He leaned closer, voice low. “You don’t want me to stop, do you?”
The conflict twisted inside her. He was a colleague, maybe even a risk to her carefully guarded reputation. She should’ve pulled back, laughed it off, excused herself. But she didn’t. Instead, she lowered her glass, setting it on the counter with slow precision, her other hand brushing against his as though by accident.
That’s when he dared again. His hand slid, not high, not low—just resting on her hip, anchoring her in place. The slow-motion of it made her dizzy. She looked up into his eyes, and what she saw wasn’t just lust. It was recognition. Like he’d been waiting for her to give permission, and now she had.
“Outside,” she whispered, surprising herself.
They slipped past the crowd, unnoticed or maybe ignored, into the cool night air. The parking lot was nearly empty, shadows stretching long beneath the streetlights. She leaned against the side of a car, her chest rising and falling too fast, her mind racing with warnings she didn’t care to obey.
He stepped into her space, his hand finding that same hip again. Slow, deliberate. His other hand caught her jaw, tilting her face up toward his. The kiss wasn’t rushed—it was measured, heavy with restraint breaking apart. Her lips parted, inviting, and his tongue tasted like the whiskey he’d been sipping.
Her hands clutched his shirt, pulling him closer, the fabric wrinkling under her grip. Every brush of his fingers set fire under her skin. When his hand finally trailed lower, pressing against the curve of her thigh through the slit of her dress, she moaned against his mouth, a sound too raw to disguise.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” she whispered, breathless, her head falling back as his lips traced her neck.
“You don’t want to stop,” he murmured against her skin, his hand sliding higher, daring more with every inch.
Her body answered before her mouth could. Hips arching, chest pressing into him, legs parting just enough for him to step between. Every nerve screamed contradiction—this is wrong, but don’t stop.
And she didn’t stop him. Not when his hand gripped her ass firmly, pulling her flush against him. Not when his lips traveled lower, making her gasp loud enough to risk being heard. The danger of it, the recklessness, only sharpened the need clawing at her chest.
They gave in to it there, hidden in plain sight, bodies tangled in the shadows of the lot, hands greedy, mouths desperate. She felt alive in a way she hadn’t since before her divorce, like she was stepping outside herself and finally breathing again.
When it ended, they didn’t speak right away. He rested his forehead against hers, both of them panting, trying to gather the pieces of themselves.
She laughed softly, shaky. “You picked the worst possible moment to touch me.”
He smiled, thumb tracing her swollen bottom lip. “Or maybe the only moment that mattered.”
She looked at him, at the mess they’d made of their clothes and their restraint, and for the first time in years, she didn’t care what anyone else would think. The risk, the timing, the daring—those were the things that made her feel wanted again.
And as they walked back inside, adjusting their clothes and pretending nothing had happened, her body still hummed with the echo of that first touch.
It hadn’t been what he touched.
It had been when.
