Elective Risk

I used to think that B-school would dull the parts of me that liked chaos -- that it would iron out the curves, straighten the lines, make me more... sensible. But here I am, six months into my first year, still chasing the things I shouldn't want.

My name's Sarah Winslow -- 23, freshly plucked from undergrad where I double-majored in psych and international relations, which basically means I'm good at reading people and pretending to know how the world works. I'm blonde -- real blonde, not bottle blonde -- and tall enough in heels to be noticed, but not too tall to intimidate. Five-seven barefoot. I stay fit without obsessing, and I know the power of a well-cut dress and a second glance.

I've had this quiet obsession since undergrad -- not the kind that keeps you up at night, but the kind that lingers in the corners of your mind like a half-remembered lyric. His name is Henry Brown. Dr. Henry Brown, technically. He guest lectured at one of our econ seminars my junior year, and I swear I didn't hear a word he said because I was too busy watching the way his forearms flexed when he talked with his hands. The man is magnetic -- tall, chiseled, skin like dark caramel and eyes that look like they've seen too much and still want more. 37, maybe 38 now. He's been in and out of academia, mostly consulting, advising, and probably making millions without ever needing to flex about it.

The thing is, he's always been unattainable. Married. Distant. Always surrounded by serious people saying serious things. But something changed. I saw it in the way he lingered near the bar at the Pritchard-Snow wedding -- not quite alone, but definitely not with someone. And when he brushed past me, I noticed the absence of something I'd always thought was permanent: his wedding band. It was gone, leaving behind just a tan line and maybe... something else. An opening.

He was halfway through a pour of what looked like Macallan when I slipped up beside him, heels soft against the marble.

"Professor Brown," I said smoothly -- cool, confident, just a hint of tease.

He turned, brows lifting in polite confusion, his eyes landing on mine first. There was a flicker of recognition, then a pause -- the kind that happened when someone was trying to place a name to a changed face. Or maybe it was the rest of me he was noticing.

"Should I know you?" he asked, voice low, professional -- but not cold.

"Maybe not like this," I said, letting my smile curl a little as I shifted my weight to one hip, angling my body just slightly toward him. I glanced down, drawing his attention with me.

The dress was satin, emerald green, the kind that demanded attention without asking for it. The neckline dipped in a deep, elegant plunge that framed the soft swell of my breasts -- 33C, nothing excessive, but enough to command glances when I moved. I knew eyes had followed me tonight, and not subtly. Strangers pretending not to stare. Men with wives casting quiet looks while trying to make it seem like nothing. But this wasn't for them.

It was for him.

The fabric hugged my waist, flaring just enough at my hips to create shape without exaggeration. The thigh slit was bold -- high, unapologetic -- and with the subtle shift of my stance, I let it fall open just enough to expose a stretch of smooth leg, toned and bare beneath the lights. Nothing overdone. Just a taste. A suggestion. Enough to interrupt his train of thought.

"I wasn't exactly wearing this in undergrad econ seminars," I added, raising my glass for a slow sip.

That did it. His gaze faltered, just for a second. Traveled down. Snapped back up.

"Wait..." he murmured, squinting slightly now with more interest.

"Sarah Winslow," I said, tucking a strand of hair behind one ear. "Class of two years ago. I asked about Latin America and Keynesian spillovers. You corrected me. Brutally."

His mouth tugged into a half-smile. "Right. That was you." He nodded. "Smart. A little bold."

"A little?" I teased. "I remember your exact words. 'That's idealism, not economics.' I stewed about it for a week."

"You're still stewing?" he asked, raising an eyebrow, amused now.

"I got over it," I said with a shrug, "somewhere around the second glass of champagne."

He laughed, a deep sound that softened him, made him feel momentarily less like the professor and more like the man. His shoulders relaxed, and for the first time, he looked -- really looked -- at me. Not just my dress. Not just my body. Me.

But then his eyes flicked downward again -- not subtle this time -- toward my hand near my hip, then back up, and I caught him registering it.

I followed his glance -- and that's when I noticed the empty space where his wedding ring used to be. A faint tan line lingered like a ghost, like a mark that hadn't quite decided to fade. I didn't comment. But I let the pause speak for me.

He caught it. He rubbed his ring finger absently with his thumb.

"Noticed, huh?"

"Just observant," I replied, lightly.

"Separated," he said, almost to himself. "Not finalized."

I let that settle, just long enough to feel the quiet shift between us -- something opening. A door. A possibility.

"I'm sorry," I said softly.

He nodded once. "Don't be. It was overdue."

And just like that, the space between us felt less formal. Less off-limits. I could see it in the way he looked at me now -- less guarded, more curious. Still trying to figure out whether he should want what he already did.

"So," I said, tilting my head, "do Econ professors dance, or just lecture and brood near the bar?"

He cracked a slow smile. "Depends on the partner."

The music shifted -- slow, sultry, with a bassline that moved like syrup. I reached for his hand before he could overthink it, lacing my fingers through his. The hesitation in his grip was almost charming. Like he knew this was already trouble, but couldn't quite bring himself to let go.

We stepped into the dim glow of the dance floor, the crowd thinning to couples pressed just a little too close. I guided us into the rhythm, my heels clicking softly, my hips swaying with unspoken intention.

He held himself stiff at first, hand resting a bit too politely at the edge of my waist, but I wasn't letting him off that easily. I stepped in -- deliberately -- my chest brushing lightly against him as I guided his hand higher, then lower, back to the narrow dip of my spine. He didn't resist, but I felt the restraint in his fingers.

"You always dance like you're grading someone?" I asked, voice playful, pitched low enough for only him to hear.

He smirked, but I saw it -- the way his eyes flicked down, just for a second, like he couldn't help himself. So I gave him something to look at.

I turned slowly, pivoting in the circle of his arms -- letting my back press to his chest, letting the fabric of my dress slide smoothly over the shape of my ass as I leaned in, then rolled my hips gently in time with the music. I knew exactly what I was doing. I felt the tension ripple through him like a current, the way his breath caught.

I had an ass that didn't hide in anything -- high, round, the kind of curve that made dresses cling like they were begging not to be taken off. The satin hugged every inch, smoothing over the swell of my hips and tapering back in just above the hemline. When I moved against him, slow and deliberate, I knew he felt every motion.

I looked at him over my shoulder, hair brushing along his jaw. "Still not dancing?" I asked, arching slightly into him.

His hand twitched at my back. Not grabbing. Not yet. But wanting.

"Sarah..." he warned, low, gravelly.

"Mmh?" I turned back to face him, stepping even closer, chest to chest now. My thigh slipped between his, just barely. "You remember my name. That's progress."

His jaw flexed. "You're playing with fire."

I tilted my head, lips brushing close to his ear. "Good thing I'm already warm."

His breath came slower now, heavier. The music wrapped around us like velvet, lazy and low, and I moved in time with it -- hips tracing the rhythm, my hand gliding slowly up his chest to rest near his collar.

That's when he gave in -- just a little.

His hand slid lower. Tentative. Then firmer. Settling on the curve just above my ass, fingers pressing through silk to where my body naturally invited his. It wasn't a grab -- it was an anchor. Like he needed to feel it to believe this was really happening.

His eyes found mine. "You're not a girl anymore."

"No," I whispered, "I'm exactly what you've been needing."

And this time, he didn't look away.

The song melted into something slower, darker. Bass-heavy. A rhythm made for hips and close-lipped secrets. We moved as one, bodies pressed so tight there was no pretending anymore. My thigh slid between his, my chest brushing his with every shift of breath.

And then I felt it.

Firm. Undeniable. The hard length of him, pressing through his trousers, caught against my lower belly. The reaction he'd tried to keep buried now betrayed by his own body.

A little thrill pulsed through me.

I let my hips roll into his deliberately this time -- slow, sinuous -- and I felt it again. Harder. Hotter. A silent confession pressed into me. He was trying to stay composed, I could tell by the tension in his shoulders, the way he swallowed instead of speaking. But the restraint was unraveling.

I smiled against his throat, lips grazing skin. "Mmh," I murmured, letting the vibration hum through the space between us, "I guess I'm not the only one feeling warm."

His hands gripped my waist tighter, as if to stop me -- or steady himself. But I kept moving against him, just enough to make him feel how deep into this he already was.

"I'm serious," I said, playful but breathy now, turning just enough to look up at him. "It's hot in here."

He nodded once, swallowing hard. "Yeah... it is."

"There's a breeze by the lake," I added casually, my voice dipping lower. "It's quiet. Dark. Cooler."

I let that hang for a moment -- like a dare.

Then I reached for his hand, sliding my fingers between his. My grip was light, but there was no mistaking the pull in it. I started to walk, leading him off the dance floor, weaving between tables and tipsy guests without looking back.

I could feel him behind me, close, his presence thick with tension and hunger. I let my hips sway more deliberately now, the slit of my dress parting just a little wider with every step. The night air was waiting just beyond the doors -- cooler, yes, but I had no intention of cooling anything down.

As we stepped out into the dark, the laughter and music fading behind us, I knew exactly what he was thinking.

He was already mine.

The path to the lake curved away from the noise like a secret. With every step, the laughter and clinking glasses faded behind us, swallowed by the night. Moonlight glittered on the water, silver threads dancing across the surface. The breeze tugged playfully at my dress, cooling my skin, but the heat between us had nothing to do with the weather.

I led him to a tall oak just off the trail -- wide trunk, dense shadow, perfectly hidden. I stopped, turned, and leaned my back against the bark, letting the silk of my dress pull tight over my hips. He stood there for a moment, hands in his pockets, like he wasn't sure if he was still trying to resist or if he was already too far gone.

I tilted my head. "You know, for someone who talks a lot about rational decisions, you made a pretty irrational one back there."

He raised an eyebrow. "Which part?"

"Following me. Into the dark. Alone. With a woman in a backless dress and no sense of boundaries."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "You didn't exactly drag me."

"No," I said, stepping closer, voice low and wicked. "But I walked like someone worth chasing."

I reached out and smoothed my hand down his chest, over hard muscle, pausing just above his belt. His body was still warm from the dance -- or maybe it was me. I leaned in until our bodies nearly touched, my breath soft against his neck.

"And by the way," I added, lips near his ear, "next time you're trying to act like you're not hard, maybe don't grind it into my stomach."

His breath caught -- deliciously so.

"You felt that, huh?" he muttered, almost sheepish.

"Felt it? Henry, it had its own zip code."

He laughed, low and rough, but I didn't let up. My fingers traced along his jaw, slow and certain. "You were holding back so tight, I thought your spine might snap. I'm just doing us both a favor at this point."

He looked down at me, hunger in his eyes now, tension crackling in the inches between our mouths.

"You really want this?" he asked -- not out of doubt, but almost like he was daring me to say yes.

I smiled, slow and dangerous. "If I wanted anything more than this, I'd already be unzipping your pants."

He didn't need any more permission.

He kissed me -- hard, with weeks of tension and years of being off-limits crashing into one greedy, open-mouthed moment. His hands gripped my waist, dragging me against him as his lips devoured mine. I gasped against him, fingers in his hair, tugging gently as he backed me up against the tree.

His mouth moved to my neck, teeth grazing skin, and I arched into him, shameless, teasing, grinding into the pressure I already knew was there.

"Mmh," I whispered between kisses, breathless now. "This what you teach in grad-level Econ, Professor? Because I think I just found my favorite subject."

His laugh was a groan, low and wrecked. "Sarah..."

"Yes?" I panted, tugging his bottom lip between my teeth.

"You're dangerous."

I grinned, wrapping a leg around his. "I prefer the term elective risk."

And with that, we stopped talking.

The moment our mouths found each other again, it stopped being a dance and turned into something hungrier. Henry kissed like a man starved -- all heat and pressure and hands that couldn't stay still. Months of self-denial were unraveling between my fingers as I clutched his shirt, pulling him closer, grinding against the hard length I'd teased him about.

But now there was no teasing. No pretending.

He groaned into my mouth, rough and deep, his hands sliding down my back, gripping my ass like he needed to remind himself it was real. "You don't know what you've done," he muttered, voice cracked and raw. "It's been... months."

That confession lit something in me -- not pity, not hesitation. Possession.

I slid my hands under his blazer, down his chest, fingers finding the buttons of his shirt. I tugged one open, then another. "Then let me make up for lost time."

"Sarah--" His voice faltered as I dropped to my knees on the grass, the silk of my dress pooling around me, cool earth biting into my skin as I looked up at him. His eyes flared, dark and wild now, breath heavy in the night air.

I reached for his belt, fingers sure, adrenaline sharp in my veins. The moment I freed him from his pants, I froze -- and not from fear. From awe.

Jesus.

Thick. Heavy. Longer than I expected. Definitely more than I'd imagined -- and I'd imagined plenty.

I blinked, lips parted, then looked up at him with a slow, wicked smile. "Well, no wonder you've been walking around so uptight."

His laugh was strangled, unsteady -- a sound half torn between pride and disbelief. I wrapped my fingers around him, barely able to get a full grip. The weight of him in my palm was almost shocking. I leaned forward, lips parting, breath hot against the thick tip as I whispered, "Gonna need a minute to figure out how to handle this."

His hand cupped the back of my head, not forcing, just needing the contact. His other hand braced against the tree above him, fingers curling into bark. Every muscle in his body had gone tight -- that barely restrained kind of tension you feel in a man trying not to lose control too fast.

"You're driving me crazy," he muttered, eyes locked on me. "Absolutely fucking crazy."

I licked slowly along the underside, feeling the pulse beneath the skin, and smiled up at him without an ounce of innocence.

"Good," I whispered. "Because I'm just getting started."

I wrapped my hand around him again, slowly this time, savoring the sheer heft of him in my palm -- thick, veined, impossibly hard. His hips twitched as I tightened my grip slightly, thumb brushing the sensitive ridge just beneath the head. Above me, he swore under his breath, one hand gripping the tree, the other still buried in my hair like he needed the anchor.

I leaned in and let my lips part around the tip -- warm, flushed, already slick. My tongue circled him first, teasing the crown, lapping up the taste of his arousal. He growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating down to my core.

"You feel that?" I murmured against him, letting my lips drag along the top. "That's months of restraint unraveling."

He didn't answer. He couldn't.

I slid down farther, my lips stretching, my jaw working to take more of him in -- slow, careful at first. He was too much to rush. My hands braced on his hips as I eased down, inch by thick inch, until he hit the back of my throat. I let him feel that moment -- the warm clench, the pause -- before pulling back with a long, wet drag, then going in again.

His fingers clenched in my hair, not pushing, but tense with need. His breath came ragged now, chest rising and falling above me.

I slipped one hand lower, cradling the heavy weight of his balls in my palm. Full. Tight. My fingers grazed them gently, then massaged with just enough pressure to draw a low groan from deep in his chest. I could feel them twitch against my touch -- so responsive, so ready. My mouth worked him harder now, lips gliding, cheeks hollowing with each descent, my hand stroking the base in rhythm.

"God, Sarah..." he hissed. "You're gonna make me--"

I pulled back just far enough to catch my breath, my lips slick and swollen, and looked up at him with a grin.

"Not yet," I whispered. "You've waited this long. You can wait a little more."

Then I took him back in -- deeper, wetter, with purpose this time. My mouth and hands moved in tandem, slow and relentless, sucking him with a hunger that made his thighs tense beneath my grip. His head tipped back, a curse escaping through clenched teeth, and I felt him start to pulse in my mouth, his control fraying with every second.

I wasn't stopping. I wanted him there -- right on the edge. His hands grabbed my head as he pushed his dick deep into my mouth, my throat... making me gag as he exploded in my mouth. I tried to push my head off of him but his grip on me was unshakable. I started drinking the salty but delicious liquid oozing out of his cock.

I barely had time to swallow the last of him before he hauled me up from the ground, hands rough on my arms, mouth crashing into mine like he'd been holding back for years -- because he had.

He kissed like a man unchained. No finesse, no filter -- just hunger, all teeth and tongue and the low, wrecked sound in his throat when he tasted himself on my lips. I moaned into his mouth, my fingers tangling in his shirt, pulling him closer, needing him against me like oxygen.

He pressed me hard against the tree, the bark rough through my dress, his hands everywhere. Over the swell of my hips. Around my waist. Up to my breasts -- still bound by satin but begging for attention. He didn't ask. He didn't need to. He yanked the neckline down, the cool air biting at my skin before his mouth replaced it with something far hotter.

His tongue found my nipple, circling, flicking, then sucking deep, greedy like he couldn't get enough. I gasped and arched into him, the shock of pleasure making my knees weak. His other hand was already under the slit of my dress, sliding up my bare thigh like he had a map drawn in his head. When his fingers found the soaked strip of lace between my legs, he growled against my skin.

"So fucking wet," he muttered, almost to himself. "Did sucking me off do that to you?"

I couldn't answer. My head was thrown back against the tree, my body already shaking. He slipped his fingers beneath the lace, brushing the slick folds beneath. I whimpered when he found my clit -- not softly. He circled it once, twice, then dipped lower and slid two fingers deep inside me, all the way to the knuckle.

I nearly came from that alone.

"You've been wanting this," he said, voice low, dark, close to my ear as he fucked me with his fingers -- slow, deep strokes that hit every sensitive place like he'd studied them.

"For years," I gasped.

"Say it."

"I wanted your hands," I panted. "Your mouth. Your cock. Everything."

He ripped my panties off like they offended him, shoved them in his jacket like he was taking something from me, something he intended to keep.

Then he grabbed me by the hips, lifted me like I weighed nothing. I wrapped my legs around his waist, my back pressed flat to the tree, dress bunched up around my ribs, tits still bare and bouncing with every motion. He lined himself up, his thick length sliding through my wetness -- not in yet, just teasing. Torturing.

I was panting. Desperate. "Please..."

"You want it that bad?" he asked, voice rough and tight with restraint.

"I'm soaked," I whispered. "I'm aching. Henry, I need you in me."

That was all it took.

He drove into me with one brutal, perfect thrust.

I cried out -- not from pain, but from how right it felt. Full. Stretched. Claimed. My body clenched around him instantly, instinctively, like I'd been molded to fit him and nothing else. He paused there for a second, buried deep, head pressed to my shoulder like even he was shocked by how tight I was, how wet.

"Fuck..." he breathed. "You're--Jesus, Sarah."

He started to move. Hard. Deliberate. Each thrust driving me into the bark, his hands gripping my ass, using it to pull me against him. My arms locked around his neck, holding on for dear life. Every nerve in my body lit up, pulsing, burning, desperate for more.

He angled his hips slightly and hit something inside me that made me scream -- not loud, not obnoxious. Just that broken, breathless sound of a girl losing control. I bit his shoulder through his blazer, trying not to lose it right then.

"You feel that?" he hissed.

I nodded frantically, too far gone for words.

"That's where I'm gonna keep hitting until you fall apart on me."

And he did.

Again and again.

I felt the orgasm building fast -- too fast. The pressure tightening in my gut, in my thighs, in the way my breath came in shallow gasps. His name spilled from my lips in pieces, in whimpers. My nails dragged down his back. My hips moved with his, meeting every thrust.

Then I broke.

It hit like a wave, crashing through me, raw and all-consuming. My whole body seized around him, clenching, pulsing. I cried out -- his name, a curse, maybe a prayer -- as the orgasm tore through me.

And he didn't stop.

He just held me tighter.

The night wrapped around us like velvet -- quiet, thick, pulsing with the heat of everything we hadn't said but couldn't stop showing. I was still breathless, trembling against him, when he pulled back just slightly, his eyes dark and burning.

"Turn around," he said -- not harshly, but with a quiet authority that made something inside me tighten.

I did.

Slowly.

Letting the fabric of my dress slip higher as I braced my hands against the tree, back arched just enough, legs parted in invitation. I heard the low curse behind me -- not anger, but awe -- and felt the weight of his gaze like a second set of hands, moving over the bare curve of my ass, exposed now in the moonlight.

"Jesus, Sarah..." His voice was rough, reverent. "This view should be illegal."

His hand slid over my hip, down to the curve he couldn't seem to resist, fingers splaying across flesh like he was trying to memorize it. I felt him step in close, the heat of his body pressing along mine, and then -- that perfect, primal moment of connection again.

He moved with more force this time, deeper, more deliberate, and the sound I made wasn't quiet. I couldn't be quiet. Not with the way he filled me, not with the way he held my hips like I belonged there -- bent, offered, taken. The tree bark bit into my palms, grounding me against the dizzying pleasure of each motion. He rocked into me with growing urgency, the slap of skin against skin echoed by his broken breath and the soft, stunned sounds escaping my lips.

"You feel that?" he growled, one hand sliding up my back, then fisting in my hair just enough to make me gasp. "That's what you do to me."

I could barely respond. I didn't need to.

Because I was his unraveling -- and he was mine.

His rhythm faltered just once -- a stutter of breath, a curse -- and then he gripped tighter, drove deep, and I felt it: that sudden, searing heat, the raw surrender of him letting go inside me. He pressed against my back, body taut, his breath hot in my ear as he finished with a groan that sounded more like confession than climax.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

Then his arms slipped around my waist, and he kissed the curve of my spine -- soft, reverent -- like he was thanking me for something neither of us could name.

---------

(Six weeks later)

The gel was cold.

I flinched, just slightly, as it touched my stomach -- not from discomfort, but because my body had been bracing all morning. For the image. For the weight of it.

The wand followed a second later, smooth and clinical, and then the door behind me creaked open.

"Good morning," a crisp voice said. "I'm Dr. Lila Brown -- I'll be stepping in for Dr. Carter today. You must be Sarah Winslow."

The name landed like a slap.

I turned my head. Slowly.

She was beautiful. Elegant in a way that didn't try too hard. Late thirties, maybe, her skin smooth and glowing under the harsh fluorescent lights. Her dark hair was twisted into a chignon so precise it looked sculpted, and at her throat, a thin gold chain caught the light.

But it was her left hand that caught mine.

A wedding ring.

Not new -- no fresh shine or nervous fidget. It had history. Familiar weight.

And I knew that ring. I'd traced its absence once, with my eyes.

Now it was back.

She smiled down at me, warm, professional. "Let's take a look, shall we?"

The wand pressed to my skin. The screen lit up in waves of static and shadow.

I stared.

I'd spent weeks imagining this -- the shape of what I'd done. What I'd chosen. But no amount of rehearsal could've braced me for the image now forming in gray and white: a flicker. Then another.

"There we go," she murmured, tilting her head.

Then came the pause.

"Huh."

My heart skidded. "Huh what?"

She gave a small, calm laugh. "Well. Looks like you're getting two for the price of one."

I blinked. "Two?"

"Twins," she said gently, adjusting the image. "Fraternal, by the look of it. Both measuring well. Strong heartbeats."

Twins.

Two.

I stared at the screen -- not in shock, not even fear. Just the raw clarity of consequence.

Her hand moved easily, expertly. The ring caught the light again as she reached to adjust a dial, and I watched it -- that thin, unmistakable band of gold -- as if it were the brightest thing in the room.

She kept talking. Due dates. Measurements. Appointments. Calm and kind, like she wasn't holding my secret in her hand.

But she didn't know.

She had no idea the children on that screen were her husband's.

Not ex.

Husband.

That oak tree hadn't marked the end of something. It had happened somewhere in the middle. In the gray. In the overlap.

I hadn't known, not for sure.

But that night, I'd made my choice anyway.

Not by accident. Not because I was young or reckless or didn't understand.

Because I did.

And I'd wanted it anyway.

An elective risk.

That's what it had been. What I had been.

Now it had two heartbeats.

Two lives.

And no undoing.

So I smiled -- soft, composed -- while the wife of the man who wrecked me gave me the good news.

Because some risks are taken for the thrill.

Some for the fantasy.

And some...

Because once you've crossed the line, there's no going back.

Only forward.

Straight into the fire.