The Dare That Changed Everything

The first time Marcus smiled at me across the conference table, I felt that familiar flutter in my stomach—that recognition of being seen. He was the kind of man who commanded attention without trying: tall, silver at the temples, with eyes that seemed to catalog everything they landed on. When they landed on me, it felt like being touched.

"You've been quiet today, Claire," he'd said that morning, his voice carrying its usual undertone of challenge. "Something on your mind?"

I'd demurred, of course. What was I supposed to say? That I'd noticed how his wedding ring had disappeared six months ago? That I'd been cataloging every lingering glance, every compliment that felt just a degree warmer than professional?

"Just thinking about the Henderson account," I'd replied, meeting his gaze with what I hoped passed for confidence.

That was three months ago. Since then, the dance had intensified—accidental brushes in the hallway, his fingers lingering during handshakes, emails sent after nine o'clock that felt more like love letters than business correspondence.

It was David who noticed first, my husband of seven years. We'd been cooking dinner together, our usual Wednesday evening routine, when he brought it up over the sound of sizzling olive oil.

"You've been different lately," he said, slicing tomatoes with the careful precision that characterized everything he did. David was a planner, an accountant by trade, someone who measured twice and cut once. "Happier, but also... restless?"

I almost dropped the wooden spoon. Had I been that transparent?

"Work's been interesting lately," I said, stirring the sauce with unnecessary force.

"Interesting how?" David's voice carried that particular curiosity I'd come to recognize over our years together—the one that meant he was already two steps ahead in whatever conversation we were having.

So I told him. Everything. The way Marcus's attention made me feel seen in a way I hadn't in years. The way my pulse quickened when his name appeared on my phone. How I'd started dressing differently—not for work, but for him, choosing blouses that hugged in the right places, skirts that made his eyes linger.

Instead of the jealousy I expected, David's eyes lit up with something else entirely.

"Tell me more," he said, pouring us both wine. "Tell me exactly what he said to you today."

That was the first of what would become our nightly ritual. I'd recount the day's interactions, and David would ask for more details—what Marcus was wearing, how close he'd stood, whether I'd noticed any physical reaction in myself to his presence. The more I shared, the more David wanted to know.

A week later, after another intense retelling that left me breathless and flushed, I finally asked him. We were in bed, the lights low, my head on his chest. "Why does this excite you so much? Most husbands would be furious."

David was quiet for a moment, his fingers tracing patterns on my shoulder. "Do you remember our first anniversary? That trip to the coast?"

"Of course."

"You wore that red sundress to dinner. The one with the thin straps. And that guy at the bar kept looking at you all night. Remember?"

I did. A handsome stranger with sun-bleached hair had watched me with open appreciation throughout our meal. I'd felt both embarrassed and, secretly, thrilled.

"You noticed him watching," David continued, his voice taking on that thoughtful quality it got when he was working through a complex problem. "And you got this glow about you. You were more present, more alive. That night, when we got back to our room, you were different. More vocal, more demanding. It was incredible." He paused, his hand stilling on my skin. "I realized then that your desire isn't a finite resource. It's not that someone else's attention takes away from what we have. It amplifies it. Seeing you desired... it reminds me what I have. And watching you own that power, watching you become this more confident version of yourself..." He turned to look at me, his expression earnest. "It's the hottest thing I've ever seen. It's not about sharing you. It's about celebrating you."

His words settled deep in my bones, unlocking something I hadn't known was caged. Permission, I realized, wasn't just about what I could do. It was about who I could be.

"Next time he flirts, flirt back," David suggested one night, his hand trailing up my thigh as we sat on the couch. "See where it goes."

"David..."

"Just a little," he pressed. "Just enough to encourage him. Unless... you don't want to?"

But I did want to. That was the revelation that both thrilled and terrified me. I'd been wanting to respond to Marcus's advances for weeks, holding back out of some misguided sense of loyalty. David's permission—his encouragement—felt like removing a dam.

The next morning, when Marcus commented on my dress with that familiar heat in his gaze, I leaned against his desk and said, "You always notice what I'm wearing. Should I be flattered or concerned?"

His eyebrow raised in surprise, then his smile widened. "Definitely flattered. You look stunning in everything, but this color brings out your eyes."

"And what color would that be?" I asked, knowing damn well my dress was emerald green and that he was staring at my chest, not my eyes.

"Beautiful," he said simply. "The color is beautiful."

That evening, when I told David, he asked me to repeat the exchange twice, his breathing growing heavier each time.

"Show me the dress," he requested, and when I did, he walked around me in a slow circle that reminded me of a predator studying prey. "He's right. This color does incredible things for your skin. Did you notice him getting aroused?"

"David!"

"It's a legitimate question. You said he's been getting bolder. Did you see evidence of that?"

I had, actually. The way he'd shifted in his chair, adjusting himself subtly. The way his eyes had tracked my movements. But admitting it out loud felt like crossing a threshold I couldn't uncross.

"Maybe," I whispered.

"Maybe?"

"Probably. Yes. I think he was... affected."

David's response was immediate and physical, pulling me against him with a hunger I hadn't seen in months. "God, that's hot," he murmured against my neck. "Knowing other men want you, knowing you're thinking about them wanting you..."

Our lovemaking that night was different—urgent and uninhibited, with David whispering questions about what else I wanted to do with Marcus, how far I'd let it go, whether I'd imagined what might happen if we found ourselves alone together. Each question, each admission, pushed me higher until I was gasping with the intensity of it.

The next day at work, Marcus texted me for the first time: "Lunch meeting. My office. We need to discuss the Henderson account."

But when I arrived, the Henderson account was the last thing on either of our minds.

"Close the door," he said, standing behind his desk with a look that made my knees weak. "I think we should discuss how beautiful you look when you're confident."

"Should we discuss work instead?" I asked, my hand trembling slightly on the doorknob.

"This is work," he said smoothly. "I'm working on understanding what makes you tick. You seem... different lately. More alive."

He came around the desk, stopping just inches from me. The air between us thickened, charged with unspoken possibilities. I could smell his cologne—sandalwood and citrus—and beneath it, the clean scent of his skin. The office, usually so sterile with its glass walls and minimalist furniture, suddenly felt intimate, the closed door creating a world that contained only us.

"Different how?" I managed, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Bolder," he said, his eyes dropping to my lips. "Like you've stopped pretending you don't notice the tension between us."

My heart hammered against my ribs. "What tension?"

He smiled, a slow, knowing curve of his mouth. "The kind that makes you blush when I stand too close. The kind that makes you linger when you hand me reports. The kind that's making your breath hitch right now."

He reached out, not touching me, but letting his hand hover near my cheek. The heat from his skin radiated toward me, a promise of contact. "May I?"

I nodded, unable to speak.

His fingertips brushed my cheek, just the barest touch, but it sent a shock through my system. His thumb traced the line of my jaw, then drifted down to my throat, where he could surely feel my pulse racing. "You're trembling," he observed, his voice low.

"Because I want you to touch me," I admitted, the truth pulled from me by the intensity of his gaze.

His hand stilled. "And your husband?"

"Knows I'm here," I breathed. "Knows about you. About this."

Marcus's eyes darkened with something more than desire—curiosity, fascination. "And he's... okay with it?"

"He's more than okay." I leaned into his touch, my body acting on instincts I'd suppressed for months. "He wants to know everything."

For a long moment, Marcus just looked at me, his hand still cupping my jaw, his thumb stroking my throat. The office was utterly silent except for the hum of the air conditioning and the sound of our breathing. I could see the calculations behind his eyes, the reassessment of the situation, the dawning understanding that the rules had changed.

"Everything," he repeated softly, his thumb pressing against my pulse point. "That's quite an invitation."

"It's not an invitation," I corrected, surprising myself with my own boldness. "It's a fact."

His smile returned, wider this time, more predatory. "Then perhaps we should give him something worth hearing about."

He leaned in, his lips hovering just above mine. I could feel his breath, warm and mint-scented, could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the tiny scar above his eyebrow I'd never noticed before. The anticipation was exquisite, a drawn-out moment of almost-contact that made my entire body ache.

But he didn't kiss me. Instead, he pulled back, his hand dropping from my face. "Not yet," he murmured, as if to himself. "Not here, with the glass walls and the possibility of someone walking in." He stepped back, putting professional distance between us once more, though his eyes still burned with promise. "Schedule something after hours. When we won't be interrupted."

The sudden shift left me dizzy, my body still humming from his touch. "When?"

"Next week. Tuesday evening. Tell your husband you'll be working late." He returned to his side of the desk, the power dynamic reasserting itself even as the sexual tension continued to crackle between us. "Now, about the Henderson account..."

The conversation shifted something between us. His texts became more frequent, more personal. Where before he'd been subtle, now he was direct: "Thinking about your smile during that boring meeting. Made the whole thing bearable." Or "Red looks incredible on you. I noticed during your presentation. Hard to focus on quarterly reports with you looking like that."

David devoured every word when I shared them. "What did you feel when you read that one?" he'd ask, his hand sliding under my nightgown.

"Excited," I'd admit. "And guilty."

"Guilty why?"

"Because I want him to keep saying things like that. Because I think about what might happen if we weren't at work."

"And what do you think would happen?"

The weeks that followed were an exercise in controlled tension. Marcus and I developed a rhythm—professional in front of others, electric when alone. He'd find reasons to brush against me in the hallway, to stand close enough that I could smell his cologne, to schedule meetings that ran long into the evening. And I let him. More than that, I encouraged it.

"Send him a photo," David suggested one Saturday morning as we lingered in bed. "Something subtle but suggestive."

"David, that's—"

"Something you'd never wear to work. Something that shows you're thinking about him too."

The photo I sent wasn't explicit—just me in a dress I'd never worn to the office, deep burgundy with a neckline that plunged lower than anything I'd worn since college. But the way I was posed, the angle of the camera, the look in my eyes—all of it communicated desire.

Marcus's response came quickly: "Is this for me?"

"Maybe," I typed back, my heart racing.

"Jesus, Claire. You have no idea what you're doing to me."

I showed David the exchange, and he was on me before I could finish reading Marcus's texts aloud. "Tell him more," David urged. "Tell him you think about him too."

So I did. I told Marcus that my husband had noticed I was different lately, that I'd been more adventurous in bed. I told him that David knew about our flirtation and found it exciting. I didn't tell him how much David found it exciting—that our sex life had transformed into something wild and uninhibited, how my husband now asked for details after every interaction with Marcus, how his encouragement had removed every inhibition I'd had about responding to my boss's advances.

Marcus's texts became more explicit: "If I had you alone in my office after hours, I wouldn't be responsible for my actions." Or "I wonder what sounds you make when you come. I bet they're beautiful."

The anticipation was exquisite. Every workday became foreplay, every meeting an opportunity to stoke the fire burning between us. David lived for my daily reports, asking for increasingly specific details: what Marcus was wearing, whether I'd noticed him getting aroused, whether I'd imagined what would happen if we gave in to the chemistry.

"Schedule a late meeting," David suggested one Thursday evening as we shared a bottle of wine. "Tell him you need to work on the quarterly projections. See what happens when you're alone together after hours."

"You want me to actually...?"

"I want you to do whatever you feel like doing. No pressure. Just... see what happens naturally."

So I scheduled it. Monday evening, six o'clock, after everyone else would be gone. I wore the navy dress David had picked out—conservative enough for work, but tailored to hug every curve, with a hidden zipper down the back that suddenly felt loaded with possibility.

Marcus opened his office door himself, checking the hallway before inviting me in. "We're alone," he said simply. "Everyone left an hour ago."

The air between us was electric. I could feel my pulse in my throat, my palms tingling with anticipation. This was the moment everything could change.

"So," I said, setting my portfolio on his desk with forced casualness, "the quarterly projections."

But Marcus wasn't looking at the papers. He was looking at me with an intensity that made the room feel smaller. "Claire."

"Yes?"

"Come here."

I moved around his desk until we were inches apart. His cologne was subtle and expensive, and I could see the tension in his jaw, the way his hands clenched at his sides.

"Tell me to stop," he said softly, "and I will. Tell me you don't want this, and we'll go back to being exactly what we were this morning. But if you want this as much as I do..."

I reached up and loosened his tie, my fingers brushing against his throat. "What do you want?"

"You," he said simply. "I've wanted you for months. Every morning meeting, every casual conversation, every time you've smiled at me across this office—it's been building to this."

His hands settled on my waist, testing, asking permission. When I didn't pull away, they slid lower, cupping my ass and pulling me against him. I could feel how hard he was through his pants, and the knowledge that I'd done that to him—that I was doing this to him—was intoxicating.

"David knows I'm here," I whispered as his lips found my neck. "I told him everything. The texts, the flirting, how much I wanted this."

Marcus pulled back to look at me. "And?"

"He wants me to tell him everything. Every detail. He wants to know what it's like when I finally give in to you."

"Jesus." His voice was rough with desire. "That's incredibly hot. You're serious? He's encouraging this?"

I nodded, and something shifted in his expression—something hungrier and more possessive.

"Then I want to give you plenty to tell him about," he said, his hands finding the zipper of my dress.

But instead of undressing me immediately, he turned me around, his chest pressed against my back, his mouth at my ear. "First, I want to savor this," he murmured, his hands sliding up my sides, over the fabric of my dress. "I've imagined this moment so many times. The way you'd feel against me. The scent of your perfume." He inhaled deeply, his nose against my hair. "Jasmine and vanilla. I'd recognize it anywhere. It's been driving me crazy for weeks."

His hands moved to my shoulders, massaging gently before sliding down my arms. Every touch was deliberate, drawn out, designed to heighten the anticipation. "You have no idea," he continued, his voice a low rumble in my ear, "how many times I've watched you walk away from a meeting, watched the sway of your hips, and imagined my hands right here." His palms cupped my backside through the fabric, squeezing gently. "Imagined bending you over this very desk."

A shiver ran through me, part desire, part nerves. "Then do it," I breathed.

"Patience," he chided, turning me to face him again. His eyes traveled over me with an appreciation that made heat pool low in my belly. "I want to remember every detail. The way your breath catches when I touch you. The flush on your skin." He traced the neckline of my dress with one finger, following the curve of my breast. "The way your nipples harden when I look at you like this."

He was right—they were peaked against the fabric, a visible testament to my arousal. I'd never felt so exposed, so thoroughly seen.

"Tell me what you're thinking," he commanded, his hands coming up to frame my face.

"That I want you to stop talking and kiss me," I admitted.

He smiled, that slow, predatory smile that made my knees weak. "Ask nicely."

"Please," I whispered. "Please kiss me."

He closed the distance between us, his lips meeting mine with a hunger that stole my breath. The kiss was nothing like the chaste, tentative ones I'd shared with David in our early days. This was claiming, demanding, a declaration of intent. His tongue swept into my mouth, tasting of coffee and mint, and I met him with equal fervor, my hands coming up to tangle in his hair.

The sound that escaped me was half-moan, half-sigh, swallowed by his mouth on mine. I could feel the scrape of his stubble against my skin, the solid wall of his chest against my softer curves, the unmistakable evidence of his arousal pressing against my stomach.

When he finally broke the kiss, we were both breathing heavily. "The dress," he said, his voice rough. "Take it off. Slowly."

My fingers trembled as I reached for the hidden zipper at the back. The sound of it sliding down seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet office. I let the dress slip from my shoulders, catching it before it could fall completely, holding it against my chest for a moment of modesty that felt both ridiculous and necessary.

Marcus's eyes darkened. "Let it go."

I released the fabric, and it pooled at my feet in a whisper of navy silk, leaving me standing before him in nothing but matching lace bra and panties. The office air felt cool against my exposed skin, raising goosebumps that had nothing to do with temperature.

"Beautiful," he breathed, his gaze traveling over me with an intensity that felt like a physical touch. "Even better than I imagined."

He stepped forward, closing the distance between us again, but instead of touching me, he simply looked, his eyes memorizing every curve, every shadow. "Turn around," he commanded, and I did, bracing my hands against his desk as his hands explored my body through the thin fabric of my underwear.

"You have no idea how many times I've imagined having you like this," he said, his voice thick with desire. "Bent over my desk, completely at my mercy."

"Show me," I breathed, pushing back against him. "Show me everything you've imagined."

With a groan, his hand slipped inside my panties, finding me already wet and ready for him. "Fuck, Claire. You're so ready. Has thinking about this been making you this wet?"

"Yes," I gasped as his fingers explored me with practiced skill, circling my clit before sliding lower to test my readiness. The sound of my own wetness was obscenely loud in the quiet room. "Every text, every look, every time you've touched me accidentally in the hallway... I've been wet for you for weeks."

His other hand came up to cup my breast, pinching my nipple through the lace of my bra. The dual sensation—his fingers working between my legs, his thumb circling my nipple—made me arch against him, a low moan escaping my lips.

"Tell me what you want," he murmured against my ear, his breath hot. "Be specific."

"I want you to fuck me," I said, surprised by how steady my voice was. "I want to feel you inside me when I come. I want to go home to my husband with your come still inside me and tell him exactly how it felt when you lost control and came in me."

Marcus's response was immediate and primal. He spun me around, kissing me hard as his hands worked at his belt. The sound of leather sliding through loops, the metallic click of the buckle opening—each noise felt amplified, a soundtrack to our escalating desire. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark with lust, his pupils blown wide.

"On your knees," he commanded, and I sank to the carpet as he freed his cock from his pants.

He was larger than David, thick and hard, already leaking at the tip. I took him into my mouth eagerly, savoring the sound of his groan as I swirled my tongue around the head. The taste of him was salty and masculine, the texture smooth and velvety against my tongue. His hands tangled in my hair, not forcing, but guiding me at the pace he wanted, occasionally pulling me back to look at me with wonder.

"God, the sight of you like this," he muttered, his voice strained. "Your mouth around my cock, your wedding ring glinting in the light. Your husband is a lucky man, letting you do this."

I pulled back to look up at him, my lips still wrapped around his tip. "He's not just letting me," I said, the words vibrating against his skin. "He wants me to. He wants to know that another man has had me, that I'm going home tonight with your taste in my mouth and your come dripping out of me."

The effect was immediate. A shudder ran through him, and his grip in my hair tightened. "Enough," he growled, pulling me to my feet. "I need to be inside you. Now."

He spun me back around, bending me over the desk. The polished wood was cool against my heated skin. I heard the sound of a condom wrapper—ever the responsible one, even now—and then he was pushing inside me, stretching me with his thickness.

"Fuck, you're tight," he groaned, working himself deeper with shallow thrusts. "And so fucking wet. Tell me again how much you wanted this."

"Since the first time you smiled at me across that conference table," I panted, pushing back against him to take him deeper. The feeling of him filling me was overwhelming—a stretch that bordered on pain before tipping into pleasure. "I've been fantasizing about this for months, touching myself and imagining it was you."

"Your husband knew?"

"He noticed I was different. More... responsive. He asked what was making me that way, and I told him about you. Instead of being angry, he wanted details. He wanted to know how far I'd let it go."

"How far would you?" Marcus asked, his rhythm increasing as his control began to slip. His thrusts became harder, deeper, each one jolting me against the desk with a soft thud that echoed in the quiet office.

"As far as you want to take it," I said, and meant it. "Any time, any place. I want you to use me whenever the mood strikes you. I want to be your office fantasy come to life."

Marcus's hands tightened on my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh hard enough to leave marks. "I'm not going to last much longer," he warned, his breath coming in ragged pants. "You've been building this for too long."

"Come inside me," I urged, looking back at him over my shoulder. "Fill me up with your come so I can go home and tell David exactly how it felt when you lost control."

The words pushed him over the edge. With a final, deep thrust, Marcus came with a muffled groan, his body shuddering against mine. I could feel the pulse of his release through the condom, the way his hips jerked with each spasm. The feeling of his climax triggered my own, and I came around him, my walls clenching and releasing as waves of pleasure washed through me, stealing my breath and blurring my vision.

We stayed like that for a moment, his cock still buried inside me as we caught our breath. The only sounds were our ragged breathing and the distant hum of the building's HVAC system. When he finally pulled out, I could feel the absence of him immediately, a hollow feeling where he'd been moments before.

"Jesus, Claire," he said, disposing of the condom and helping me dress with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with our recent activities. His hands were surprisingly gentle as he zipped my dress, his fingers brushing my spine in a way that made me shiver. "That was..."

"Just the beginning," I said, smoothing my dress and checking my appearance in the small mirror he kept in his office. My lips were swollen, my hair disheveled, my eyes bright with satisfaction. "If you want it to be."

"I want," he said simply, tucking himself back into his pants with practiced efficiency. "But what about David?"

I smiled, thinking of my husband waiting at home, undoubtedly already hard from knowing where I was and what I was doing. "David wants this as much as we do. Maybe more. Tonight, when I tell him every detail of what just happened, he's going to want to hear about what comes next."

"Which is?"

"Whatever you want," I said, collecting my portfolio. My legs felt unsteady, my body still humming from the encounter. "Whenever you want it. Just say the word."

He caught my wrist as I turned to leave, his grip firm but not painful. "Thursday," he said, his eyes serious. "After hours again. I want to take my time with you. I want to taste every inch of you."

A fresh wave of desire washed through me at his words. "I'll be here."

I left his office with the taste of him still in my mouth and the evidence of our encounter still warm between my legs. The elevator ride down to the parking garage felt different—charged with possibility. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, and my reflection in the polished doors showed a woman transformed, her eyes bright, her lips curved in a secret smile.

I was still floating on the afterglow when I called David.

"I'm on my way home," I said simply.

"And?" His voice was tight with anticipation.

"And I have a lot to tell you. Every detail, just like you wanted."

I could hear the smile in his voice. "I'll have wine ready. And then you're going to tell me everything while I'm inside you, making you relive every moment of it."

"Yes," I breathed, starting my car. The leather seat was cool through my thin dress, a contrast to the heat still radiating from my skin. "God, yes."

As I drove home through the empty city streets, I thought about how one simple dare had transformed everything—my marriage, my work life, my understanding of what desire could look like when permission removed all the guilt. But beneath the excitement, a new realization was taking shape. This wasn't just about sex or thrill-seeking. It was about reclamation. For years, I'd been Claire the wife, Claire the employee, Claire the responsible one. But in Marcus's office tonight, I'd been something else entirely—a woman of pure desire, wanted by two men for completely different reasons, yet wholly myself in a way I'd forgotten was possible.

David was waiting at the door when I arrived, his eyes scanning me hungrily as I stepped inside. He didn't speak, just took my face in his hands and kissed me deeply, tasting Marcus on my lips. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark with need.

"Tell me," he commanded, leading me to the couch where a glass of wine already waited. "Start from the beginning."

So I did. I told him about the way Marcus had touched me before undressing me, the scent of his cologne mixed with the clean starch of his shirt. I described the feel of the polished desk against my skin, the sound of his belt unbuckling, the taste of him in my mouth. I told him about the moment of penetration, the stretch and fullness, the way Marcus's control had shattered when I'd talked about coming home to David.

As I spoke, David's hands roamed my body, relearning it through the lens of my encounter. When I described Marcus coming inside me, David's fingers found their way under my dress, discovering the dampness still there, the physical proof of what I'd done.

"He marked you," David breathed, his fingers coming away glistening. "Another man's come was inside my wife tonight."

"Because you wanted it to be," I reminded him, my voice shaky as his touch became more insistent.

"Did you like it?" he asked, his mouth against my throat. "Did you like having another man inside you?"

"Yes," I gasped as his fingers found my clit. "God, yes."

"Then show me," he said, pushing me back against the cushions. "Show me how much you liked it."

Later, as we lay tangled together in the aftermath, a thought occurred to me—one that should have been frightening but felt instead like freedom. "What happens when this isn't new anymore?" I asked, tracing patterns on David's chest. "When the thrill wears off?"

David turned to look at me, his expression serious in the dim light. "Then we find something else that excites us. Or we remember why we started this in the first place." He kissed my forehead, his lips soft against my skin. "This was never about him, Claire. It was always about us. About you remembering who you are outside of being my wife. About me getting to fall in love with you again every time you discover a new part of yourself."

His words settled something in me, a fear I hadn't known I was carrying. This wasn't a threat to our marriage—it was an extension of it. A dare that had started as a game but had become something more profound.

Tomorrow, Marcus and I would go back to being boss and employee during business hours. But after hours? That was a different story entirely. And David would be there for all of it, not as a spectator, but as the architect of this new arrangement—the one who had seen my hunger before I'd recognized it myself, who had handed me the keys to my own liberation without ever letting go of my hand.

As I drifted to sleep, David's arms around me, I thought about Thursday. About Marcus's promise to taste every inch of me. About the look in David's eyes when I would tell him about it afterward. The anticipation was a live wire in my veins, but beneath it was something steadier, something solid—the knowledge that whatever happened next, I was choosing it. All of it.

One dare. That's all it took to change everything. But the real change wasn't in what I'd done—it was in understanding that I'd always had permission to want more, to be more. I'd just needed someone I loved to dare me to claim it.