"Close the curtains," she whispered, her voice trembling, not from fear, but from the kind of excitement that came with doing something she knew she shouldn't.
He did as she asked, his movements quick, deliberate. The soft rustle of fabric falling into place drowned out the sound of their racing hearts. The hotel room dimmed, bathed now in the warm, secretive glow of the bedside lamp.
She sat on the edge of the bed, fingers tracing the silk sheet as if it could steady her nerves. "You said you wouldn't come," she murmured, glancing up at him.
"I tried not to," he said, his voice low, roughened by restraint. "But every time I closed my eyes, I saw you."
Her lips curved faintly. "That sounds like a confession."
"Then forgive me," he replied, stepping closer.
He was still in his tie, shirt sleeves rolled up, the kind of man who looked too composed for what was about to happen. She, on the other hand, looked like temptation wrapped in uncertainty, hair slightly tousled, the faintest trace of lipstick smudged from biting her lip too hard.
When he stopped in front of her, she tilted her head. "You shouldn't be here," she said softly.
"I know."
"Your wife"
He silenced her with a look, one that carried too many sleepless nights and too many thoughts he could no longer bury. "Don't say her name," he said. "Not here."
For a long moment, neither of them moved. The hum of the air conditioner filled the silence, the rhythm almost matching the uneven beat of their hearts. Then she rose slowly, her fingers brushing against his chest, lingering there.
"I hate how good this feels," she whispered.
He caught her hand, pressing it flat against his heartbeat. "That's how you know it's real."
Her breath hitched when he leaned in, their foreheads nearly touching. "You make lying feel like the truth," she said.
"And you," he whispered, "make the truth unbearable."
The space between them dissolved. His mouth found hers, hot, desperate, almost angry. She met him with equal fire, her hands slipping around his neck as the kiss deepened, unraveling every ounce of resistance either of them had left.
When they broke apart, she was breathless. "We said this was the last time," she murmured.
He smiled faintly, tracing her jaw with his thumb. "We've said that before."
Her laugh came out shaky, nervous. "And yet, here we are."
He guided her backward until her legs brushed the bed. The sheets were cool against her skin as she fell onto them, and for a moment, she stared up at him, wondering how something that felt so wrong could look so beautiful.
"Tell me to stop," he said, his voice barely a whisper.
She met his gaze, her eyes dark and certain. "Don't you dare."
The world outside ceased to exist. There was only the quiet hum of forbidden longing, the soft creak of the bed, the sighs that filled the shadows like prayers no god would ever answer.
Every touch between them carried the weight of the secret they shared, the lies told to spouses, the excuses, the guilt that waited like morning light behind the curtains. But none of it mattered here, in this fleeting, stolen night.
"Do you ever think about what happens when this ends?" she asked against his shoulder, voice trembling.
He exhaled, lips brushing her ear. "It doesn't end. It just hides."
She closed her eyes, sinking into the warmth, the ache, the lie they had built so carefully between their sheets. She knew he was right. The deception wouldn't die, it would linger, sweet and sharp, haunting every empty bed they'd ever lie in again.
And yet, in that moment, wrapped in sin and silk, she didn't care. She only wanted him, his breath, his touch, his promise of escape from everything that waited outside that door.
When it was over, she lay there in silence, listening to the rhythm of his breathing beside her. Somewhere in the distance, a phone buzzed, unanswered. The world was calling, but neither of them was ready to return.
"Tomorrow," he murmured.
She smiled faintly, eyes still closed. "Tomorrow, we'll pretend again."
And for now, the lie was enough.