The consequential things, the monumental ones, oft happen when you least expect. You rarely see it coming.

We never expected it to last. We never meant to fall in love. It’s funny how things start slowly and then gradually build, until a fire is burning inside that both warms and threatens to consume us.

It would be a lie to say it started innocently enough because the spark was there from the very beginning. Nothing this powerful ever starts innocently. For me, it was a simple glance. Yes, you were handsome, but that alone was hardly remarkable. It was something more, something intangible and unexplainable. I guess that’s just one of life’s mysteries.

I’ll never forget it. We were fellow attendees at that conference, just two of a few hundred people in that ballroom. I saw you nearby – not so near that we could touch, or even talk, but near enough to catch the energy radiating from you. It hit me with a small jolt, right in my midsection. This was different. I will never be able to understand why. It just was.

A small adrenaline rush coursed through my veins. Suddenly, a drab day seemed exciting. I felt very alive. And we hadn’t even met.

That came later – after hours, at the hotel bar, where people were piled three deep waiting to catch the bartender’s attention. Finally, having made it to the bar itself, I heard a voice from my right order a drink, and then, “and whatever the lady wants.”

I glanced over. I hadn’t even noticed you standing there. It hit me like a gut punch this time, and yes, further down. As you handed me my drink you pierced me with those deep eyes and we began to talk, slowly pulling away from the crowd until just we two were seated at a high top in the corner of the room.

No, you didn’t sweep me off my feet and whisk me to your room. For my part, I didn’t offer myself either. We both wore rings. I was a happily married, content, and conventional woman. Our conversation was completely platonic, yet I found myself sharing intimacies with you, and you with me. By the end of the evening, I was slightly smitten.

We managed to meet up the two evenings after that. We discovered that our homes were in towns thirty miles apart. When we bid farewell that last night, it was with a warm embrace and a realization that something had happened for both of us.

Of course we connected on LinkedIn. Beyond that, though, there was no contact for six months. That is, until one day, quite out of the blue, you messaged me to inquire whether I was planning to attend an upcoming conference. My heart skipped a beat.

For the next three weeks, I couldn’t focus. The anticipation of seeing you again consumed my waking thoughts. I was nearly trembling as I packed my bag. Saying goodbye to my loving husband was surreal.

They say that infidelity is emotional more than physical, and yet, I convinced myself that I hadn’t been unfaithful to that point. And yet, the thrill I felt when I read your message, and the anticipation leading to the trip, was proof enough.

As soon as we saw one another, we hugged. This one lasted a little bit too long. I felt a tightness in my stomach and a tingling all over. That night, back in my room, I chided myself for being such a child.

But some things are inevitable, aren’t they? The second evening, we found ourselves alone in the elevator, standing far too close to one another. The soft way your lips brushed against mine seemed perfect. We left it at that.

The last night, we found ourselves together in a big group. I will never forget how desperately I wanted us to find a way to break away. I needed to feel your embrace again, if only to sustain me as I traveled back home and attempted re-entry into my regular life.

Just when I was about to give up, I ran smack into you on the way back from the women’s room. You discreetly slipped me a key card, sheathed in the carrier on which your room number was written. You leaned in quickly and in a whisper breathed into my ear.

“I will wait up for you. If I’ve read things wrong, I’m sorry. But I just had to ask.”

You turned and walked toward the elevator before anyone could see our little interlude. I turned the key card over and over in my shaking hands.

As if on cue, my phone buzzed. It was my husband, wanting to know how the day went and letting me know he loved me and couldn’t wait for me to come home.

Guilt washed over me like a wave, and I strode to the elevator and threw the key card into the trash. I pushed the button and waited for a ride up to my room.

As I waited, a small group of people gathered, their after-hours drinking and mingling done. The doors opened and they stepped inside. I hesitated. A man held the door open and looked at me expectantly. I explained that I’d forgotten something and turned away.

The doors closed. I stole a quick glance around, and seeing no one, reached into the trash and retrieved the key.

I’ll probably never know how I pushed through that guilt, except that it and desire often engage in an epic battle. It wasn’t a fair fight.

Still, my nerves were jangled as I walked toward your room. Guilt wasn’t dead yet, and the fear of being seen added to the emotions boiling within me.

Oh, how that first night was magic. How quickly our romantic embrace turned urgent. How my dress melted away and pooled on the floor. How your fingers felt brushing across my skin. How I instinctively dropped to my knees, wanting so much to please you, my body aching with desire.

How turgid your organ was, and how it thrilled me to see the effect I had on you. Some things you can’t conceal, can you? How it felt as I wrapped my lips around the tip and slowly, slowly took you all the way into my mouth. How organic you tasted. How I caressed your balls and yearned for the treasure they contained.

Your tongue was pure bliss, and my first orgasm came quickly, but you weren’t finished. Sucking, licking, nibbling, spitting – you devoured me like a starving man. And then your fingers. Taking me – gently at first, and then roughly, until I cried your name for the world to hear.

And then, the moment of truth. Your cock poised at my entrance, my legs spread wide in submissive invitation. No words were spoken. Our eyes expressed our intent. And as you slowly took me, inch by glorious inch, both of us savoring this moment, I knew that life would never be the same.

I left in the middle of the night, so as not to be seen. Parting was agony. I wanted nothing more than to fall asleep in your arms, wake with morning sun streaming in around the corners of the curtains, and make slow, languorous love as a counterpoint to the desperation of our nighttime coupling.

And so it started. We promised this would never amount to anything more than a sexual affair, and I suppose I fooled myself that it would be a transitory thing for me, that once I had scratched the itch and the novelty wore off, it would be easy to part as friends and cherish the stolen moments that we had.

But things aren’t always that simple. We became more emotionally entangled, stealing moments wherever and whenever we could. We took risks, the thrill of the forbidden mingling with the depth of our connection.

Inevitably, taboos fell away. Ever the gentleman, you had provided condoms that first night, and at every tryst thereafter. It was me who eventually took the initiative, who shook my head and insisted on skin on skin. Our intimacy couldn’t be fully realized with a sheath in between us.

And then, the ultimate moment. Looking back, we were inevitably headed toward it since that first tender kiss. You were atop me, plunging your beautiful cock into my wetness, when pleading eyes and desperate voice I begged for you to cum inside me, to flood my pussy, to fill me to overflowing. When I felt the first spurt splash against my inner walls, I exploded in an orgasm so violent that I tore the flesh of your back with my nails and nearly blacked out.

For a small eternity, I trembled and sobbed uncontrollably, while you held me in your embrace, stroked my face, and planted gentle kisses on my forehead.

And then – also inevitably, as I lay entangled in your arms, with your essence dripping out of me, I said it.

I love you.

Oh my god, I thought. I’ve crossed a line. I had no right.

And then you said it back to me and my heart soared.

We had to talk it through, of course. Neither of us had intended, or even envisioned, it coming to this, but nature takes its course and doesn’t give a damn what we think.

Eventually, we came to an understanding. Imperfect, but workable. You weren’t going to leave your wife, and I wasn’t going to abandon my husband either. We would have to make do with what we had, which was magical experiences punctuating an otherwise entirely ordinary existence.

And what magic there was. Often it was only a few hours in a discreet hotel somewhere between our cities. Sometimes romantic—a bottle of wine, candlelight — others pure, unadulterated lust, the ache of distance leading to an uncontrollable explosion.

The excuses—girls’ night out, I have to work late at the office, my flight back was delayed. Each time I would return home carrying you inside me, skin flushed, my entire being happy. I learned to compartmentalize very well.

And then there were the three days at the resort. Somewhere discreet, nearly impossible that we would see anyone we knew. We took vacation and lied about a business trip. Three blissful days, holding hands, strolling on the beach at sunset arm in arm, candlelight dinners. And sex. Lots of sex. We both lost count of our orgasms. We slept in, rolled over and did it all again.

I have never felt so fulfilled. I cried when we landed back home and went our separate ways.

Not long thereafter came a fateful moment. You broke the news that you were trying to start a family. My chest tightened, and I felt like someone had punched me in the gut. My response was visceral, selfish, and completely unjustified. I had learned to keep your wife, and hidden so far in the background that it was as if she didn’t even exist. When you and I were together I was in the bubble of our own world. I felt like such a naïve fool. And deep down I was haunted by the fear that this might drive us apart.

But the human spirit is resilient, and so I placed the hurt in a little box and locked it away. I threw myself into us with renewed vigor. And as it turned out, my own betrothed began to hint of his own desire for children. I deceived myself into thinking that we could manage this, that we could carry on despite these monumental changes in our other lives.

And then, you broke the news. She was three months pregnant. You were clear that the start of a family would change everything for you. You couldn’t continue to lead a life where your emotions were torn between two separate worlds. We had six months left.

Oh, how life changes in an instant. I wanted to scream, to cry, to hit you, call you a worthless, no-good piece of shit.

But I realized I had no right to do that. You had been clear, and so had I. And the hurt in your eyes revealed your own feelings.

We never expected it to lead to this.

Those six months were an emotional volcano. We savored every moment and took ever-increasing risks to get away whenever we could. Our time together took on an epic urgency, and our cries of love escalated in volume and intensity. I would return home utterly wrecked, physically and emotionally, each encounter bringing us closer to the end.

Three months to go. Your wife was going to see her mother for the weekend. My husband was going on a golfing trip with his buddies. We tried to contain the temptation, but the heart does reckless things. Desperate to squeeze every ounce out of the time we had left, we plotted to commit our sins in our marital beds.

The first was in my house. I was so nervous. After three years of managing this affair, my compartments were about to merge. And yet, I have never been more excited. Bringing you into my most intimate space was so right. I woke the next morning in your arms instead of his, rolled over to take you back into my mouth, mount you, and ride you until you filled me yet again. It was a sin. It was a sacred moment.

Then we moved to your house. My heart was pounding as you threw me down on the bed where you had only fucked one other woman. When you finally entered me, a photo on your dresser caught my eye. It was a wedding portrait. That did it. My climax left me shattered, and I begged you to give it to me until you exploded. All the while I kept staring at that picture. I had never seen her before. You both looked so happy, and as we fucked over and over, I took the night as a claiming, a futile attempt to own a piece of you that I knew I had no right to.

We agreed that it was so wrong, and yet so perfectly right. We would forever carry the memory of those moments deep inside us, to keep a piece of our love alive long after our separation.

The last time was such a swirl of emotions—tender, desperate, urgent. I clung to you like a life raft in the middle of a stormy ocean. We locked eyes as we made frenzied love and kissed so deeply it seemed like we were trying to merge our souls.

Which, in a way, we had done.

The ride home was devastating. I had to stop by the side of the road and sobbed uncontrollably for a small eternity. I have never felt so alone, so empty, so helpless. I couldn’t even kiss him when I got back home. I feigned illness and went straight to bed.

I moved through the following days and weeks in a haze. You had insisted that we break off all contact. A no-fault, irrevocable end to our torrid affair. I wanted to protest, to find some way to keep the smallest tread of connection unbroken, yet I knew you were right.

So now I look back. I have no regrets, nor do I blame. We fell gradually but headlong into something and let the tides of our passion take us where they would. We risked everything, and I would do it all over again.

I carry with me, deep inside, the memories of our time together. Our affair changed me, awakened in me someone who I didn’t realize existed. You completed me. And only you could have done that. There will never be another. For that I am eternally grateful.

And I carry something else. A secret, one I’m quite certain of. One I didn’t ever tell you, and that I will take to my grave. Perhaps, by coincidence, one day we might see one another on a playground or an athletic field. My heart would catch in my throat; I would wipe away a tear. And then I would smile.

You will always be with me.