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She gives her reflection in the bathroom mirror a fleeting glance, as usual feeling mild surprise. Part of her feels like it should be more obvious, her betrayal, her blame like a Scarlet Letter. The mirror just reflects the same woman she was yesterday, or a month before, nothing of her fears, pain and growing confusion.
Without switching a light on she returns to the bedroom, slips under the covers, feeling cold all of a sudden. The other woman turns to her as if sensing her state of mind, cuddling up against her. She wants to draw back, do what she thinks is the right thing, but it's impossible. She's craving the warmth of the embrace, those hands on her body that have touched her with a tenderness that nearly makes her cry every time and a passion that has gotten her addicted.
No matter how hard she tries to resist, she just keeps coming back. Sometimes she hates herself.
"You are cold," the other woman whispers, placing soft kisses on her cheek, her lips, her neck.
"Not so much anymore," she admits, her own hands coming up to caress the woman's face, and then she leans in for another kiss. It would be so easy to blame it all on her, but even at her most self-loathing, irrational moments she knows it isn't true. Slowly, languidly exploring the other woman's mouth with her tongue while her hands start to do the same with her body, for a few moments longer, she forgets about her life and convictions outside this hotel room.
She'd wanted her right away, with an intensity that bordered on physical pain. Now, a few weeks later, what scares her most is the realization how much she's come to need her. She should be the sensible one; she's got so much more to lose, but she can't stop it. She can't not fall for her, deeper, with every touch, every whispered word.
I love you.
Never before she has wanted to say it so badly, but she holds back the words, keeps them with her like a memento, something that will stay with her when this will be long over. It wouldn't change anything between them. There is no future, no chance for a happy ending for them.
The woman's hands are brushing over her thighs now, caressing ever curious skin, and she gives herself over to them. Ignorance is truly bliss, and no one has ever given her bliss like her lover in the shadows, that one impossible step over the line that should have never been.
She tells herself that it's going to be the last time, like every time, exposing the lie before it even has become a thought. Then she stops thinking altogether when the pleasure becomes too demanding to deal with anything else but the lips, tongue and fingers rendering her helpless.
Still shaking with the intensity of it, she holds her close, feeling her eyes fill with tears she won't cry until she's all alone again, because otherwise, she might feel too much like a hypocrite.
Like every time, she feels like her chance to do something right has come and passed.
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