My Married Lust-His Virgin Desire

Until the Door Knocked at Midnight

The Burning Months

The months that followed were not months at all.

They were like chains of burning hours, each link hotter than the last, each second pulling Ishika and Arav deeper into the fire they themselves had lit.

Arav woke with her name, slept with her name, breathed with her name in his chest. The hostel walls that once echoed with laughter and carefree talks now felt like a prison cell. Every evening when boys played cards or cracked dirty jokes, Arav sat with his phone in hand, his thumb brushing the screen again and again—waiting for it to light up with her name.

Sometimes it did.

Sometimes, the tiny vibration at noon meant everything: Ishika had stolen a moment, while her husband napped or went out, and had dialed him.

“Arav…” her voice would come, hurried, like a thief afraid of being caught. “I only have five minutes.”

And in those five minutes, they lived lifetimes.

“Ishika,” he would whisper, ducking under his blanket even in the middle of the day, “I’ve counted every second without you. My hands ache to touch you. My chest feels hollow without your voice.”

She sighed, almost sobbing. “Do you know how many times I looked at my phone and wished I could press call? But his shadow is always there. Sometimes I sit in the kitchen and cry into the wheat flour, Arav. Sometimes I want to scream your name into the empty fields.”

Her words pierced him. In his notebook, where professors expected formulas and notes, there were doodles—her name written a hundred times, hearts drawn in corners, fragments of lines like “Her laugh is my sky.”

And when nights came… those were worse.

The world slept, but not them. She would sneak to the terrace or stand in the dark verandah, her saree clinging to her like a second skin, phone pressed to her ear, heart racing.

“Arav…” she would whisper, her breath fogging in the cool night. “Do you imagine me? Tell me.”

And he would tell her everything. How he dreamt of her dimples, how her saree sliding off her shoulder haunted him, how his lips burned to touch her navel, how he wanted to bury his face in her hair and forget the world.

Her breath grew shallow. “Stop… Arav, stop. You’ll make me weak.”

“Then be weak,” he begged, voice hoarse. “Be weak with me, Ishika. I am already broken without you.”

Silence stretched. The silence of two people breathing each other through wires, two people so close yet oceans apart. Sometimes she sobbed softly, and he pressed his own hand against his mouth to stop from crying out. Sometimes he would whisper, “Ishika, run to me. Leave everything. Let me be your forever.”

But reality always slapped harder. Her husband’s footsteps in the next room. A door creaking. A child calling.

And the call would cut.

Leaving Arav staring at the ceiling, heart hammering, feeling like someone had ripped his veins open and drained him.

The next day he would walk to the cafeteria with his friends, laugh at their jokes, pretend to be normal. But in truth, every smile was fake. Inside, he was screaming her name.

The months rolled on. Festivals came, crackers burst, sweets were shared. But for Arav, joy was dead. His only festival was when Ishika’s call came, his only firecracker the vibration of his phone.

For Ishika too, life became unbearable. Her husband touched her, but her skin craved only Arav’s fingers. Her nights became hell—lying beside a man who saw her as nothing but duty, while her heart belonged to another. She grew thin, her bangles clinked loosely on her wrists. Her neighbors whispered, “She looks weak these days.” But only she knew—weakness was love, and it was eating her alive.

Every call ended with the same desperate plea:

“Ishika, one day… I will come to you.”

And her answer always carried the same broken mix of fear and longing:

“If you come, Arav… I won’t stop you.”

The Unexpected Journey

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Festival season had covered the village in colors. Streets echoed with laughter, temples shone with diyas, and the smell of sweets floated everywhere. Children ran with sparklers, women drew rangoli outside their homes, men discussed crops and politics over cups of hot tea.

But for Arav, this brightness felt empty. His heart was not in the festivals, not in the village songs, not in the laughter of his cousins. Every light, every sound only reminded him of the one person missing—Ishika.

At night, when his relatives gathered on the terrace to burst crackers, Arav stood at the corner, pretending to smile, but his phone remained in his palm, hidden under his kurta. Waiting. Hoping.

Sometimes it buzzed, sometimes it didn’t.

But even when it did, it was always the same: hurried whispers, stolen moments, love cut short by fear.

One evening, just when the sun had set and the sky burned orange, Veer, his childhood friend, rushed towards him.

“Arav! Thank God you’re here. I need to go to the city urgently. Will you come with me? I can’t go alone at this hour.”

Arav, tired of the suffocating happiness around him, nodded. “Let’s go.”

The road stretched long, through fields, through silent villages. The moon rose, silver and distant, while the car’s headlights sliced through the darkness. Veer hummed songs, talked about useless things, but Arav barely listened. His mind was elsewhere—always with Ishika.

Hours later, as they finished their work in the city and turned back, Veer suddenly slapped his forehead.

“s**t, yaar!”

Arav turned, startled. “What happened?”

“Maa gave me a packet to deliver to Ishika. It’s on this very route! How did I forget? She’ll scold me tomorrow.”

The name hit Arav like lightning. His fingers gripped the seat. His chest filled with a strange, choking mix of joy and terror.

“Ishika…?” he whispered inside, not daring to let Veer see his face.

Veer nodded casually. “Haan yaar. It’s on the way, let’s stop for two minutes. No big deal.”

But for Arav, it was the biggest deal of his life. His heart was beating so fast he thought the car would shake.

God… are you answering my prayers? Are you really sending me to her doorstep tonight?

The Forgotten Path

The car turned onto a narrow road. The same road that once haunted Arav’s dreams. The fields on either side whispered like old secrets. The trees bent low, casting long shadows, like silent witnesses.

Arav leaned his head against the window, eyes fixed outside. He remembered walking here once in his imagination, holding Ishika’s hand, her laughter ringing like temple bells. He remembered dreaming of a journey where no one would stop them, no one would question their love.

But dreams were dreams. And reality was cruel.

Still, tonight—fate was playing a strange game.

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The Knock at Midnight

It was 11 PM when their car finally stopped outside Ishika’s sasural. The house stood tall, quiet, a faint glow coming from one of the upstairs rooms. The silence of night wrapped it, only broken by the chirping of crickets.

Veer got down casually, carrying the packet, and knocked on the wooden door. Arav followed, but his legs trembled like they weren’t his own.

After a few seconds, the door creaked open. Ishika’s husband stood there, surprised. His brows lifted.

“Veer? At this time?”

Veer smiled easily. “Arre, sorry, Bhaiya. We had to go to the city for some urgent work. Maa sent this for Ishika. Thought to give it on the way back. It got late.”

The husband’s frown melted into a smile. “Oh come in, come in! Why standing at the door like strangers? You boys are family.”

Before Arav could protest, before he could even breathe properly, he was inside the house. His heart thundered in his ears.

He kept his head down, silent, praying no one would notice how violently his chest rose and fell.

And then… she came.

The First Glance

Ishika’s footsteps echoed down the stairs. She was adjusting her dupatta, her face tired but graceful as always. She came into the hall, casual, expecting only Veer.

Her eyes lifted.

And froze.

For a second, she thought she was dreaming. Her lips parted, her hand gripped the stair rail. Her breath hitched as her gaze locked on him—Arav.

“Veer—Arav?! At this hour?” Her voice trembled, breaking between shock and joy.

Arav felt the earth slip beneath his feet. For weeks, months, he had only imagined her, seen her in dreams, touched her in words. And now—she was real. Just a few feet away. Her eyes wide, her lips trembling, her very presence burning him alive.

Her husband laughed. “These boys were returning late. Thought to give the packet. And they were about to run away without even sitting!”

He turned towards them, smiling. “Sit! I won’t let you go like this. Ishika, bring tea, food—whatever is there.”

Ishika’s heart hammered against her ribs. She tried to calm her breath, tried to hide the storm inside. “Yes… I’ll bring something.”

Arav stood silent, stiff, his throat dry. He couldn’t even blink, afraid that if he closed his eyes, she would vanish again.

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