My Spicy Secret

Okay friends, I have a terrible secret—and since I can’t tell anyone in my real life, this is me shouting into the void.

A couple of months ago, I had to travel out of state for work. Three nights, four days. It was a standard business trip with back-to-back meetings, and every evening I’d unwind at the hotel bar with a glass of wine and my Kindle.

I’d wear a dress, do my hair in loose waves, and apply my favorite makeup—all the little things my husband tends to criticize or dismiss. But for once, I wasn’t doing any of it for someone else. I just wanted to feel good in my own skin. And, surprisingly, I did. I felt beautiful and confident. Unburdened. Like me.

On the last night of the trip, a man approached me at the bar and asked if he could sit next to me. He said he’d seen me the night before and had been curious about the woman reading alone. I told him I was in town for work and just enjoying my downtime.

When he asked if that was my way of telling him to leave, I surprised myself by saying no—I welcomed the company.

We chatted for a while about work, a few Netflix shows we’d both seen, and other small things. Neither of us brought up family. He didn’t ask about my wedding ring, and I didn’t check for one on his hand.

At one point, he brushed my hair behind my ear and leaned in, asking what I was reading. He said my smile and the color rising in my cheeks were what finally gave him the courage to approach.

Feeling unexpectedly bold, I asked if he’d like to read my favorite passage instead of me trying to explain it. The book I had open was downright smutty—and he gamely took my Kindle and began reading. His eyebrows lifted almost immediately, and he gave a low chuckle. “I’m not much of a reader,” he said, “but if this is what I’ve been missing, maybe I should start.”

I don’t even know where it came from, but I smiled and said I was getting tired. He offered to walk me to my door, and I agreed.

My thoughts were spinning. Was I really going to do this? What was I doing? But once we reached my room, I took his hand and led him inside.

There was no hesitation. As soon as the door clicked shut, he was kissing me—hungrily, deeply. His hands wrapped around me like he knew exactly what I needed. Our chemistry had already been building during our time at the bar, but I hadn’t expected the intensity. I’d read spicy scenes about women being so turned on they were dripping, and always thought that was a bit of an exaggeration. Turns out… it’s not.

We left the lights off. As bold as I felt, I wasn’t ready to let go of all my insecurities—this was the first man to see my naked body since before I had kids. But if he had any negative thoughts, he didn’t show it. He was hard before we even finished undressing.

Without a word, he pulled out a condom and put it on. I scooted back onto the bed, expecting him to join me right away. Instead, he lowered himself between my thighs and went down on me like it was his mission. It was, in a word, miraculous. Even now, thinking about it makes me ache in a way I didn’t know I could still feel.

My first orgasm hit so hard I nearly thanked him and called it a night. But before I’d even come down from the high, he was inside me—kissing me like he couldn’t get enough. And I gave myself over to it fully. To him. To the feeling.

What shocked me most was how easy it was. No awkward fumbling. No hesitation. Just two adults wildly caught in a moment of passion. And when it was over, we both dressed quietly.

He came up to me, gave me a soft kiss, and said, “I hope we’re a steamy chapter in each other’s book.”

I smiled. “You definitely are in mine.”

Then he left.

I stepped into the shower, turned the water as hot as I could handle, and braced myself for shame. For guilt. For tears. But none came. Instead, I lathered my body with a gentleness and reverence I hadn’t felt in years. Somewhere along the way, my husband stopped seeing me as a partner, and started treating me like a body for his convenience.

When I got home, nothing had changed. My teens didn’t come downstairs to greet me. One of my daughters texted me a grocery list, and my husband asked what was for dinner.

Life moved on. But now, I carry this memory. Not with guilt—but with something that feels dangerously close to peace.

My horrible secret isn’t the affair. It’s that I don’t regret a single second of it.