My sister begged me to scope out her blind date before she showed up. One look at him across that bar and I knew this was a mistake I couldn't walk away from.

He didn't know who I was. I didn't tell him. And when he leaned in close, voice low, asking if I wanted to get out of there, I said yes before my brain caught up with my body.

What started as one reckless, breathless night in his hotel room was supposed to end there. It didn't. Now he's sitting across my sister's dinner table, and every time our eyes meet I'm back in that room - his hands, his mouth, the things he whispered against my skin that I still feel hours later.

She has no idea. He's terrified she'll find out. And I can't stop wanting more, even as the guilt tightens around my ribs like his hands did around my waist.

This was never supposed to happen twice. It's happened four times now.

Every stolen moment is a countdown to the explosion that's coming - to her, to us, to everything I thought I wanted before I knew what it felt like to be wanted like this.

Some lines you cross once. This one I keep crossing, again and again, knowing exactly what it will cost me.