Desire

Eight years into my career, no patient had ever looked at me like that. That afternoon she put her feet up on my sofa, held my gaze, and everything I thought was solid began to tremble.

I arrived single and bored, planning to leave early. Then the lambada started, and firm hands took my waist from behind.

She had been with her boyfriend for five years and had never doubted. Until that black-eyed woman stared at her on the platform and something broke inside.

I heard her closing her suitcases on the other side of the wall and knew she would leave with the dawn. Barefoot and trembling, I crossed the hallway to the ajar door of her room.

She showed up twenty minutes late on purpose so we wouldn’t have time to go to the theater. Only then did I realize she’d already decided how the night would end.

I followed her on social media to get revenge on my ex, but ended up wanting her instead. Months later I saw her in the crowd and knew I wouldn't let her go.

My hands were ice-cold in the boarding lounge, but it wasn’t the weather: in a few hours I’d see her again, and I didn’t know whether I’d run to her or hide.

She booked a routine wax before vacation. What she didn’t expect was the way that woman would look at her when she closed the private room door.

She carried a pistol hidden in her stocking and an impossible mission: get close to the most dangerous woman in the room without desire betraying her too soon.

She led the retreat with the devotion of someone who never breaks a rule. I just wanted a private massage, far from the prayers and the watching eyes.

When I offered her the job, she smiled and told me it was her turn to ask questions. The first was whether I’d take her to bed after dinner.

I was only serving drinks. She was looking at me from the other side of the bar as if she already knew, before I did, how that night would end.

When I got to the bar, my wife was no longer alone: a stranger was caressing her waist, and the only thing I didn’t want was for her to stop.

Six years of pretending nothing was happening whenever they brushed against each other. That night, with the city asleep, neither wanted to keep pretending.

I’d gone three months without her hands, without her mouth, without her tits on mine. That night I poured a glass of wine, stripped naked, and decided pleasure didn’t have to wait for her return.

I felt her hand slide up my thigh in the packed subway, and even though I couldn’t move an inch, I didn’t want her to stop.

When she took off her blouse in front of the open window, I knew she wasn’t going to stop even if half the neighborhood was watching. And I didn’t want her to stop either.

I thought I would guide her through her first experience, but she took control and taught me just how far my body could go.

She pushed me against the wall with a slow kiss, lowered her voice to a whisper, and told me I’d be a good girl. I never knew her name, but I obeyed her.

Every time she walked past my desk I lost track of what I was doing. I never imagined one careless mistake would expose everything I felt for her.