Crossing the line

The doorbell sliced through the quiet at 11:37 PM. I didn’t hesitate, I knew it was Vic. My heart was pounding as I moved down the hallway, every step thick with anticipation and dread.

I always kept a pack of Magnum condoms tucked away—just in case—but this wasn’t planned. He hadn’t warned me. He hadn’t called. He just showed up, wild-eyed and breathless.

When I opened the door, there he was—shirt wrinkled, hair unruly, eyes burning with a hunger that didn’t ask politely—it demanded.

He stepped inside without a word, grabbed my face like he was trying to memorize every inch of me before it disappeared, and kissed me hard. Desperate, fierce—like he’d been starving for days, and I was the only thing that could satisfy the ache inside him.

His mouth was insistent, his tongue claiming, and when he finally pulled back enough to speak, his voice was rough and trembling.

“Intenté alejarme, pero no puedo.”
I tried to stay away, but I can’t.

“Te quiero. Te deseo. Ahora. Todo de ti.”
I want you. I crave you. Now. All of you.

His hands roamed my body like a prayer, rediscovering every curve, worshipping every inch. He dropped to his knees in the hallway, lips trailing reverent kisses down my belly, across my hips, then lower to my pussy —his tongue a slow, aching confession between my thighs. He devoured me like he needed to taste every sin we were about to commit.

I shattered on his mouth with a cry I barely recognized as my own, clinging to his hair as I came hard against his tongue.

“Tú eres tan hermosa,” he whispered against my skin. You are so beautiful.
“No sabes cuánto te anhelo.” You have no idea how much I ache for you.
“Más curvas, más para abrazar. Más para amar. Perfecta.” More curves—more to hold. More to love. Perfect.

I tried to protest, voice catching as his hands moved over me with reverence I didn’t know how to handle.

“I’m not… I’m not like those women men usually want.”
He paused, eyes locked on mine.
I swallowed hard.
“I’m not skinny. I don’t have those perfect big fake tits, that tiny waist, that flat stomach—those women you see in magazines or at bars. I don’t look like I used to. I’m soft now… I’m fuller. Everything’s changed.”

My voice cracked at the end, but he didn’t flinch. Instead, he stepped closer, slow and certain, like he was about to pray.

“Tú no entiendes,” he said, almost in disbelief.
You have no idea, do you?

His hands gripped my hips, holding the swell of my body, wrapping around my curves like claiming them as his own.

“I don’t want skinny,” he said, voice low and rough. “I don’t want fake. I don’t want some sculpted plastic fantasy.”

He kissed the corner of my mouth, then my neck, his words hot against my skin.

“I want this. You. These hips. This softness. This body that’s all woman. All curves. All mine.”

He kissed lower, hands roaming like he couldn’t touch enough of me.

“This isn’t what I put up with,” he whispered. “This is what I crave. Every inch. Don’t you dare apologize for being the exact thing that ruins me.”

I swallowed, heat burning through my veins.

He reached for the pack of Magnums sitting on the counter but hesitated. Instead, he shook his head.

“No,” he said simply. “I don’t want to hide behind that tonight.”

And with that, he captured me again—slow, deep, consuming.

We didn’t even make it to the bedroom at first. He bent me over the dining room table, kissing and sucking my tits like he owned them, biting just hard enough to make me cry out. I trembled beneath him, drunk on want.

“I want you, así, todo de ti. Quiero que me recuerdes esta noche,” he said hoarsely. Like this—all of you. I want you to remember tonight.

From the table to the couch, the kitchen counter to the floor—we left pieces of ourselves in every room. His hands gripped me like I was slipping away. Our bodies moved like we were breaking rules and rewriting them all at once.

In the haze of tangled sheets and breathless moans, I found the courage I didn’t know I had. I looked into his eyes and said what had been sitting heavy in my chest for weeks.

“You should leave her. I’ll leave my boyfriend. We’re both not happy.”

He froze, jaw clenched, breath shallow.

“Lo pienso,” he said finally.  “Pero es complicado… muy complicado.”
I’ll think about it. But it’s complicated… very complicated.

The silence was thick, painful. Then he kissed me again—rough, deep—and his mouth traveled down my body until I couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. I came on his tongue again and again, whispering his name like a prayer I wasn’t supposed to say.

Later, I returned the devotion—my mouth worshipping his glorious monstruous dick, claiming him, loving him in ways neither of us could justify. I swallowed him whole, every time. He moaned my name like it hurt.

Eventually, we collapsed into the bed, finally still, but far from calm. Our hearts pounded like they were trying to outlast the guilt.

“Eres mi tentación. Mi deseo más profundo,” he whispered. “No puedo resistirte.”
You are my temptation. My deepest desire.I can’t resist you.

When he finally pushed inside me, slow and deep, his hands trembled against my skin. I wrapped my legs tight around him, holding him there, needing it all.

“Don’t go back,” I whispered, breaking. “Don’t lie anymore. Choose this. Choose me.”

His thrusts became ragged, almost broken. He groaned into my neck.

“If only you knew how much I want that. I think about it every night. But…”

But.

The word we both hated. The word that kept us from being free.

The sunrise crept through the curtains, bathing the room in soft light. We were still tangled in sweat and heat, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down between us. Then his phone buzzed—harsh, cold, pulling him back to the life he didn’t want but couldn’t escape.

Vic flinched.

He grabbed it from the nightstand, eyes scanning the screen. His jaw tightened.

I sat up slightly.

“What is it?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the message like it confirmed his worst fear.

Finally, his voice broke through. Quiet. Strained.

“My boss—he’s distantly related to her. If he finds out I’m not where I said I’d be… if he even suspects I’m here…”

He shook his head like trying to push the thought away.

“I can’t explain this. I can’t tell him I’m here with you. That I spent the night needing you more than I’ve ever needed anything.”

He looked at me, haunted.

“I’m trapped. But this—” he touched my face reverently, trembling—“you’re the only thing that feels real.”

His lips met mine again, slow and aching. Goodbye without saying it.

The phone buzzed again, louder this time. Final.

I traced his jaw, memorizing every part of him I didn’t want to lose.

“Don’t forget this.”

He kissed me deep, long, like it hurt to pull away.

“No podría si lo intentara,” he whispered. I couldn’t if I tried.

Then he left.

And I lay there, staring at the ceiling, the scent of him still clinging to the sheets, the ache still between my legs, the hollow guilt swelling in my chest.

We had crossed a line. Over and over.

And still, neither of us could bring ourselves to step back.

We didn’t belong to each other.

But we also didn’t belong to the people waiting for us at home.

Not anymore.