Part of a larger narrative

When he was unlocking the streetside door, they both knew what was going to happen. He hadn't admitted it yet to himself, hadn't allowed that part of himself to admit it, the part that concerned itself with consequences. Opening the door and ushering her in like a complete gentleman, he thought about what he was about to do and what it meant. It meant he was far from being a gentleman. He was a scoundrel. A cheater. He shook away the thought. His girlfriend would never know what he was about to do, that he would make sure of.

She had already taken the first step when he took her by the shoulder, spinning her around. He drew her body next to his and he could feel her yielding; aware and wanting. He wanted it too, more than anything right then. They kissed with a passion and an urgency he had rarely known. His hands caressed her ribs and her cheek, pulling her to him, possessing. He kept his eyes open as they kissed, taking in the entire scene, partly aghast, partly reveling in what he was doing. In the idea that he was getting away with this. Her eyes were closed, her head tilted up towards him, her lips expectant, she had given in and was his for the taking.

He broke the kiss, beset by a wave of guilt, then ran his hands across her breasts and hurried up the stairs, pulling her up the stairs and pushing his regrets out of mind. At the door to his apartment he paused to find the correct key, and perhaps she sensed some hesitation. She took initiative, heatedly slinking her frame against him. They were against the door, in a deep kiss, their bodies so close that there was no room to think, no room for regret.

Once the door was closed behind them there was a flurry of clothes as shirts and pants were thrown off and cast aside, tossed away with a sense of urgency that they both felt. She pulled him by the hand into the bedroom, but he was the one who pushed her onto the bed, falling on top of her and kissing her with a suaveness that surprised him. Taking the back of her hair in hand, he broke away and peered into her eyes.

"This is wrong. We should stop." She ignored his half-hearted whispered plea, kissing his neck, his chest, feeling his growing desire through his underwear. He shuddered in response, and forgetting his hesitation, he pushed himself up, ripped away the cloth standing between them. He felt that she was ready, that he was ready, and so he eased his body down onto hers, and he crossed the final line that he had drawn in his mind. The line that, before unlocking the outer door, he told himself not to cross, the line that he had redrawn again and again all night. A one way street that he had tuned down willfully.

There was passion in what they did. Passion and desire and urgency. There was satisfaction, the sweaty finale of heated longing. And in what he did there was a certain amount of smugness and pride.

The pride disturbed him, he realized, as he lay next to her afterwards, watching her naked back rise and fall with her sleepy, satisfied breathing. There was a sense of getting away with something, of finally possessing a secret worth keeping, and a more primal feeling of satisfying a woman in bed, and of being desired. That part of him that felt regret he could silence by blaming the drinks, but he knew that was excusing away his guilt.

It was disturbing and exhilarating all at once. It made him sick and at the same time he felt more satisfied with himself than he had ever been in his life. He went to sleep.