It started small—just playful banter and lingering glances. My maid had a way of moving through the house, hips swaying as she dusted the exact spots she knew I’d be watching. My wife left early for work, and the quiet emptiness of the house made the tension between us even louder.

One day, as I passed her in the hallway, our hands brushed. Then our lips did. Before I knew it, clothes were hitting the floor and we were tangled up right there on the stairs. The guilt hit me later, but by then, it was too late. Now, every time she comes to clean, my pulse speeds up. I tell myself one more time won’t hurt… but I’m lying to myself.