Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to just... let go. To stop fighting these feelings that twist my stomach into knots. My husband’s hands are gentle, familiar—but my mind keeps drifting to you. The way your gaze lingers just a second too long, how your fingers brush mine when you think no one’s watching. It’s fucked up, isn’t it? Craving the heat of your skin against mine, the way your cock would feel stretching me open, taking what you shouldn’t. I should hate myself for it. But when I touch myself at night, it’s your name I bite into my pillow to keep from screaming. God, what does that make me?