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Wilson doesn't know how he got here or why he's here, though if he's man enough to admit it to himself, he knows exactly what he's doing. The problem is that acknowledging that he knows what he's doing means he has to admit the reasons he's doing it for, and there are a few that aren't about his wife, and those are the ones that worry him. He knocks, even though it's late and they have early hours tomorrow, and the door opens and he doesn't know what to say. She's standing there in a T-shirt that reaches the middle of her thighs and her hair is falling in her eyes and she looks half asleep and half drunk and he acts on instinct, reaching out and hooking his hand behind her neck and pulling her toward him. She gasps and he doesn't press the advantage, just taking the slow, sweet moment to taste her. She tastes like chocolate and wine and long nights and innocence, but when her tongue slips past his lips, she tastes like sex and need and hunger. He groans somewhere deep inside his chest and forces himself to pull back. She stares at him wide eyed and he almost manages a smile as he shakes his head. "It's not so much what you can live with, you know." His fingers caress her cheek as he pulls back and turns away. "It's what you can't live without."
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