Pulse of Unspoken Desire

I’m a 35-year-old woman, settled into a warm, predictable life with my husband, the anchor of my world. For years, I’ve worked as a curator at a small botanical garden, a job that’s given us a modest but joyful existence. My days are filled with tending plants and leading tours, a rhythm I’ve come to love. At the garden, I grew close to two colleagues, Nora and Julian, who became my inner circle. Julian and I, in particular, shared a quiet bond — an effortless connection that never veered into anything beyond friendship, though its depth always felt singular.

That day, Julian didn’t come to work. He’d mentioned the night before that he needed a day off, so I didn’t dwell on it. I followed my routine: guiding a group through the orchid house, lunching with coworkers under the pergola, and retreating to the garden’s records room to update some plant inventories before my usual tea break. As I pinned a few pressed-flower bookmarks to a display board, the door opened, and Julian stepped in, closing it softly behind him.

• “Wow, didn’t expect to see you! Everything okay?” – I said, caught off guard but pleased.

Julian didn’t reply. His eyes were raw, shimmering with tears, and his jaw was tight, far from his usual warmth. He walked toward me, silent, his presence heavy with something unspoken. I waited, expecting words when he reached me, but instead, he took my shoulders gently and kissed me, a sudden, desperate press of his lips.

I froze, my mind blank. When he leaned in again, I pulled back, my pulse hammering.

• “Julian, what’s going on?” – I stammered, searching his face.

I tried to step away, but Julian’s frame was solid, his grip steady but not forceful. My thoughts spun as his lips found my jaw, trailing soft kisses that sent an involuntary tremor through me.

• “Please, don’t. This isn’t you.” – I whispered, my voice shaking.

Cornered against a shelf, I felt small, unable to push away someone I trusted so deeply. My mind raced for reasons — why was he doing this? What had changed? I could’ve slipped free, but my body stayed still as his hands moved, gentle but deliberate. The moment to fight passed, and I didn’t take it.

His tenderness unraveled me, and when I looked down, the sight of his hands on me sparked a forbidden warmth. Guilt surged as his fingers, slow and careful, lifted my sundress and slid my underwear aside. This was a betrayal of everything — of my husband, of myself. Yet I stood there, paralyzed, as he knelt, his breath hot against my skin. Shame coiled in my gut, his form stark beneath the hem of my dress.

My breath came in sharp bursts, torn between panic and a traitorous pull. When his tongue touched me, deliberate and knowing, a shock of pleasure stole my resistance. He explored me with slow, practiced strokes, teasing and circling, each movement coaxing a deeper response. My body betrayed me, hips tilting toward him as heat spread, my skin flushing. His fingers joined, one slipping inside with a gentle curl, then another, stretching me with a rhythm that matched his tongue. The sounds — my ragged breaths, the faint slickness — filled the air, and I burned with both desire and mortification. My hand moved without thought, fingers threading through his hair, pressing him closer as a tide of sensation rose.

The orgasm crashed over me, fierce and unrelenting, my cry echoing in the small room as my legs shook. He stood, his lips brushing mine in a fleeting kiss, and whispered,

• “I hope you’ll forgive me one day.” – Then he slipped out.

I was left hollow, guilt and confusion swallowing me. I couldn’t tell my husband. I thought about confronting Julian, even reporting him, but something stopped me — maybe clarity would come later. I forced myself to act normal, avoiding any hint of what happened. A week later, Julian still hadn’t returned. I assumed it was because of that day, but during a tea break, the manager mentioned he’d taken extended leave and might not come back. That struck me as odd — Nora would’ve known, but she was as clueless as I was.

Then I learned the truth, and it shattered me. Julian was terminally ill, his condition beyond hope. The news broke something inside me. I wept alone, haunted by our encounter. In quiet moments, I’d sometimes imagined him in ways I shouldn’t have, but never like this.

I made a choice that tore at my soul. Despite my love for my husband, I couldn’t let things end unresolved. I needed to see Julian, to face whatever this was between us. I took a day off, citing a family matter, and drove to his apartment, a place I’d visited countless times for shared commutes. My resolve was iron, but my nerves were frayed—I’d never dreamed of crossing such a line.

When I knocked, Julian answered, his face registering shock. He was thinner, his hair gone, but his piercing gaze held steady. He invited me in, his voice soft. I followed him to the living room, silent, my heart pounding. As he turned to take my cardigan, I let it fall, revealing I wore nothing underneath. His eyes widened, but I pressed forward, trembling with a mix of fear and need.

I sank to my knees, tugging down his loose joggers and boxers. His size startled me, thick and heavy, dwarfing any comparison to my husband. I guided him to the couch, avoiding his gaze, and took him into my mouth, lips stretching around him. The taste was raw, musky, and I moved with a mix of hesitation and hunger, my tongue tracing every ridge, swirling over the tip. His silence amplified the sounds — my soft moans, the wet slide of my lips. Shame burned, but so did a reckless thrill — I’d never felt so consumed.