“I need something from my car.” Peter’s voice pulled me back to the hotel corridor. He still wasn’t looking at me, but the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. I continued to lag behind him, my legs fighting me. I stared at the back of his pants, snug around his upper thighs. He turned to me, finally meeting my gaze. “It’ll only take a moment.”

I managed an affirmative blink and took a large gulp of wine. My heart rate increased as I attempted to convince myself that I didn’t know what was happening. I took another, longer pull of my drink, trying to create an excuse for what I was about to do. The voice telling me that it was inappropriate to get into Peter’s corporate car was drowned out by the luscious adrenaline of misbehaving, of being bad, of escaping the boring ballroom and the buzzing cell phone in my purse. I suddenly had the urge to blow up the life I had carved out for myself, and join the ranks of those to whom the rules did not apply. I drained my glass and placed it on a table in the lobby, then followed Peter through the main doors.

The air outside the Pierre was biting, and Fifth Avenue was completely desolate except for the line of black cars and the drivers leaning against them, curls of smoke billowing up from the lit ends of their cigarettes into the winter air. I smiled politely at the driver as he quickly stepped on his cigarette and opened the door of a black Quality SUV with a “Dunn” placard in the front window, and held his palm out to help me climb in. I searched his face for judgment, for recognition that I wasn’t supposed to be climbing into the back of his car with Peter, that I wasn’t wearing a wedding ring while Peter was. But his eyes were a blank, professional kind of polite. They seemed to barely reg ister me at all. I crossed my legs to make myself feel more in control, continuing the charade of propriety. If I did this, I was no better than the rumors. Fuck the rumors. Fuck the people who spread them. They don’t matter. Peter slipped smoothly into the seat next to me and put a hand on my leg as the driver closed the door with a soft thud, sealing us inside the car. Peter’s hand, just above my knee, shattered the thin facade to which I had been clinging. I squirmed slightly, and there was a fleeting moment when I considered pulling back—pretending that he had somehow misread the situation and that I’d thought we were going to discuss the letter of intent on the Stag River deal.

But he took the back of my head in his palm and pulled my lips to his, and electricity shot through me.

His breath was smoky with scotch and slightly sweet, like a burned orange. Something on his skin smelled spicy as I breathed him in. He smelled so different from, so much better than, Sam.

I melted into him as my other senses sprang to life. His lips were soft and inviting. I half expected somebody of his age to kiss differently. But he didn’t. I put my hand on his chest and moaned slightly in protest as I pushed him ever so slightly away, sensing that I was supposed to do so to make certain he knew I was struggling with my conscience. He played his part deftly, pushing the back of my head a bit harder, then pulling away from me and looking curiously into my eyes. He said nothing, but he cupped my face in his hand and drew me to him again. He placed his lips on my forehead, and all of my anxieties evaporated as the tip of my nose explored the cavity of his neck. He backed away again and smiled wistfully, making me blush. And then this time, I kissed him. His tongue explored mine with such gentleness that I gave up all control, sucking hungrily at the power I felt charging through his body into mine.

When it was over and the world rushed back in on me, we locked eyes. I suppose it should have been a romantic moment, but I felt a surge of nausea. I wanted to think it was the result of too many drinks, but I knew it was from the guilt squeezing my stomach lining together and forcing it up into my throat.

“Shit,” I whispered as I pulled my bra back over my breasts, struggling with the clasp in my trembling hands. Peter was saying something, but I wasn’t hearing him as I shoved my blouse into my skirt and untwisted my necklace so it lay flat. I shook my head repeatedly as though arguing with the part of myself that told me I had just committed an unforgivable transgression that would alter the course of my life. I slid out of the car and shut the door behind me, desperate now to return to the party I’d longed to escape. I stole a glimpse of myself in the mirrored hallway wall and saw that I looked normal, and felt almost resentful that I hadn’t been physically branded. I wiped at the corners of my mouth and under my eyes and then walked into the ballroom, plastered a smile on my face, and slid up to Sam, who was still at the bar with Carmen. He kissed the top of my head.

Did he smell Peter?

“Where were you and Peter?” Carmen asked intently.

“Peter went to find his wife. I took a call,” I said, meeting her gaze steadily. “I’ve made my necessary rounds. Officially time to hang with you guys,” I told them, realizing I was disturbingly adept at appearing calm even while my heart felt like it was about to burst through my rib cage.

“We’re taking another shot,” Sam said, looking as if he was bracing himself for a judgmental look from me. He didn’t get one. I wanted him to be drunk enough not to notice if my sheen of composure didn’t last.

“I’m in!” I ordered three shots of Casa Dragones as bits of my encounter with Peter flashed before my eyes.

We continued to drink and talk to other first-years while I obsessively kept Peter in the periphery of my vision so I could maintain a safe distance at all times.

Carmen seemed to be keeping an eye on someone as well. “Who are we scoping out, lady?” I asked as she craned her neck out over the crowd.

“Peter’s wife is super thin,” she said, unintentionally answering my question.

I shrugged, unable to bring myself to speak badly about a woman whose marriage I had just compromised. The alcohol overtook the adrenaline in my system and I became exceedingly drunk in what seemed like an instant. I nuzzled Sam’s shoulder, indicating I was ready to head home, and he went to get our coats. I was left with Carmen, who turned away from me without a word and made her way to the far end of the bar.

I smelled Peter before I saw him, his scent triggering the image of him unfastening my bra. I touched my temple in embarrassment and looked up to see him before me.

“Just wanted to say goodbye,” he said. My breath caught, and I looked over his shoulder to see Marcie, who waved pleasantly enough from a couple feet behind him.

I gave her a broad smile, and she flashed a confident and careless one in return. She definitely doesn’t suspect anything, I thought. I looked back at Peter, focusing more on his forehead than his eyes, terrified of what I might see in them.

“Good night,” I said, striving for a professional tone but bordering on cold.

He leaned in slightly closer. “Great night,” he said with a tiny wink—or maybe it was a squint. Either way, it sent my stomach into somersaults. He turned, placed a hand on the small of his wife’s back, and guided her out of the ballroom, toward the Quality car I had just been in. I crossed my right arm to my opposite shoulder and rubbed it for comfort.

When Sam and I arrived home, I walked directly into the bathroom and stripped down, tossing my clothes onto the floor. As I did, I saw a spot of red on the inside of the right cup of my white bra. I looked at my right nipple in the mirror, or rather the tiny, perfect bite mark just north of it. I shut my eyes and stepped into the hot shower, where I leaned my back against the wall and let it slip down the cool tiles until I was sitting on the floor. I curled my knees up to my chest as the water pushed down on my hair and formed a curtain around my face.

As the water flowed, I tried to remember more about the night—what Peter was saying to me as I left his car, the look on the driver’s face. But it was all too foggy. I didn’t know if the memories had disappeared because of the alcohol or my own shame, and whether I’d ever recover them—or if I even wanted to. Then suddenly the image of me straddling Peter, his lips on my breasts, came into my mind. My hands instinctively flew to my face as my insides twisted in simultaneous pleasure and pain.

I stood and soaped up the loofah, taking it to my arms and chest.

“Babe? You okay?” Sam shouted from the other side of the bathroom door. “Trying to set a new record for shower length?”

I looked down at my skin, which was now red and raw.

“Out in a sec!” I yelled back, jumping out from under the now-painful hot water and blotting my body as gently as possible with a plush towel.

I applied lotion, gritting my teeth at the sting, then slipped into silk pajamas and slid under the covers next to Sam.

“Carmen is great, really fun. Glad I met her. She had the nicest things to say about you,” he said, and patted my thigh and sighed, the way he always did when he had had too much to drink.

“Did she?” I ignored the sting of his touch and pretended to be on the edge of sleep as my mind raced.