I should have known it was a bad idea to text him. “In town. Coincidence?” Some coincidence. Eight years without a word, and then I tap those three lines into my phone while lying on the hotel bed, staring at the ceiling light—that flickering neon glow that bathes everything in a pale, cold blue. The business trip is tedious, tomorrow morning’s lecture is prepared, and I’m alone in a room that smells of disinfectant and loneliness. The scent clings to my skin like a second layer of clothing.
His reply came in three minutes. “Which hotel? I’ll be there in ten minutes.” No “How are you?”, no “Good to hear from you.” Just that bare certainty—as if the time between us were only a thin membrane, easily pierced. And me? I sent him the address. My finger hesitated a millisecond over the “send” button, then I pressed it. The arrow flew off, and with it, every last shred of reason.
Now I’m standing in the bathroom, watching myself in the mirror as I brush my hair from my face. My fingers tremble almost imperceptibly. I’m still wearing the gray blazer from the meeting, but underneath only a thin lace bra—black, almost transparent. Why? I know exactly why. Because I remember how his hands felt back then—demanding yet tender, gliding over my back, pressing me against him. Because I remember how he looked at me, as if I were the only window in a stuffy room, the only fresh air he ever wanted to breathe.
A knock. Not loud, but firm. Three strikes—precise, like a heartbeat setting the rhythm. I breathe in deeply, the scent of perfume and nervousness filling my nose. Then I open the door.
He’s older. The wrinkles around his eyes are deeper, his beard streaked with gray that glimmers like silver threads in the light. But his gaze—that gaze that used to melt me—has lost none of its intensity. He wears a dark coat, beneath it a loosely fitting shirt, collar open. No tie. He smells of cool evening air and a hint of cedarwood, that earthy, masculine scent that catapults me straight back into the past.
“Hello,” he says. Nothing more. The word hangs between us, heavy as a stone thrown into water.
“Hello.” I step back, let him in. The door clicks shut, and suddenly the room feels smaller, the air denser. I feel his closeness before he touches me—an invisible wave of warmth radiating from him. My skin tingles, as if it had never forgotten him, as if every pore remembers him.
He stands there, looking at me. His gaze travels over my face, lingers on my lips. “You look good.” His voice is deeper than before, rougher—like whiskey aged too long in the cask.
“You too.” I smile crookedly. “Age suits you.”
He laughs softly, a deep rumble in his chest. “Still the same way of giving compliments.”
“Still the same way of needing them.” A small sting—I’m immediately back in that old game, circling each other like two predators unsure whether to devour or love.
For a moment, it’s silent. Only the hum of the air conditioner and my own heartbeat pounding in my ears. Then he takes a step toward me. I don’t step back. His hand lifts, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. The touch is feather-light, but it burns on my skin like a brand.
“Why are you here?” I ask. My voice sounds rough, almost hoarse. The sentence slips out before I can stop it.
“Because you called me.” His thumb brushes my cheekbone, a gesture so familiar it hurts.
“That’s not an answer.” I swallow, my throat dry.
“Yes, it is. It’s the only one that matters.” He leans closer, his breath grazing my lips. I smell coffee and something sweet—maybe gum, maybe the hint of something I can’t name.
I close my eyes. I know this is wrong. I’m married, he’s married—at least I assume so; the gold line on his ring finger speaks volumes. But in this moment, in this hotel room that smells of nothing and tastes of everything, it doesn’t matter. The outside world no longer exists—no marriage, no obligations, no eight years of silence. Only us. Only this one, forbidden now. I want him. I’ve always wanted him.
His lips meet mine. It’s not a gentle kiss. It’s a recognition, a flare-up—like striking a match after long darkness and being blinded by the flame. His tongue pushes between my teeth, and I let it in. I taste coffee and something sweet. Maybe gum. Maybe just him—that taste I never forgot, slumbering inside me like a buried secret.
My hands slide under his coat, over the warmth of his shirt. I feel the muscles beneath, tensing as I touch him—hard, alive, ready. He groans softly into my mouth, a deep vibration that echoes through my entire body. The sound releases something in me, tears down a final barrier. I push him backward until his legs hit the edge of the bed. He almost stumbles, catching himself on my hip.
“Slowly,” he murmurs. “We have time.” His voice is a whisper, his hands on my waist trembling slightly.
“I don’t want time.” I pull him down by his shirt until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. The fabric stretches across his shoulders, and I see his chest rising and falling beneath it. I stand before him, looking down at him. His eyes travel over my body, lingering on my cleavage, where the lace bra only hints at the contours of my breasts. I see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows—a small, vulnerable movement that makes me even hotter.
“Then show me what you want.” His voice is deep, rough, a provocation of pure desire.
I open the blazer, let it slide from my shoulders. The gray fabric falls to the floor with a soft rustle, but I don’t care. I stand before him, only in bra and skirt—the black lace cups my breasts like a promise. His hands find my waist, pulling me closer. His fingers dig gently into my hips. His lips press against my stomach, just above the waistband of the skirt. I feel his hot breath through the thin fabric, which feels like a second skin.
I lean forward, kiss the top of his head, while my
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