Secret Fires of Forbidden Love

I won’t go into how my husband learned about Noah. It was my own carelessness, swept away as I was by him, completely consumed, and maybe, deep down, wanting to confess what I’m confessing now. I won’t linger on how painful it was to move past it, or how hard it was for him to forgive me. He’ll never know I was the one who chased Noah, the one desperate to feel him inside me. He’ll never know it was what kept our marriage alive. He’ll never know I spent almost a year faithful to him alone, nor that I’ve realized I need more — others — but I’ll be cautious, discreet, always.

The truth is, the second I saw Julian, I was gone, utterly lost. I was in his city for work, hammering out a contract with a coastal state’s education board. What matters is that after the first day’s meetings, he showed up to take us out: three colleagues hitting the town, one of them, married, begging us to let her invite him. While she primped, I, quick with my routine, found myself talking to him in the hotel’s softly lit lounge.

He spoke of his city, its pulse and charm; he spoke of his work, curating events for local galleries… and I couldn’t stop staring. His dark eyes caught the light like polished stone, and he seemed to carry a quiet fire. I pictured his full lips tracing my collarbone, his long fingers threading through my hair.

I watched him watching me. How long does a glass of wine last? That one stretched long enough to convince me his gaze held something just for me. I didn’t fully get it then — my head needed weeks to catch up — but my body knew. Knew because a spark flared between us, electric and undeniable. And I kept watching.

My colleague, his lover, joined us, then the third friend, and we headed to a rooftop bar. I sat beside him, my colleague on his other side, and watched him glow. I burned with jealousy when he kissed her, when he leaned in to murmur against her cheek, when his hand brushed her thigh, her curves hugged by leather pants that seemed made for her alone.

But the universe has a way, and my colleague doesn’t dance. I’m no expert, I’ll admit, but I can move. Julian, though — he dances like he was born for it, guiding me with a confidence that left me breathless, my silk blouse clinging to my skin as I pressed closer. I knew I shouldn’t, knew every reason it was wrong, but I was falling. His frame, lithe yet strong, moved like a predator’s, and I melted against his chest, firm as oak.

We danced maybe four songs. I didn’t want to lose myself entirely. I didn’t want to, but the heart doesn’t listen. Four songs, too many moments of our bodies grazing, of his warm, bare forearms brushing mine, of measuring the taper of his waist. Every inch of my skin hummed, alive to his rhythm. “He’s with me, don’t cross that line,” my colleague said when we sat, her smile tight but playful. And I remembered: that night, he wasn’t mine, couldn’t be.

Sleep didn’t come that night. I didn’t care that Julian was with her in the next room — what kept me awake were the countless reasons he could never be mine. Bare beneath the crisp hotel sheets, I teased myself with the small vibrator I sometimes pack, pushing myself to the edge but finding no release.

I returned to the city for a day, then flew to the Northeast. Julian filled my thoughts, only Julian, and work suffered. I was distracted, fumbling through tasks for the same project, the same team. By the third day, with an unexpected free evening, I turned to Instagram (damn that app, bless that app) and found Owen, an old grad school friend I’d stayed in touch with. I liked him — his sharp jaw, his New England accent, his wiry build. After a night of seafood and a hockey game, we ended up tangled in my hotel bed.

As I kissed him, as my hands roamed his lean, cyclist’s thighs, my mind was elsewhere — on other lips, other thighs, the ones belonging to the coastal man who’d bewitched me. When Owen slid inside me, his breath hot against my ear, it was Julian I saw, Julian I felt. That man I’d barely touched, known only through a fleeting dance, with his searing eyes and broad shoulders, his quiet strength and magnetic pull; that man who made me doubt everything I thought I knew.

I went back to my routine in the city. I found reasons to DM Julian, excuses for him to reply. Thank God for Instagram… until my husband started asking questions, and I had to lock my account. Eleven months dragged by. Call it dramatic, but Julian haunted me. And sometimes, Owen crept into my thoughts too. If I’m honest, Owen’s on my mind more these days, but that’s a different tale.

Eleven months of fevered daydreams, the last eleven months I tried, really tried, to stay true to my husband. Then work sent me back to Julian’s city. Alone, for one day and one night. I had just enough time to invite him to dinner, whispering hopes to the stars, lighting mental candles to any deity listening. “Let him say yes, let him meet me.” Just dinner, I told myself. And I texted him.

He agreed, and I dodged my work hosts with a flimsy excuse: “I’m wiped, not hungry.” By eight, I was back at the hotel. I freshened my makeup, traded my pencil skirt for a deep green dress that hugged my curves, slipped on lace underwear that made me feel dangerous, added a cropped blazer and ankle boots, and by eight-thirty, I was at the bistro we’d picked. I ordered a chilled rosé and tried to quiet the heat building inside me, the fantasies I swore I’d suppress. “Just dinner,” I told myself, knowing it was a lie.