She was a flirt, no doubt about that. He smiled wryly when he thought back to the day they first met over coffee fumes and sexually charged conversation. She was interesting in a way he found mysterious because he couldn't exactly put his finger on why she interested him so much. He knew that he shouldn't be so enticed with her honeyed words or the seemingly unintentional contact of their bodies when she was near him. She was married, so he knew nothing could really come from it. These were the facts that were in his mind, yet he was still interested. He was recently single and embracing life and everything that it threw his way, but she was untouchable. Only problem was that God only knew how his mind wanted him to touch that forbidden fruit.
He was not a cad; some homewrecker, so he kept his distance, but he never stopped flirting with her. Fight fire with fire, he would always say jokingly to her, with a smile smile from the side of his mouth. For every hand brush against his arm, he would gently push a stray hair from her face. For every explicit flirt, he would send a line to her that would make her blush all the way down to the roots of her hair. Fighting fire with fire, the only thing that made him pause from time to time was the knowledge that when you play with fire, you run the risk of getting burned. Even with this knowledge, he had nothing to lose, so like a child playing with a pack of matches, he kept striking a new flame, keeping both games, his and hers, and that of fate and chance, going strong.
He believed he had a good grasp on the score of the game, but he never know that the stakes kept growing larger. He was always told by his closest friends that he was unobservant and it would take hitting him over the head with obviousness to get him to leave the brink of obliviousness. Unfortunately for him, the realization of the true stakes of their little game were unknown to him and, without hesitation or second thought, he took her up on her offer for coffee and a movie at her house. He never heard the match strike against the book.
He arrived around nine at night on Saturday and strode to the door, perfectly content to keep their game burning strong. When the door opened before his hand touched the glossy wood, he finally knew where the game was eventually moving towards. For a brief moment, just as her lips touched his, he thought that he should turn and leave, the alarms were firing full blast in all corners of his mind. As he felt her hands grip the front of his shirt like iron clamps and pull him inside, the alarms faded and his eyes closed, giving in to the soft pressure of her moist lips.
She was saying something, but his ability to make sense of things around him that night was long since gone. All he was able to grasp was the feel of her warm skin against him, the taste of her kiss, and the soft touch of her cold hands against the burning heat of his body. The voice of reason in his mind was being smothered, but he could distantly hear it screaming that she had won, over and over again. As she pulled him into the bedroom or her and her absent husband, he knew that the voice was right, but he also knew that he no longer cared and sank into her fiery passion.
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