The kiss had lasted much longer than expected. Too long for it to still be hesitation, not long enough to quench the thirst of their bodies.
Angie, breathless, pulled back slightly, her fingers still resting on Grégory's collar. She didn't dare speak. It was as if a single word could collapse the fragile balance between desire and reason.
But Grégory didn't wait for permission.
He gently took her hand, laced his fingers with hers, and led her to the bedroom. No words. Just the silent language of their eyes.
Inside, the soft afternoon light cast golden shadows on the walls. The lake shimmered in the distance, peaceful, as if the entire world had paused to offer them this stolen moment.
Angie stopped at the edge of the bed, uncertain. Her principles, her guilt, her loyalty to Jessica—everything screamed inside her. But another voice, softer, more visceral, whispered: "Let go. Just once. Only once."
Grégory came up behind her, his warmth radiating close against her. He gently brushed her hair aside and kissed the nape of her neck. A shiver ran down her spine.
— "You can still leave," he murmured.
She closed her eyes. Her voice trembled, just barely.
— "I don't want to run from what I feel anymore."
Then she turned around. And in her gaze, there was no fear, no hesitation. There was that unspoken desire, that raw need, that attachment she had never been able to express in words.
Grégory took her in his arms, gently at first, as if rediscovering the lines of her body. Their bodies slowly pressed together, fitting like two puzzle pieces long separated. Their breaths mingled—warm, uneven.
He ran his fingers down her bare arm, stopping at her waist. She looked up at him, and in that glance, he read everything: the confusion, the fear, the passion, the surrender.
He kissed her again, this time with a tender restraint, but full of promise. His hands grew bolder, exploring the softness of her neck, the delicacy of her figure.
Angie let herself go, then took the lead. She slowly unbuttoned the collar of his shirt, revealing his skin—the chest she had imagined in her sleepless nights. Grégory shivered at her touch.
They discovered each other like two castaways, thirsty for islands, seeking refuge in one another.
He laid her gently on the bed. The mattress welcomed their bodies with softness. The wood creaked beneath their movement. He looked at her for a moment, as if to imprint every detail of her into his memory: her half-closed eyes, parted lips, trembling breath.
Then he leaned down, placing kisses on her collarbone, along her jawline, her shoulders. She responded by pulling him closer, her hands on his back, barely scratching him, as if to trap him against her.
Their clothes fell one by one, in a silent complicity. Nothing was rushed. Every gesture was an answer to a buried longing, a desire long restrained. They took their time. To feel. To memorize.
When their skins finally met with no more barriers, it was a soft and profound shock. Their bodies moved in harmony, in a silent, slow dance, paced by their sighs and the distant lapping of the water.
Angie felt her heart explode with every caress. It wasn't just physical. It was emotional. As if, through every movement, Grégory was telling her all the things he had never been able to say.
And she answered in kind. With a shiver, a hand pressed against his neck, a whispered breath in his ear.
They made love for a long time. Slowly at first, as if time belonged to them. Then more intensely, as their restraint faded and their bodies spoke for them. They lost themselves in each other, then found each other again, until the world was completely forgotten.
When everything finally calmed, Angie stayed curled up against him, her head on his chest, her fingers absently tracing the rhythm of his heartbeat.
No one spoke.
This silence, this time, was neither guilty nor heavy. It was full. Rich. The kind of silence between two people who have nothing left to say—because they've already said everything in another way.
— "I'll have to live with this," she murmured after a long moment.
Grégory slowly caressed her hair.
— "So will I."
— "She didn't deserve this."
— "No. And yet…"
Angie sat up slightly, the sheet slipping over her skin.
— "I'll never ask you to choose. Because I couldn't bear to be the reason she suffers."
— "You're already the reason I can breathe again," he whispered.
She closed her eyes, painfully.
— "So this is our curse… finding each other too late."
They lay down again, side by side, fingers intertwined.
The sun was setting on the horizon. Outside, the lake glistened under the golden glow of evening. The room still held the scent of their bodies, their emotions, their hesitations.
There were no vows. No promises.
Just the memory of a moment stolen from the world.
And the weight of an impossible love.