From the very first moment, she knew there was something about him she couldn’t ignore. It wasn’t just his appearance—though he was undeniably attractive—but the way he carried himself, the subtle authority in his gestures, the unspoken confidence that seemed to envelop the room. When he reached out, even casually brushing a strand of hair from her face, her skin tingled in ways she couldn’t quite explain.
It started innocently enough: brief touches during work meetings, accidental hand brushes when passing papers, the warmth of his palm lingering slightly longer than necessary. But each touch left a mark on her mind, a whisper of desire she couldn’t silence. Her thoughts drifted to him at night, imagining the weight of his hand, the deliberate, possessive way he might hold her close.
There was a danger in it, of course. He was married, a fact she reminded herself constantly. Yet, it only heightened the thrill. Every encounter carried an unspoken tension, a forbidden excitement that pulsed through her veins. His touch wasn’t just physical—it was an assertion, a signal that he saw her in ways no one else had. And the more she tried to resist, the more she realized she couldn’t.
Sometimes, she found herself leaning just a little closer, letting him guide her without permission, tracing the outline of her shoulder with a casualness that belied the intensity of what she felt. And in those fleeting moments, she gave in—not because she wanted to betray, but because the sensation was overwhelming. Every deliberate brush, every subtle squeeze, awakened a craving inside her she hadn’t anticipated. She hated herself for it and yet, she couldn’t stop. The pull of his touch was magnetic, irresistible, a silent command she obeyed without thinking.
