Emily told herself that a hundred times before that night. She was thirty-seven, recently divorced, working long hours at the real estate office, and the last thing she needed was to get tangled up with someone she shouldn’t.
Especially not him.
Ryan was twenty-eight. Young, sharp, confident — the office’s golden boy. New client leads, big commissions, a smile that disarmed women twice his age.
He was off-limits.
He was also her trainee.
It started with paperwork. Always does
They were sitting side by side in the quiet conference room after hours, reviewing contracts, when she leaned across him to grab a folder. Her blouse shifted, neckline dipping slightly. She caught his glance — quick, almost shy, but unmistakable.
She froze for a second, lips parting like she might say something, then didn’t.
Instead, she let her hand brush his as she slid the folder closer. Not enough to call it an accident. Not enough to make it obvious. But enough to make him pause.
Ryan turned, his knee grazing hers under the table. Neither of them moved away.
The air changed — thicker, slower, heavier.
She told herself to focus on the numbers, the signatures, anything but the way his hand rested dangerously close to her thigh.
And then his fingers shifted, just slightly, grazing hers again.
Slow motion.
She felt the warmth of his skin, the roughness of his knuckles, and for a second, her chest tightened with guilt… and want.
Emily inhaled sharply, forcing a smile, pretending not to notice — but her body did. Her legs, tucked neatly together minutes ago, relaxed unconsciously, knees parting just enough to breathe.
“Emily,” he said softly, his voice low, rougher than usual.
She looked up, and that’s when it happened — eye contact.
Not polite. Not professional.
Lingering. Searching. Hungry.
Her throat went dry. She should’ve ended it right there, set a boundary, reminded him — reminded herself — that this was wrong.
But when Ryan leaned closer, slow and deliberate, his hand brushing the edge of her skirt, she didn’t move away.
“You should stop,” she whispered, but her voice shook.
He hesitated for half a beat, scanning her face for permission. That tiny moment of silence felt like forever, her pulse loud in her ears.
And then she didn’t stop him.
His hand slipped lower, fingertips grazing bare skin, sending heat spiraling through her chest. Her breath caught, lashes fluttering, every sense amplified — the sound of the clock ticking, the soft hum of the ceiling vent, his scent mixing with hers.
Emily’s back pressed against the chair, her legs shifting instinctively, opening wider, betraying her words.
“Emily…” he breathed, almost like a warning, almost like a prayer.
She shut her eyes, leaning into the tension, letting herself feel instead of think.
It wasn’t supposed to happen.
Not with him.
Not here.
Not like this.
But desire doesn’t care about rules.
And when Ryan finally kissed her — slow, tentative, like he was tasting permission — every boundary she’d built crumbled in an instant.
Later, lying tangled together on the couch in the dimly lit conference room, Emily stared at the ceiling, chest still rising and falling, a mess of guilt and satisfaction swirling inside her.
“I wasn’t supposed to want this,” she whispered.
Ryan’s thumb traced lazy circles on her hip as he murmured, “Then why does it feel like you needed it?”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.
Because in that moment, she already knew the truth.
