A Confession!

I knew Luca’s body long before I touched it.

I knew it in the way he leaned against doorframes, casual but alert. In the way his shirts always fit a little too well across his shoulders. In the way his gaze undressed a room without ever lingering too obviously on anyone except me.

That Christmas, the snow came early. Heavy. Persistent. Trapping us all inside a chalet that smelled of cedarwood, wine, and warmth.

Four married adults playing house. Two couples who knew each other’s routines so well that desire had quietly learned how to hide.

By the third night, I was aching with it.

After dinner, after laughter dulled by alcohol, after polite kisses goodnight, I found myself downstairs again. Barefoot. Wrapped in nothing but a thin robe. The fire was low, pulsing like something alive.

Luca was there.

Of course he was.

He didn’t ask why I was awake. He stood when he saw me, slowly, deliberately, his eyes tracing the line of my legs, the hollow at my throat, the way the robe barely stayed closed when I breathed.

“You should be cold,” he said.

“I’m not,” I replied.

He stepped closer. Close enough that the heat from his body replaced the fire. Close enough that I could smell him, clean, masculine, faintly smoky.

When his fingers touched my wrist, it felt like permission and danger in equal measure.

We kissed like people who had imagined it too many times to count, and not rushed. Not clumsy. His mouth was warm and knowing, his hands firm as if they had been waiting for this exact shape, this same weight. I felt myself soften against him, the robe slipping open without either of us pretending it was an accident.

He pressed me gently against the wall, his breath hot against my ear.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.

I didn’t.

Every touch was deliberate. Exploratory. His hands learned me slowly, reverently, as though memorising something he knew he wouldn’t be allowed to keep. I felt wanted in a way that made my knees weak, seen not as a wife or a friend, but as a body that could be undone.

The house creaked around us. Upstairs, our lives slept peacefully.

When he finally pulled me closer, when my name left his mouth like a confession, I let myself forget everything except sensation. The heat. The friction. The way pleasure erased time.

After, we didn’t rush to fix ourselves.

We sat by the dying fire, my head against his chest, his hand tracing idle patterns on my bare skin. The silence was intimate, dangerous, addictive.

In the morning, we were flawless.

Breakfast. Smiles. Wrapped gifts. Polite affection. No one suspected a thing.

We never touched again.

But sometimes, when December returns, and the air turns sharp and clean, I feel Luca’s hands on my body like a memory that refuses to fade.

And I smile.

Because some sins are meant to be remembered.

-Anonymous

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