You smirk, leaning back in your chair as you type out your counter-argument, leaning heavily into the illicit pull you know she can't resist:
You: Think about it, Claire. This isn't about breaking the rules. It’s to celebrate between the real father and the mother. We put a lot of hard work into making this happen, and we deserve a private moment to appreciate it. But if you feel differently , you can tell Tom about it first, or later later... or not. It's entirely up to you.
There is a long, agonizing pause. Five minutes pass. Then ten. You can practically picture her sitting in her apartment, her hand resting over her still-flat stomach, her heart hammering against her ribs as she struggles against the sheer, corrupted thrill of the invitation.
Finally, the phone vibrates in your hand.
Claire; Alright. You're making. E wet with anticipation. I don't want to tell him. Not about this. Suggest the time and place.
Your smile widen. The game with Tom was exhilarating, but this pure, unadulterated secrecy of sneaking out with someone's wife carrying your child, takes the illicit thrill to an entirely new, dangerous level.
You're sure it's not going to be pretty in the end, but it's going to be so good while it lasts.
THE END
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