She told herself it wouldn’t happen. She told herself she wouldn’t let him in. But when the knock came at her apartment door—firm, steady, and far too familiar—her chest tightened in that way only danger can make it tighten.
Clara was fifty-eight, a widow for almost a decade. People knew her as the woman who never remarried, who wore her dignity like a second skin. But dignity didn’t warm her sheets at night. Dignity didn’t press her against the kitchen counter with hands that knew exactly where to go.
Through the peephole she saw him. Mark. Married. The man she’d sworn off after the last time. His shirt collar undone, his tie stuffed in his jacket pocket, his eyes already carrying the hunger he couldn’t hide.
When she opened the door, her breath caught.
“Not again,” she whispered, shaking her head.
But she didn’t close it.
Instead, she stepped aside.
Mark slipped in like a shadow, his presence filling the space before she could turn away. His hand brushed the small of her back as he passed, low enough to make her knees weaken. She should’ve pulled away. She didn’t.
The air thickened.
Her voice cracked as she tried to sound strong. “You need to leave. You shouldn’t be here.”
But her body betrayed her. She leaned against the wall, her hand grazing the neckline of her blouse, fingers trembling not from anger but from anticipation.
Mark stepped closer. Slow. Measured. His wedding ring glinted under the hallway light, the very thing that should have repelled her. But that ring carried with it a power she hated to admit. It meant he belonged to someone else. It meant she wasn’t supposed to have him. And somehow, that made her crave him more.
When his hand reached for her wrist, she flinched—not away, but toward. His touch was hot, confident, and far too certain. Her eyes darted to his, wide, conflicted, but unblinking.
“You don’t mean that,” he murmured, closing the last of the space between them.
She whispered again, weaker this time. “Not again…”
Her lips parted, but not to resist. Her head tilted, inviting the kiss she swore she didn’t want. The married man didn’t ask. He never asked. That was part of it. His certainty replaced her hesitation. His boldness drowned out her shame.
When his mouth found hers, she didn’t push him back. She clutched his shoulders, pulling him deeper, her nails digging into the fabric of his shirt. Every breath said stop. Every movement said don’t. But her body—her traitorous, aching body—answered differently.
She welcomed him not in spite of the ring on his hand, but because of it. That forbidden edge sharpened everything—the way he pressed her to the wall, the way her skirt bunched under his palm, the way her whispered protests turned into gasps.
Her mind screamed wrong. Her body whispered more. And in that storm of contradiction, she let go again.
