The dining kitchen was bathed in a dim, golden glow, the distant city lights flickering through the window, casting restless shadows along the walls. The night felt still, heavy, like the air itself was holding its breath.
Claire was so close I could feel the warmth radiating off her, her breath ghosting over my skin, the faint scent of wine lingering between us. Her fingers were still wrapped around my wrists, her grip firm, almost pleading, like I was the only thing keeping her from slipping away.
"Stay," she whispered, the word barely more than a breath, fragile yet insistent.
I should have said no. I should have reminded her that she was drunk, that this wasn’t her. I should have stepped away before the moment unravelled into something we couldn’t take back.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I let her take my hand, let her guide me through the quiet of her home, past the untouched remains of our dinner, through the softly lit hallway until we reached her room.
And when she kissed me again—deeper this time, more desperate—I forgot how to breathe, forgot how to think, forgot how to form the words that should have stopped this before it began.
Her hands slid down my arms, tracing over my waist, pulling me in as if she was searching for something—something unspoken, something she couldn’t name, something she wanted to take from me.
And I let her.
The urgency in her touch sent a shiver down my spine, the way her lips moved against mine, the way her fingers tangled in my hair, tugging just enough to make me gasp against her mouth.
"Claire—" My voice faltered as she pressed me back against the couch, her body hovering over mine, her lips trailing a slow, burning path along my jaw, down my neck. Her hands moved with quiet reverence, slipping beneath the hem of my shirt, fingertips skimming over my skin in a way that left me breathless.
I shivered as her touch traced the curve of my waist, the dip of my stomach, her fingers spreading warmth in their wake.
"Tell me to stop," she murmured, her lips brushing against my collarbone, her voice hushed, almost fragile.
I should have.
I knew I should have.
But instead, my fingers tightened against her back, pulling her closer, surrendering to the weight of the moment, to the way her lips parted against my skin—slow, lingering, as if she was memorizing the way I trembled beneath her touch.
Her hand drifted lower, gliding over the waistband of my shorts, her fingertips brushing against the delicate skin just below. The touch was electric, sending a shiver through me that made my breath catch in my throat. My head fell back against the couch, my body instinctively arching toward her as a soft, involuntary sound escaped my lips.
“Ahh…” I gasped, my voice trembling, barely able to form her name. “Claire—”
She responded with a low, approving hum, her lips grazing the sensitive curve of my throat as her fingers continued their slow, deliberate exploration. Each touch was a tease, a test, sending waves of sensation through me that made me squirm beneath her. Her movements were deliberate, calculated, as if she was savouring every reaction she drew from me.
“You feel so warm,” she murmured, her voice husky and laden with an intensity that sent a fresh wave of heat through me. There was something unspoken in her tone, something heavy and urgent that made my pulse quicken.
I could barely think, barely speak, my words coming out in a breathless plea. “Ahhh… please…”
Her lips found mine again, this time with a deeper, more insistent pressure, as if she was trying to convey everything she couldn’t say aloud. Her hands gripped my hips firmly, anchoring me in place as she shifted closer, settling herself between my legs. The room seemed to shrink around us, the air growing thick and charged, the world outside fading into irrelevance.
Every movement of her body against mine, every brush of her fingers as they dipped lower, sent sparks racing through me. My breath came in shallow, uneven gasps, each one punctuated by a quiet, desperate moan that I couldn’t hold back. The heat between us was overwhelming, consuming, as if nothing else existed but the two of us in that moment.
"Let me make you feel good," she whispered against my lips, her touch deliberate, seeking.
Heat coiled low in my stomach, my body betraying every rational thought in my mind.
But then—
I caught her wrist, stopping her.
She blinked down at me, dazed, lips swollen, her chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.
"Claire," I said, my voice shaking. "You're drunk."
Her face twisted—pain flashing through her features. "That doesn't mean I don’t want this."
I exhaled sharply, trying to steady my breathing. "But it does mean you might regret it."
Her body tensed above me. Silence stretched between us, heavy, suffocating.
Then, her shoulders slumped. She buried her face against my neck, her fingers still curled around my waist, but there was no urgency now, only something fragile, something breaking apart.
"I just don’t want to feel empty," she whispered.
I closed my eyes, my arms tightening around her. "I know."
And just like that, the heat between us cooled into something softer. Something more painful.
She didn’t let go.
And I didn’t push her away.
The tension in the room shifted, simmering under the surface as Claire looked back at me, her eyes dark with want and need—the kind of desire that goes deeper than skin. I could feel the heartbeat of the moment, each thud syncing with my own racing pulse as I leaned in, drawn by an invisible thread that tied us together.
“Are you sure?” I whispered, my breath mingling with the warmth of her skin.
The question hung in the air, heavy yet necessary. Claire nodded, her expression fierce with determination, and I felt the wall she had built start to crumble.
In one swift motion, I closed the space between us, capturing her lips in a hungry kiss. The taste of her was intoxicating—sweet, eager, and desperate. She responded with equal fervor, her hands tangling in my hair as if I were her anchor. I could feel her tension softening, replaced by the fire that danced between us.
Slowly, I coaxed her back onto the couch, my body hovering over hers. The world outside faded away; it was just us—two souls colliding, seeking solace in each other. I let my hands wander the familiar terrain of her body, tracing the delicate curve of her waist, exploring her softness and the way she arched into me, asking for more.
With a gentle caress, I slipped beneath the hem of her shirt, my fingers brushing against her skin. She gasped, the sound punctuating the air like a spark igniting a flame. I revealed in the way her body responded, every shiver, every sigh urging me on.
“Claire,” I breathed, my voice husky with desire as I peppered kisses along her collarbone, moving lower, savouring the warmth of her flesh beneath my lips.
“Please…” she murmured, and the vulnerability in her voice sent a thrill coursing through me. It ignited a fierce need to give her everything, to erase the shadows that lingered behind her eyes.
I pushed her shirt up further, revealing the delicate curve of her breasts, the softness begging for my touch. My hands explored, committing the feel of her to memory, while my mouth found a home at the swell of her breast, tasting the sweetness of her skin.
“Oh, God…” she breathed, her fingers gripping tighter as I continued my ministrations, teasing and exploring, creating ripples of pleasure that coursed through her body.
She tugged at my shirt, wanting to feel skin on skin, and I acquiesced, peeling it away hastily. The heat radiating from our bodies intertwined, creating a symphony of warmth and need. Her fingers danced across my chest, tracing the hard lines of muscle, and I relished the soft gasps that slipped from her lips.
With a newfound urgency, I positioned myself between her thighs, the heat of her body drawing me in. I looked into her eyes, searching for any sign of hesitation, but all I found was that familiar fire. I pressed forward, my body melding against hers, the connection electric.
“Tell me what you want,” I whispered, my voice raw and urgent.
“I want you,” she breathed back, her voice thick with yearning.
With that, I descended into the heat of our shared passion, careful yet unrestrained. Every movement was deliberate, a careful dance of giving and receiving, of exploration and intimacy. I lost myself in her—the way she responded, the little sounds of pleasure that escaped her lips urging me on.
In that moment, we became a whirlwind of sensations, a beautiful collision of bodies and souls. Each whisper, each gasp, a testament to our connection, to the trust that had blossomed between us, turning vulnerability into strength.
This was more than just physical; it was a merging of hearts and desires, a sacred act of becoming one. As the night deepened, we surrendered to the ebb and flow of our emotions, lost in a rhythm that felt both primal and divine.
.
.
.
The first thing I became aware of was warmth—soft, steady, and completely enveloping. My body felt weightless, cocooned in the lingering heat of the night before. I stirred slightly, my senses slowly adjusting to the hazy morning light filtering through the curtains.
Then, I felt her.
Claire’s bare skin pressed against mine, her slow, measured breathing tickling the side of my neck. Her arm draped across my waist, her fingers curled loosely against my stomach as if holding on even in sleep.
I let my eyes flutter open, blinking against the gentle glow of dawn spilling into the room. The reality of where I was—who I was with—settled over me like a soft, intoxicating fog. I turned my head slightly, drinking in the sight of her.
Claire’s usually sharp features were softened in sleep, her lips slightly parted, her brow relaxed. A lock of golden hair had fallen across her cheek, and I fought the urge to brush it away, to touch her in some small way that wouldn’t break the spell of the moment.
My heart stuttered in my chest. How long had it been since I’d woken up next to someone like this? Not just a presence beside me, but someone who made my entire being feel anchored, who fit against me so perfectly it felt inevitable.
I swallowed, the intimacy of the moment settling deeper into my bones. Last night had been a blur of heat, whispered names, and shared breath, but this—this quiet aftermath—felt just as significant.
Claire stirred, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she burrowed closer. I held still, afraid to shatter the fragile peace. But after a moment, her lashes fluttered open, and sleepy blue eyes met mine.
A flicker of something crossed her face—uncertainty? Vulnerability? But then, she quickly masked it, offering a polite, almost distant smile.
"Morning," she said, her tone softer than usual, yet lacking the warmth I expected.
Something twisted in my stomach. I forced a small smile in return. "Morning."
She stretched slightly, the movement pressing her body against mine in ways that sent a fresh wave of heat through me. But instead of leaning into it, she hesitated, pulling back just enough to create a sliver of space between us.
I couldn’t help the thought that crept into my mind—I just slept with my boss.
The weight of that realization settled over me, and for the first time, doubt crept in. Claire acted different—less relaxed, more composed, as if she were carefully choosing her every move. Was she regretting this? The idea made my chest tighten.
She propped herself up on her elbow, her fingers tracing an absent pattern on the sheets instead of my skin. “Did you sleep well?” she asked, her voice light, almost too casual.
I swallowed. “Yeah,” I admitted, though the answer felt incomplete. “Better than I have in a long time.”
She nodded but didn’t say anything in return. The silence between us felt heavier now, tinged with something unspoken. I wondered what was going through her mind—if she was thinking the same thing I was. If she regretted waking up like this.
I should say something. Acknowledge the weight of what had happened. But words felt inadequate—too fragile for something so unspoken yet profound.
Claire beat me to it.
“I don’t regret it,” she said suddenly, her voice steady, yet carrying an edge of hesitation, as if daring me to challenge her.
I exhaled, letting the tension I hadn’t realized I was holding slip away. “Neither do I.”
She studied me for a moment, searching for something in my expression before nodding slightly, as if confirming something to herself. Then, with a small smile, she rested her head against my chest, her breath warm against my skin.
I wrapped an arm around her, pulling her closer, grounding myself in the quiet certainty of her presence.
As the warmth of our embrace faded, I found myself retreating to my room, letting the silence settle between us. The moment felt fragile, like something I wasn’t sure how to hold on to.
Under the hot stream of the shower, I let the water wash away my lingering thoughts, but the feeling stayed—an ache, a quiet uncertainty curling in my chest. By the time I stepped out and got dressed, I had made up my mind. Today, I wanted to feel different. Lighter. Less caught up in things I couldn’t understand. So, I picked a dress—soft pink, something a little girlish, something that didn’t quite fit the image of the person I usually presented at work.
When I walked out, Claire was already ready. She stood by the mirror, fixing her cufflinks, her suit pristine as always. But today, for some reason, I couldn’t ignore the way the fabric sat on her, the sharp angles of her jacket, the way her hair framed her face. I had always known she was beautiful, but today, she felt… hot. And it was messing with my head.
She glanced at me briefly. “You’re wearing a dress.”
“Yeah,” I said, smoothing down the skirt. “Felt like it.”
She said nothing more. Just grabbed her things, and we left.
At the office, the shift was almost jarring. She was back to being Claire—the cold, intimidating presence that kept everyone at arm’s length. No trace of the warmth from this morning, no lingering softness. Just work, efficiency, and that unreadable mask she always wore.
She stayed silent the whole day. Not even a glance in my direction unless necessary.
And as much as I told myself it was normal—that this was just how she was at work—I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was avoiding me. That maybe, despite what she had said, she regretted it after all.
The hours dragged on, weighed down by the quiet. Claire remained distant, buried in her work, her expression unreadable. It wasn’t unusual—this was how she always was in the office—but after this morning, it felt different. Like a wall had snapped back into place, stronger than before.
I tried to focus, going through my usual tasks, but my mind kept drifting back to her. The way she had rested against me, how natural it had felt. How she had looked at me before deciding something for herself. And now, the silence.
Did she regret it?
The thought settled uneasily in my chest.
We shared the same office, our desks facing opposite sides of the room. Usually, she’d acknowledge me at least once—asking about her schedule, giving me a task, something. But today, nothing. Just the quiet sound of her typing, the occasional rustle of paper, and the ticking of the clock.
By lunchtime, the silence had stretched too long. I glanced at her, hesitating before speaking.
“Do you want to get lunch?” I asked, keeping my voice light.
She didn’t look up. “I’m not hungry.”
I pressed my lips together, watching her for a moment. “Do you want me to grab you something anyway? Just in case?”
“No need.” Her tone was polite but distant, final.
I nodded slowly, not sure what else to say.
So, she really was avoiding me.