She wasn’t the kind of woman who made reckless promises. Her life was neat, her choices deliberate, her boundaries clear. But the night she found herself alone with him, her rules seemed softer than she remembered. He didn’t crowd her, didn’t push for more than she offered. Instead, he stood close enough for her to notice the scent of his cologne, steady and masculine, the kind that lingers long after the man has left the room. Her chest tightened as she felt the words rising before she meant to speak them: just this once.
The moment slipped between them like a secret. His eyes caught hers, steady, searching, as if making sure she knew what she was saying. Her voice was low, almost trembling, yet certain. The danger wasn’t in him—it was in how easy he made it to believe that crossing the line wouldn’t change everything. His hand brushed against her wrist, and she didn’t pull back. The small contact sent her pulse racing, and she realized she wanted more. That was the truth she couldn’t swallow anymore.
When she finally leaned closer, her lips brushing the edge of his ear, the words returned, firmer now: just this once. She knew it was a lie even as she said it. Once would never be enough. But in that instant, when his hand finally settled on the curve of her hip, she felt herself surrendering to something bigger than rules, bigger than reason. And for the first time in years, she allowed herself to want without apology.