Dempsey was playing on dangerous ground, Flirting with Phil Dalton, the five years in a row voted sexiest and five-time Football Champion, which was like dancing on the edge of a volcano. It was exhilarating, perilous, and utterly foolish. Especially considering his wife, Sara Dalton, was Dempsey’s Campaign promoter. Sara, sweet as pie most of the time, was fiercely protective of Phil, and everyone knew it. He was, as she often proclaimed, a “one-woman man.”
Sara, already suspicious, now saw every interaction as a calculated power play. Dempsey, however, revelled in the attention, the subtle challenges, and the thrill of skirting the line of impropriety. She knew Phil was off-limits, but the forbidden fruit was always the sweetest. Her little digs and lingering glances were calculated, honed through years of observing office dynamics. She knew she was pushing too far but couldn’t seem to stop.
Then came the knock.
It was early —almost 9 p.m. Dempsey “Who could that be?” she muttered, smoothing down her hair. As she opened the door, she froze. Standing there, looking uncomfortable and decidedly flustered, was Phil Dalton.
“Hi… what do I owe this pleasure, Mr. Dalton?” she purred, her voice a little breathier than intended.
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his eyes darting around “I… I wanted to see you,” he stammered, then cleared his throat. “I mean, I needed to talk to you about the flirting.”
The corner of Dempsey’s mouth twitched. “Flirting?” she feigned innocence. “interesting
He swallowed hard, his gaze locking onto hers. “Look, Dempsey, it has to stop. Please stop. It’s making things awkward.”
“Awkward?” she echoed, raising an eyebrow. “Is it that awkward, Phil?”
Suddenly, the air was thick with unspoken tension. He was close, too close. She could smell his cologne, a masculine, earthy scent that made her pulse quicken. He looked genuinely troubled, sincere. But in his eyes, she saw something else too. Recognition. A spark. A flicker of the very thing she was trying to ignite.
His eyes dropped from her face, tracing the length of her legs. It was that T-shirt, but she had only just woken up. And she realised the potent effect it had.
He abruptly looked away, almost pained. He wasn’t looking at her flirting; he was looking at her legs with desire, and that was hazardous ground when he had come to stop all of that, not make it worse.
“This was a mistake,” he muttered, turning to leave. “I shouldn’t have come.”
“Wait,” Dempsey said, her tone softening, almost pleading. “Don’t go. Come in have some coffee, and, well, talk about it “
He hesitated, his back to her. The silence stretched, taut and heavy. Then, slowly, he turned back. He couldn’t help himself. The desperation he was trying to avoid had come calling, and he couldn’t ignore it.
His eyes met hers, silently acknowledging the undeniable pull between them. He knew he was playing with fire. He knew he was betraying Sara. He knew it was wrong. But in that moment, none of it mattered. All that mattered was the raw, magnetic connection that had been building, simmering just beneath the surface, threatening to explode.
Dempsey couldn’t have planned it any better. The dangerous ground had become fertile ground for a secret carefully cultivated.
From my book Sex Secret and Scandal
Deborah C Langley
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