An hour later, I’m at home in my own bed, having made excuses and leaving Lucia’s apartment shortly after putting our clothes back on.

She sees too much, makes me think too much, and has my mind traveling at warp speed, which is not safe. Earlier tonight is the last time I can allow myself to be in this situation.

There is no way that I can see her again without wanting to sleep with her, without wanting to push the limits with her or, worse still, test both of our boundaries.

Maybe even find out if I have any myself.

I’m behind the wheel of my SUV, driving north to visit my parents.

A week has passed since I left Lucia’s apartment after sleeping with her. It was inexcusable but necessary, her effect on me too potent to be ignored.

Now, with at least an hour’s drive ahead of me and a week where I’ve purposefully buried myself in work to distract me from Lucia, I have time to reflect on the situation I find myself in.

Since I was a teenager, I’ve buried my desires deep. Initially naïve to their true meaning, what started off as a stirring grew into intrigue, and the more research I did, the more I became obsessed with the idea of it. The seed of my craving was planted, and the more time I spent trying to quell my thoughts, to stifle my yearning, the stronger the draw became.

One innocent afternoon, we had a seemingly interesting idea—a group of six teenagers hanging around the high school grounds with nothing better to do. An off-the-cuff suggestion that started innocently enough soon shifted into a darker challenge. One that has stayed with me, buried in my darkest depths, my body and mind unwilling to let it surface.

And until now, I’ve been successful in pushing back the hunger to take that next step.

What has been missing and holding me back has been the need for a deep-seated bond of trust, something I haven’t been willing to seek out, or allow myself to have.

Honestly, I haven’t trusted myself to take that step with someone, to let myself go. Perhaps that is why I loathe myself for even entertaining the idea, for fathoming the fantasies I have.

Then last week, being with Lucia, I felt unbalanced, off kilter in a good but unsettling way. For the first time since my formative years, there was a level of trust between me and another person that I had never felt before.

Since the moment I laid eyes on her, Lucia has elicited a basal response of the likes I have never felt before. Not just in my body—because let’s be honest, that happens frequently enough as it is. No, my reaction to Lucia was both physically and mentally unprecedented, which is perplexing enough as it is.

That is precisely why, just hours after having her, I was lying in my own bed, on my own cold, unscented sheets, when any other man would’ve been tangled up in and surrounded by everything Lucia.

But not me. I followed my typical MO and left as soon as I was done.

I’d felt my tightly held grip slipping when I was with her. With our naked bodies pressed together, the opportunity to do more was within my reach. The chance to give myself that highly sought after taste of my longest-held, darkest sexual fantasy.

I don’t condemn others who wish to partake in consensual relations of that kind. Grant has more than once told me there is nothing wrong with a man having fantasies, desires that are not necessarily realistic or indeed right, and that ultimately, it is always my choice whether to act on them or not.

A successful, well-educated, highly regarded businessman like myself should not want to do unthinkable things to a woman he’s attracted to. I have everything a man could dream of—why has my subconscious been fixated on this one thing for most of my adult life?

Being the man that I am, the man that I was raised to be, the man that I strive to be in the future, I cannot fathom what it would take to drive me to take that step.

To trust a woman enough to take that last leap with me.

So I haven’t and I won’t.

That means putting space between the woman who threatens every ounce of my restraint and me.

Hours later, Father Duncan wraps up another thoughtful and insightful service, offering his traditional final few words to the congregation. “Go in peace. My peace I give you.”

A loud ‘Amen’ echoes around the long-standing stone walls of my childhood parish.

It was in this church where I gave my first confession, where I took my First Holy Communion, and where I confirmed my faith in the Catholic church in which I had been born and raised.

As the congregation thins, I move down the aisle and walk outside. Moving to the side, it’s only a few moments before I find myself enveloped in the warm embrace of the woman who I love more than life itself. I wrap my arms around her and relish the familiarity that has always calmed me.

“Callum, it’s been too long,” Mom says, leaning up on her toes and kissing my cheek. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t seen you. I’ve been so busy with everything.”

She lovingly rubs her hands up and down my arms, her eyes scanning my face as she takes every nuance of my expression into consideration. Her look quickly turns to one of concern—it’s as if she can read through my façade and see everything I’m trying to hide from her. The stress and pressure of work, the frustration of being the San Fran gossip column’s poster boy.

“Is everything okay, Cal?”

I school my features, trying to put forward a content front. “Of course. I just needed to see everyone, and have some of your famous lasagna. Nothing makes me feel more at home than your cooking—you know that.” I give Mom a gentle squeeze before plastering a smile on my face and stepping back. It’s both a blessing and a curse that I’ve always been transparent to her. “Where’s Dad?”

She looks up at me and briefly narrows her eyes before she thankfully gives me a pass on the impending inquisition she would normally commence. “He’s inside with Father Duncan. He wanted to make sure everything was organized for the spaghetti dinner next weekend. We’re fundraising for the Carters. They lost their mother to a heart attack last week, bless her soul. Three children under ten years old. Such a sad story.” Her eyes glisten with tears, and I pull her back into my arms, running my hand up and down her back to help console her.

“You have such a kind heart, Mom.”

Nodding against my chest, she stays with me for a few more minutes before stepping back. “Did you see Heather?”

“She saw me at the back of the church as she was taking Grayson outside. By the look on her face, I’d say she was going to change his diaper.”

Mom giggles and shakes her head. “My grandson is all boy when it comes to that department.”

“He’s like a weed; he won’t stop growing. He’s gotten so big, and I only saw him a month ago.”

“If you came home more often, you’d see for yourself that he is in fact a human garbage disposal,” my father muses from beside me. “Good to see you, son.” He claps me on the back and wraps an arm around my shoulder. He’s the only person in my family who can do that, given that I’m six foot two and he’s an inch taller, thus explaining the growth rate of my nephew.

“Dad.”

He steps toward Mom, pulling her into his side. “You staying for lunch?”

“Like I’d miss Mom’s lasagna. My surname is Alexander, is it not?”

Dad chuckles while Mom just smiles up at both of us.

“Oh, I’d also like to make a contribution for the Carter family. Mom was just telling me about their loss.”

There is no mistaking the pride in my father’s expression. “You’re a good man, Cal.”