laid her down gently, his weight covering her. Every inch of her body ached, burned, wanted. Her kurti slipped off one shoulder, revealing skin that glowed golden under the lantern’s dim light.

His hands explored her slowly, reverently. As if she was a prayer and he’d been an unbeliever too long.

When his lips reached her neck, she gasped his name — “Armaan…” — and it sounded like both a warning and a surrender.

Their moans mingled with the thunder. Rain slapped against the windows as if trying to get in and watch. But they were lost in each other. Her back arched, his fingers tightened, and the world blurred into heat and sighs.

It wasn’t just the physical — it was the release of years of restrained glances, polite hellos, awkward silences. This wasn’t just lust. It was the storm they had both kept caged.

As they collapsed beside each other, breathless and damp, she laughed. “We’ll catch a cold.”

“Worth it,” he said, kissing her shoulder.

She smiled, eyes closed. “Tomorrow… we pretend this never happened?”

He chuckled. “Or we let it happen again?”

To be continued... maybe.

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