Lost in the atmospheric boom of my morning playlist, I climb the stairs to the second floor. Shamelessly, I hum along with the long melody arcs that ease me out of sleep into the Monday morning; who would be listening at this hour anyway?

I find the heart-jumpingly embarrassing reply when I try the key to unlock my office door and it won’t turn. Instead, the handle snaps and the door creaks open like a new chalk stick on a blackboard, revealing that I, indeed, had an audience to my intimate early morning ritual.

There, sitting at her desk, she is, smiling slyly at me. She knows I wouldn’t expect anyone so early—much less her.

Saying I’m caught off guard would be a gross understatement.

I’m mortified.

My stomach churns. From the smile she offers me. From wondering how much she’s heard. From the sparkle in her eyes when she flashes her teeth at me in genuine friendliness. It bewitches me. The infinitesimal part of me that hasn’t completely lost its mind just stands there, observing from a polite distance, head shaking, fascinated by how easily she disarms me.

“How was your weekend?”

I barely register the words. My eyes remain transfixed on hers, exploring how the forest green of her scarf makes them stick out. Is it only me or has she been wearing it more often since my urge to communicate got the better of me and blurted out the compliment?

Another part of me is revisiting the past two days in fast-forward, focusing mainly on Saturday night’s escapades. How, in my marital bed, experiments of a different nature were done: exploring the fine line between pain and pleasure and how the former can amplify the latter. The feeling of being helplessly delivered to each other’s mercy and the deep trust my spouse and I fortified through ropes tightening on exquisitely sensitized places.

Oh, how delicious she would look, tied up like a little doll, cords lewdly emphasizing her modest bust. Turning her into a subject to my desire of seeing her face contort to a drooling mess...

The more rational part of me thanks our social norms for having conditioned me with standard replies as my reptile brain instinctively ruminates the customary humble affirmation to the nearly-forgotten question.

Her signature playful titter soothes the emotional mess and yet has me pondering over whether she finds my obvious predicament amusing. Meanwhile, her laugh makes me revisit that time I cracked a silly joke at the summer party. She, slightly tipsy, giggled in a way that made me melt while playfully slapping my upper thigh, leaving me no other option to hide my blushing cheeks than behind my pint. Oh, how I just wanted to cast my wedding ring into the river and take her hand into my freed fingers to lead it closer to where I needed to be touched so badly.

The ring! When did she get that ring on her finger? I hear that thought so loudly in my head I’m not sure whether it slipped past my notoriously loose tongue. In a slight panic, I try to read her expression for a reaction to my possible outburst. Thank whoever is still steering me; it seems I have kept it to myself.

Still, my innate curiosity homes me right in on the next catastrophe as those words just spill out of my mouth: “Nice ring! Is that new?”

Her smile turns even more clement as she spreads her fingers to show it off. I already feel a dagger sinking into my heart and begin chastising myself over chances, much like caution, thrown to the winds.

“It’s my family’s sealing ring,” she explains. “I sometimes wear it just for funsies.”

Taking a closer look, I notice the crest. I already start feeling stupid for my premature assumptions when I can hear myself gasp for a deep breath of relief. This, again, makes me cringe, afraid she’s heard it.

Before I can fall deeper into a self-fueled vicious spiral of embarrassing myself further with every try to keep it together, she easily distracts me with an expert hand tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She thanks me for my attentiveness in her honey-sweet voice. I barely register the words as I observe the adroit movement of her slender wrist.

Involuntarily, I recall the various occasions when she softly placed that same hand on my forearm—and only realize now that I can't recall anyone else present whenever she did.

I force down the lump in my throat that feeds on this revelation and hope my gulping is not too obnoxious. It’s just when I’m startled by the door shutting close behind me that I remember I have no notion of how long I’ve been awkwardly standing there. Lost in my reverie. Ogling my boss. Picturing her naked and touching me.

I find myself cornered in mental self-flagellation over my lack of control when, with a knowing grin, she stands up and steps closer to me. Just as I am about to mumble an excuse and move aside, she takes my hands in hers, silencing my trembling mouth without even putting the ominous index finger on it. Our fingers intertwine so naturally. My heart thumps against my chest as if trying to burst out. My belly turns into a mess while my loins have long ago started to deliquesce into a mess of adrenaline and sexual anticipation.

Her closing the gap between us, I bid my guardian angel one last favor to suppress the suggestive odor I smell rising from between my legs. Before I can even mentally string together that prayer, my train of thought comes to a deafeningly grinding halt the moment I feel her lips press against mine.

Time dissolves into a calming slow-motion along with all doubts dispersing in the certainty of her lust transmitted through her touch.

“And how’s the husband?” she asks, wearing a smirk that means nothing but trouble.