That night, sleep dragged her under quickly, and with it came the dream. Not soft or romantic. Raw. Hungry. Desperate.
In the dream, she was kissing Raphael like she had been starving for years. His hands on her waist, Her fingers tangled in his hair. Her body arching into him with a need she couldn't suppress.
She woke up with a gasp. The bed sheets twisted and her heart racing with her skin hot. She noticed her thighs were slick with arousal.
She pressed a hand to her mouth, remembering Raphael's kisses. "Why?" she whispered into the darkness. "Why does it feel like I am in heat?"
But she knew why.
The dream wasn't a fantasy.
It was her truth.
A truth she had been denying for far too long, a truth which had finally become real.
—------------------------
Miranda woke before sunrise, her heart still racing, her breath uneven.
The room was quiet.
Still.
Dark.
But inside her, a storm raged so violently that she pressed both hands against her chest as if she could hold herself together.
"What have I done?" she whispered into the empty room as she recalled the things that happened between her and Raphael yesterday
Her voice cracked.
Her body still remembered the heat of his hands.
Her lips still tingled from the ghost of his mouth.
Her skin still burned with the imprint of everything she had allowed.
And the guilt,
oh, the guilt,
crushed her so suddenly she curled forward, burying her face in her palms.
She had betrayed Ben. Her husband, A man who had never wronged her.
A man who trusted her completely.
A tear slipped down her cheek, "I'm horrible," she whispered. "I'm a horrible person."
But even as she said it, her mind betrayed her. Images from the dream returned, soft at first, then violently vivid.
Not the innocent dreams from before.
Not whispers of temptation.
This one was explicit. Uncontrolled and shameless.
She had been dreaming of porn she used to watch during lonely nights, but every actor, every body, every angle had shifted and morphed, until it was her and Raphael in all those sinful, fevered positions.
Her legs involuntarily pressed together as heat tingled between them.
"No," she whispered harshly, shaking her head.
But the dream replayed in her head again, his hands gripping her waist, her back arching, their bodies moving in ways she had never dared imagine with her husband.
Miranda let out a small, broken sound.
Shame flooded her cheeks.
Her body was a traitor.
Her mind is even worse.
She dragged herself out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face again and again until her skin turned red.
"Enough," she said to her reflection. "This stops. Today."
She would avoid him.
Cut off every temptation.
Block every path the universe kept opening for them.
She would protect her marriage, protect her sanity and herself.
She just hoped it wouldn't fail like the last time.
---
The next day at the café, she moved like a shadow, slipping behind counters, dodging windows, ducking whenever she thought he might pass by.
Her coworkers noticed.
"You okay?" Anita, a brunette, slim and tall lady, the second worker in her Cafe asked, eyeing her curiously.
"I'm fine," Miranda lied quickly. "Just tired."
But she wasn't tired, she was wracked with guilt and haunted by memories of what happened at the studio.
Every time she blinked, she saw him above her.
Every time she swallowed, she felt the warmth of his breath.
Every time she stood still for too long, she felt the echo of the dream pulsing through her.
Her cheeks stayed hot the entire morning.
She avoided looking at the door.
At the clock.
At anything that reminded her of him.
But fate, that cruel puppeteer, had no intention of helping her.
She had almost made it.
Almost survived the entire morning without seeing him.
Until he walked in.
Not loudly nor dramatically. Just quietly, like he always did, sunlight catching the light stubble on his jaw.
Miranda's entire body froze, Heat exploded in her cheeks so fast she nearly burned.
She couldn't look at him.
She couldn't even breathe.
She turned away sharply, pretending to arrange pastries she had already arranged ten times.
But she felt him behind her.
His presence was unmistakable.
Warm.
Calm.
Certain.
Exactly the opposite of her.
"Miranda," he said softly.
Her knees almost buckled but still she turned slowly, painfully,
and regretted it instantly because he was looking at her with that same gentle intensity. The same softness that made her chest ache.
And he smiled, just a little, like he knew she was running from him and he found it endearing.
"Hi," she managed, voice embarrassingly shaky.
His gaze dipped, just for a second, to her flushed cheeks.
Her face got even hotter.
Crap! He knew. He knew.
He stepped closer, careful and respectful as always, "I hope you don't mind," he said quietly, "but I'd like to talk to you later."
Miranda swallowed hard and her throat felt tight, "Talk? About… what?"
He gave her a look that made her pulse stumble, "Just to talk," he said. "Nothing you need to run from."
He leaned slightly forward, "May I have your number?"
Her entire body went still. Her heart pounded so loudly she was sure Anita could hear it from across the counter.
She should say no, She should refuse him, cut this connection, bury the temptation. She should protect her marriage but her mouth betrayed her, just like the rest of her traitorous body.
"Yes," she whispered.
He held out his phone. Her hands trembled as she typed in her number, when she handed it back, their fingers brushed, a small touch, but it felt like fire.
He pocketed the phone gently, "I'll message you later," Raphael said softly.
She nodded, unable to speak. Unable to breathe.
He gave her one last lingering look, warm, tender and impossibly dangerous in a good way, then walked out.
Miranda let out a deep breath that she never realized she was holding back, then she leaned against the counter, gripping the edge tightly as heat washed through her.
Anita, who just returned from the store room at the back, glanced at her, "You look like you just saw a ghost."
"I wish it was a ghost," Miranda muttered under her breath.
Because ghosts didn't make her blush. They never stirred butterflies in her chest. They never asked for her number with a voice that made Temptation feel irresistible.
Ghosts didn't feel like soul mates.