She knew better. Every part of her upbringing, every word of advice from friends, told her to keep her distance. Married men meant complications, and complications always came with a cost. But when he spoke, when his voice carried that calm assurance, she felt herself lean in without realizing. His presence wasn’t a demand—it was an invitation, subtle and persistent, like the pull of a tide. She knew it was a risk. And yet, she didn’t look away.
The first time she let his hand brush hers, it felt small enough to ignore. But the warmth lingered, and the memory of that touch stayed longer than she wanted to admit. When he leaned close to point something out on the menu, his breath grazed her temple, and for a moment she forgot where she was. That wasn’t part of her plan. Still, her body seemed to answer before her mind could intervene. Married men don’t need to ask twice—their confidence is its own persuasion.
By the time she realized how far she had stepped past her own caution, she was already too deep to retreat. The risk was real, but so was the hunger in her chest when he looked at her. She wasn’t taking the chance because she didn’t understand the danger—she was taking it because, for once, she wanted to feel the thrill of choosing something forbidden. And as his hand finally settled on hers without hesitation, she felt that rules and warnings were no match for the way he made her feel seen.