I told myself the lie so many times it started to feel like truth.

It's just a trip.

It's just a drink.

It's just to prove he's real.

Six months.

That's how long it had been since the first video call. Since I came on camera while my husband's truck rumbled into the driveway. Since I learned I could split myself in two—good wife in the daylight, his girl after dark.

Caleb and I had fallen into a rhythm. Late nights when my husband worked early mornings. Lunch breaks in my car, parked behind the grocery store, phone angled just right. Weekends, when he went fishing, I locked the bedroom door and let Caleb watch me unravel.

We never talked about meeting. Until we did.

It started as a joke—one of those "what if" fantasies you toss around to keep the game interesting.

Caleb: If you were ever in London…

Me: I'm never going to London.

Caleb: But if you did.

Me: I wouldn't.

Caleb: You would.

He was right.

When my boss mentioned the conference opportunity in London, I felt my whole body go still, like something inside me had just leaned forward and whispered, this is your chance. I smiled. I nodded. I took notes I didn't read. My pen moved across my notebook while my mind sprinted ahead—past the flights, past the hotel, past the polite small talk I'd have with colleagues—straight to a man I'd only ever held in my hand, in pixels, in secret.

Caleb didn't know. Not at first.

I waited until I was alone in the bathroom at work, locked in a stall like I was sixteen again and hiding contraband. My phone felt hot against my palm.

Me: Guess where I'm going next month.

He replied before I could set the phone down.

Him: Don't tease me.

Me: London.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Him: Say it again.

Me: I’m going to London.

I braced for the line I'd been both craving and dreading, the one that would make it real.

Him: Meet me.

It wasn't a question.

My throat tightened so fast it almost hurt. I stared at the screen long enough for the brightness to dim. My reflection hovered over the glass—wide eyes, flushed cheeks, a woman who still wanted to believe she was good.

Just a drink, I typed. That's all.

His answer came a beat later.

Him: One drink. And I'll behave. Mostly.

I should have felt relieved.

Instead, my stomach flipped the way it always did right before I sent him something risky. That same dizzy drop—fear braided with want until they were indistinguishable.

That night, I told my husband about the conference while we ate dinner. I kept my voice casual, even. I leaned into the normalcy like it could cover me.

"London?" he said, eyebrows lifting. "That's exciting."

"It's just a work thing," I said quickly, too quickly. I took a sip of water even though my mouth was already dry. "Three days. Meetings. Panel discussions. Boring stuff."

He reached across the table and squeezed my hand. It was such an easy, familiar gesture that it made my chest ache.

"You earned it," he said. "Maybe you'll get some time to explore."

I smiled softly. “Yeah. Maybe.”

For weeks, Caleb and I planned in stolen moments.

Nothing overt. Nothing you could point to and say ‘that's an affair.’ Just logistics dressed up as innocence.

What hotel?

What time do you land?

Which part of the city?

Send me a pin.

And underneath all of it, the undercurrent that made my skin prickle:

“I can't believe I'm finally going to touch you.”

He asked for one thing, the same way he'd asked for video calls—patient, teasing, never pushing hard enough to make me run.

“Let me see you the day you fly.

Just a quick call.

I want to see your face when you tell me you're coming.”

The morning of my flight, I took the call from the airport bathroom, because apparently, I was committed to making terrible decisions in fluorescent lighting.

He answered immediately. Of course he did.

His face filled my screen, and my breath caught like it always did—like my body remembered him before my mind could catch up.

"You look nervous," he said, voice soft, amused.

"I'm not nervous," I lied, watching my own eyes in the tiny corner of the screen. They looked too bright. Too guilty.

He smiled slowly. "You're flying across the ocean, and you're not nervous."

"It's just a conference," I said, the same rehearsed line, even though it sounded ridiculous now.

His gaze flicked down, and I knew he was looking at my mouth. "Say it," he murmured. "Say you're going to see me."

My pulse kicked hard. "I'm just going for a conference," I stated.

“That’s not all it is. Tell me what else.”

“I’m going to see you,” I whispered.

His eyes darkened in a way that made my thighs press together. "Brava," he said. Then, lower, "If you change your mind at any point, you can tell me."

That should have made me feel safe.

It made me feel wanted in a way that was almost unbearable.

***

London greeted me with cold air and grey sky and that fine mist that clung to everything like a hand. I checked into my hotel with shaking fingers, smiling at the receptionist like I wasn't carrying a secret under my coat.

My room was small, clean, anonymous. A bed too neatly made. A window that looked out over wet streets and people who were strangers to me.

I stood in the middle of it and realized something that made my stomach turn:

No one here knew me.

No one here would look at me and see wife. Coworker. Reliable. Good.

Here, I was just a woman with a keycard and a phone that kept buzzing with a name that wasn't my husband's.

Tonight, Caleb messaged. 9 pm. Hotel bar downstairs. I'll be the one nursing a whiskey and looking like I'm about to see a ghost.

My husband called around six, right as I was getting out of the shower.

"How's London?" he asked, voice warm through the speaker. "You settling in okay?"

"Yeah," I said, sitting on the edge of the bed in my towel, staring at my hands. "It's… grey. Rainy."

He laughed. "Of course it is. How was the first session?"

I'd skipped it. Spent the afternoon pacing my hotel room instead. "Fine," I lied smoothly. "Lots of jargon. Setting a schedule for the next couple of days. You know how these things are."

"Well, don't work too hard," he said. "Enjoy yourself a little. You deserve a break."

The words landed like a weight. I swallowed hard.

"I will," I said. "I miss you."

"Miss you too, babe."

After I hung up, I sat there for a long time with my phone in my lap, feeling the two lives inside me pull in opposite directions.

At eight-thirty, I started getting ready as if I were preparing for something important.

Because I was.

I showered again, blow-dried my hair, and stood in front of the mirror in my towel, staring at my own reflection like she might give me permission or absolution. I chose a dress that looked effortless—dark, soft, fitted in a way that made me feel like myself, only sharper. Heels. A coat. Lip gloss that made my mouth look fuller than it was.

And lingerie.

Black lace, delicate: the kind that made me feel powerful and exposed all at once.

Not because anyone would see it tonight.

Because I would.

Because I wanted to feel like the kind of woman who did this. Like I belonged in the story I'd started writing with my own body.

I took the elevator down at eight fifty-five, my heart hammering so hard I thought the other guests might hear it.

The hotel bar was dimly lit, all dark wood and leather chairs and low jazz humming from hidden speakers. It smelled like expensive cologne and whiskey and something vaguely floral from the candles on each table.

I scanned the room once, twice.

And then I saw him.

He was sitting at the far end of the bar, one hand loosely wrapped around a glass, shoulders slightly hunched like he was bracing himself. Dark hair, a little longer than it looked on screen. Stubble along his jaw. A black sweater that fit him well enough to make my stomach flip.

When his eyes found me, everything inside me went quiet.

Not calm.

Just… focused. Like the world narrowed to the space between us.

He stood slowly, like he didn't trust his legs, and his smile broke over his face—slow, disbelieving, like I was a miracle and a mistake all at once.

"Madonna," he breathed, and I felt it in my bones.

I forced my legs to move.

Up close, he was taller than I expected. Broader in the shoulders. He smelled like clean soap and cold air and something distinctly him—warm and faintly spiced. His eyes were the same as on the screen—dark and warm—but in person there was depth to them that made my chest tighten.

He stopped an arm's length away, like he was giving me the chance to run.

"Hi," I said, and my voice came out thinner than I wanted.

He laughed under his breath, shaking his head. "That's all you have?" His gaze dropped, quick and hungry, to my mouth. "I've heard you moan my name and that's the only thing you say?."

My cheeks flared hot. The familiar mix of shame and heat hit me so hard I almost swayed.

"Caleb," I managed, and his name in real life felt like stepping off a ledge.

He lifted his hands slightly, palms open. "Can I hug you?"

Consent. Simple. Explicit.

The question made something in me unclench even as it made my pulse race.

"Yes," I whispered.

He moved in slowly, like he was afraid to spook me, and then his arms were around me—warm, solid, real. His chest pressed against mine. His hand slid up my back, steadying. My body reacted instantly, like it had been waiting for this touch for months.

I inhaled, and the scent of him filled me. I closed my eyes for one heartbeat.

When he pulled back, his hands stayed lightly at my waist.

"You're shaking," he said softly.

"I'm fine," I lied again, because apparently that was my brand now.

He smiled. "You're not fine. You don’t have to put on a show with me."

I should have corrected him.

I should have said reckless. Selfish. Wrong.

Instead, I let him guide me to a corner booth, tucked away from the main flow of the bar.

For a while, we did the normal thing.

We talked.

We pretended we were just two people meeting for a drink. He asked about my flight, the conference, the hotel. I asked about his week, his commute, the constant drizzle he always complained about. He made me laugh, and the sound startled me—it came too easily, too genuinely, as if my body was relieved to do something that wasn't lying.

But every time there was a pause, it filled with what we weren't saying.

He watched me the way he'd watched me through a screen, only now there was no distance, no delay, no safe off button. His gaze lingered on my lips when I sipped my wine. On my throat when I swallowed. On the curve of my neckline when I leaned forward.

And I caught myself watching his hands.

Strong fingers. Veins running along the backs. The way they gripped the glass.

The way they could grip me.

At some point, his knee brushed mine under the table.

Neither of us moved away.

The contact was small, almost innocent, but it sent a jolt through me that made my breath hitch.

He noticed. Of course he did.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

His hand moved to the table, fingertips resting near mine. Close enough to feel the heat but not touching.

"I keep thinking," he said, voice lower now, "that you're going to disappear. That this is some elaborate dream and I'm going to wake up alone in my flat."

My throat tightened. "I'm real."

"I know," he murmured. "But I need to be sure."

He turned his hand over, palm up. An invitation.

I stared at it for a long moment—his hand, open and waiting.

Then I slid mine into his.

His fingers closed around mine, warm and firm, and the simple intimacy of it made my eyes sting.

"There," he said softly. "Real."

I looked up at him, and the tenderness in his expression was almost worse than the desire. It made this feel like more than it was supposed to be.

"This is a bad idea," I whispered.

"Yes," he agreed easily, and the way he didn't argue made me look at him harder. "But you're here."

I swallowed. "I shouldn't be."

He nodded, thumb brushing over my knuckles in a slow, deliberate stroke. "Do you want to leave?"

The question hung between us—simple, terrifying.

My body answered before my mouth did. My thighs pressed together. My pulse throbbed low and insistent.

I hated myself for it.

I shook my head once. "No."

His gaze darkened, but he didn't move closer.

"Okay," he said, voice rougher now. "Then we stay. And you tell me what you want."

My breath caught. The carefulness of it made the desire sharper, not safer.

"I want…" I started, then stopped, because saying it out loud made it real.

He waited, patient, his thumb still tracing small circles on my hand.

I forced the words out like a confession. "I want you to kiss me."

Something flickered in his eyes—relief, hunger, hesitation.

"Are you sure?" he asked, and his voice held no smugness. Just hunger and restraint.

"Yes," I whispered. "Please."

He glanced around the bar—still relatively empty, the bartender distracted, the other patrons absorbed in their own conversations.

Then he leaned in slowly, giving me every chance to change my mind.

His mouth found mine.

The first kiss was gentle, almost reverent, like he was tasting something he'd imagined too many times. And then it deepened—his lips moving with a surety that made my knees weaken even though I was sitting down. His hand came up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing my cheek, and I made a small sound into his mouth that I immediately regretted.

He smiled against my lips. "Don't," he murmured. "I love that sound."

My face burned, but I kissed him again, harder this time, needing the pressure.

His other hand slid to my thigh under the table, fingers splaying over the fabric of my dress, and I felt the weight of his touch like a brand.

When we finally broke apart, both breathing harder, he rested his forehead against mine.

"I want more," he said quietly, honestly.

My heart lurched. "Caleb—"

"I know," he interrupted gently. "I'm not asking you to. I'm just telling you."

The honesty was disarming.

I stared at his mouth, at the faint flush on his cheeks, at the way his pupils had blown wide.

"What do you want?" I asked, voice barely audible.

His jaw tightened. "I want to take you upstairs."

My stomach flipped hard.

"I can't sleep with you," I said quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I can't—that's—"

"I know," he said again, and his tone was calm, grounding. "That's not what I'm asking."

I blinked at him, confused.

He leaned in closer, lips brushing the shell of my ear, and his voice dropped to a whisper that made my whole body tighten.

"I want to taste you," he murmured. "Like I've been wanting to for months. I want you on that bed, legs open, my mouth on you until you forget your own name. And then I will leave before you can feel too guilty about it."

My breath stopped.

Heat flooded through me so fast I felt dizzy.

"That's—" I started, but I didn't know how to finish.

He pulled back just enough to look at me, eyes searching mine.

"Tell me no," he said softly. "And I'll finish my drink and walk out of here and never ask again."

I should have said no.

I should have stood up, gone back to my room alone, and never looked back.

Instead, I heard myself whisper, "I’ve gone this far."

His pupils dilated. "Upstairs?"

I nodded once, barely.

He didn't rush. He paid the tab, helped me with my coat, and walked beside me to the elevator like we were just two guests heading back to our rooms.

But his hand stayed at the small of my back, warm and possessive, and I could feel the tension radiating off him.

The elevator ride was a silence so thick it felt like a third person with us.

My reflection in the mirrored wall looked flushed, undone. His looked controlled, but his jaw was tight and his hand flexed at his side like he was restraining himself.

When we reached my floor, I walked down the hallway on legs that didn't feel like mine.

At my door, I fumbled the keycard. My hands were shaking again, worse now. I could feel my heartbeat in my fingertips.

Caleb stepped closer but didn't crowd me.

"This is your last chance," he murmured. "If you open that door, it changes things."

I swallowed hard. "I know."

He lifted his hand, brushed his knuckles along my cheek, gently. "Do you want me to go?"

I stared at him, at the man who had lived in my phone for so long, and realized the truth I'd been avoiding:

It wasn't the screen that made it safe.

It was distance.

And I'd brought distance to an end.

"No," I whispered.

I opened the door.

The room smelled like soap and hotel linen and me. The city's damp hush pressed against the window. The bed was still neatly made, like it had no idea what it was about to witness.

Caleb didn't rush me. He stepped inside and closed the door softly, like he was respecting the space, respecting me.

He turned back and waited.

My throat felt tight. "I—"

He interrupted gently. "Tell me what you want."

I exhaled shakily. "I want what you said."

His gaze flicked over my face like he was memorizing it. "Say it."

My cheeks burned. "I want your mouth on me."

A slow smile curved his lips. "Good girl."

The words sent a shiver down my spine.

He stepped closer, hands settling lightly on my waist. "But first," he murmured, "I'm going to undress you. Slowly. The way I've imagined doing it for months."

I nodded, not knowing how to respond.

His fingers found the zipper at the back of my dress, and he paused.

"May I?"

"Yes," I breathed.

The zipper slid down with a soft, final sound. Cool air kissed my skin. He peeled the fabric back and let it fall from my shoulders, pooling at my feet.

When he stepped back to look at me, standing there in just my lingerie and heels, his breath visibly hitched.

"Bellissima," he murmured. "Just like on screen. But better."

I felt exposed in a way no camera had ever made me feel. My skin prickled under his gaze.

"Sit on the bed," he said quietly.

I obeyed, legs trembling slightly.

He knelt in front of me, hands resting lightly on my knees, and looked up.

"I'm going to take these off now," he said, fingers brushing the lace edge of my panties. "Tell me if you want me to stop."

I nodded, throat too tight to speak.

He hooked his fingers under the fabric and slid them down slowly, reverently, his gaze never leaving mine. When they were off, he set them aside and gently pushed my knees apart.

I felt utterly vulnerable.

"Lie back," he murmured.

I did, heart hammering.

He settled between my thighs, hands sliding up to hold my hips in place, and paused one more time.

"Still okay?"

"Yes," I whispered.

And then his mouth was on me.

The first touch of his tongue made me gasp, back arching off the bed. He made a low, satisfied sound against me that vibrated through my whole body.

He wasn't tentative. He wasn't testing.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

His tongue moved in slow, deliberate strokes, exploring, tasting, learning what made my breath hitch and my thighs tremble. When he found the spot that made me cry out, he focused there, relentless and patient all at once.

My hands flew to his hair, fingers tangling, and I didn't know if I was pulling him closer or trying to ground myself.

"Caleb," I gasped, his name breaking in my throat.

He hummed against me in response, the vibration making my hips jerk.

One of his hands slid up my stomach, over my ribs, until his palm cupped my breast through the lace of my bra. His thumb brushed over the peaked nipple, and the dual sensation made my vision blur.

"Don't stop," I begged, shame burning through me even as the words spilled out. "Please don't stop."

He didn't.

His mouth worked me with a skill that bordered on unfair, tongue circling and flicking, lips sealing around my clit with just enough pressure to make my whole body tighten.

The pleasure built fast and sharp, coiling low in my belly, and I knew I was close.

"I'm—" I choked out, unable to finish.

He groaned against me, the sound raw and hungry, and that was what pushed me over.

The orgasm hit hard, my body clenching as I cried out into the quiet hotel room, hips lifting off the bed as he held me through it. My thighs shook, my fingers tightened in his hair, and I came apart on his tongue the way I had on camera only a few short months before—only this was real, and there was no screen to hide behind.

When the waves finally subsided, I sagged boneless against the mattress, chest heaving.

Caleb kissed the inside of my thigh once, soft and almost chaste, then rested his forehead there for a moment like he needed to catch his breath too.

When he finally looked up, his mouth was wet, his eyes dark and wrecked.

"You taste even better than I imagined," he said roughly.

My face burned.

He stood slowly, and I saw the obvious evidence of his arousal straining against his jeans. My gaze lingered there before I could stop myself.

"Don't worry about me," he said, voice tight. "This was for you."

"But—"

"No," he interrupted gently. "I told you what I wanted. And I got it."

The selflessness of it made my chest ache.

He bent down, picked up my dress, and handed it to me.

"Get dressed," he said softly. "Before you start overthinking."

I sat up shakily, clutching the fabric to my chest like armor.

He watched me for a moment, then stepped closer and cupped my face in both hands.

"You're beautiful," he said quietly. "And I don't regret a second of this."

My eyes burned.

"I should—," I whispered.

He nodded. "I know."

He kissed my forehead once—gentle, final—and then stepped back.

"I'm going to go now," he said. "Before you ask me to stay and we both do something you can't take back."

I wanted to protest.

I wanted to beg him to stay.

I wanted to tell him this was enough, and it would never be enough all at once.

Instead, I just nodded.

He walked to the door, paused with his hand on the handle, and looked back at me one last time.

"I hope your conference goes well. Message me when you're back home safe," he said. "Even if it's just to tell me we can't do this again."

And then he left.

The door clicked shut, and the room felt impossibly empty.

I sat there on the edge of the bed, still half-undressed, my body still humming with aftershocks, and stared at the space where he'd been.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand.

I reached for it with trembling fingers.

A message from my husband.

Hope you're having a good night, babe. Can't wait to hear all about the conference. Love you.

The words blurred as tears pricked my eyes.

I typed back slowly, fingers that still smelled faintly like Caleb's cologne moving across the screen.

Love you too. Just having a quiet night tonight. Talk tomorrow.

I hit send.

And the lie went through.

I set the phone down and pulled my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around myself like I could hold the pieces together.

Outside the window, London kept raining like it didn't care what I'd done.

And in the quiet hotel room, I realized the most terrifying part wasn't that I'd let him taste me.

It was that I already knew this wouldn't be the last time.