Ethan had promised himself he wouldn’t cross the line tonight.
Monica was his best friend’s older sister. Forty-four, recently divorced, and effortlessly magnetic in a way younger women only tried to imitate. Her laugh was quiet but addictive, and when she looked at you, it felt like she was pulling a secret out of you without even asking.
He stopped by her apartment to drop off a memory card—just five minutes, he told himself. But then she offered him a glass of wine, and five minutes became an hour.
The small living room was dimly lit, shadows dancing across her bare shoulders as she leaned back on the couch. She was wearing an oversized white shirt, collar hanging just loosely enough to hint at skin he shouldn’t notice.
Ethan tried not to. He failed.
Monica sipped her wine slowly, watching him over the rim of her glass. Her gaze lingered too long, and his pulse spiked. Neither of them spoke for a while. The silence was thick, charged—like static before lightning.
She leaned forward slightly, and he caught a subtle shift in her breath. Her knee brushed his, just barely, but it was enough. He froze.
Monica tilted her head, her lips curving—not quite a smile, more like a dare.
Ethan exhaled slowly, almost soundless. His hand rested on the couch, close to hers, and he felt the air between their skin warm. Then she moved.
In slow motion, Monica slid one leg over the edge of the couch, turning toward him. She didn’t say a word—didn’t need to. Her body spoke for her, every tiny motion deliberate. Her oversized shirt slipped down one shoulder, exposing smooth skin glowing under the amber light.
And then… she opened her legs slightly.
Not much. Just enough to make him forget every reason he had for leaving. Her eyebrow lifted, a silent question, a dangerous invitation.
His throat went dry.
Ethan leaned forward without meaning to, the space between them shrinking until he could feel the warmth of her breath. Her hand brushed against his—light, almost accidental, but her fingers lingered, tracing the line of his knuckles like she was testing him.
“Monica…” His voice cracked, betraying him.
“Shhh,” she whispered finally, her first word all night. “Just… let it happen.”
The next seconds stretched into slow, deliberate frames. The faintest graze of her fingertips along his jawline. Her eyes locking with his, holding him there, making him forget air existed. He could hear nothing but her breath and his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
He knew he shouldn’t. He also knew he wouldn’t stop.
Monica leaned in first, closing the last inch, and their lips met—not rushed, but deep, lingering, like two people tasting something they’d been denying too long.
Her hand slid down his arm, nails tracing a slow, deliberate path, and when her palm rested on his chest, she felt how fast his heart was racing. She smiled against his mouth, a quiet, knowing curve of her lips.
Ethan thought about leaving a hundred times that night.
He didn’t.
