Chapter 3: An Invitation in the Twilight

The day crawled by with agonizing slowness. Leo tried everything—sketching architectural details of the lodge, reading the thriller he'd brought, even attempting a meditation app Sarah had once recommended—but nothing could quiet the electric anticipation thrumming through his veins. Every thought circled back to the woman across the forest, to that knowing smile, to the promise he'd seen in her eyes.

By four o'clock, he'd given up all pretense of normalcy. He positioned himself in the leather chair by the window, scotch in hand, watching her cabin like a man possessed. The late afternoon sun slanted through the pines, creating shifting patterns of light and shadow that made the forest feel alive, mysterious. Every flicker of movement in her windows made his pulse spike, only to disappoint when it turned out to be nothing more than curtains stirring in the breeze.

Her husband had left around noon, Leo had observed. The silver-haired man had emerged from their cabin with a phone pressed to his ear and a leather briefcase in hand, climbing into a black Mercedes that looked aggressively expensive even at this distance. Business, no doubt. Some urgent matter that couldn't wait, that was more important than spending time with his stunning wife in this beautiful, secluded place.

The man's loss was Leo's opportunity, and the realization made him feel simultaneously guilty and exhilarated.

As the sun began its descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of rose and gold, Leo's anticipation reached fever pitch. His hands were actually trembling as he lifted his glass, and he found himself checking his watch obsessively. Last night, the show had begun around eight-thirty. It was now seven-fifteen.

Time had never moved so slowly.

At eight o'clock exactly, lights began to flicker on in her cabin. Leo's breath caught in his throat as he leaned forward, every nerve ending alive with anticipation. The warm glow spilling from her windows seemed to pulse with invitation, and he found himself gripping his scotch glass with white knuckles.

Movement. A shadow passing by the main window, fluid and familiar. Leo's heart hammered against his ribs as he waited, knowing with absolute certainty that tonight would be different. Last night had been about discovery, about testing boundaries. Tonight felt like a promise about to be fulfilled.

She appeared in the large picture window that faced the forest—faced him—and Leo's world tilted on its axis.

She was wearing a silk robe the color of deep burgundy, the fabric clinging to her curves in ways that made his mouth go dry. Her auburn hair was loose around her shoulders, catching the lamplight like fire, and even at this distance he could see that she was looking directly at his window.

Not in his general direction. Not vaguely toward his cabin. Directly at his window, as if she could see him sitting there in his darkened room.

Which should have been impossible. His lights were off, his window would appear black from the outside. But the way she was looking, the slight smile he could just make out on her lips, suggested she knew exactly where he was.

In her hand was a wine glass, and she raised it slightly in what could only be described as a toast. To him. To whatever was about to happen between them.

Leo found himself raising his own glass in response, though she couldn't possibly see the gesture. It felt important anyway, like a ritual, a mutual acknowledgment of the game they were playing.

She moved closer to her window then, close enough that he could make out more details. The silk robe had a deep V-neck that hinted at the curves beneath, and as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, the fabric moved with her in ways that made Leo's temperature spike.

She was beautiful. Not just attractive, not just appealing, but genuinely, breathtakingly beautiful. The kind of beauty that came from confidence, from a woman who knew exactly what she wanted and wasn't afraid to take it.

She took a sip of wine, her movements deliberate and unhurried, and Leo realized this was indeed a performance. But not the accidental voyeurism of the night before. This was intentional, choreographed, designed specifically for him.

The robe had a belt, and her free hand moved to it now, fingers playing with the silk tie in a way that made Leo's pulse pound. She wasn't removing it, not yet, just... suggesting. Teasing. Building anticipation until the air between their cabins practically crackled with tension.

Leo found himself leaning forward, his own breathing shallow and rapid. The rational part of his mind—the part that understood consequences and moral boundaries—had been completely overwhelmed by raw desire. Nothing existed except this woman, this moment, this electric connection that defied explanation.

She set down her wine glass and stepped even closer to the window, so close her breath would have fogged the glass if it had been cold. But the evening was warm, the forest air heavy with the promise of summer, and she pressed one palm against the window pane in a gesture that was both innocent and incredibly intimate.

That's when Leo realized what she was doing. She was giving him permission to respond, to participate rather than just observe. The palm against the glass was an invitation, a challenge, a question: Will you play with me?

Without conscious thought, Leo rose from his chair and moved to his own window. His cabin was dark, but he knew she would see his silhouette against the faint light from the kitchen behind him. He pressed his own palm against the glass, mirroring her gesture, and even at fifty yards he could see her smile widen.

The connection was instant, electric, overwhelming. Two hands separated by distance and glass but somehow touching anyway. Leo felt like he could feel the warmth of her palm through the forest air, could sense her pulse matching his own frantic rhythm.

She stepped back from her window then, and slowly, deliberately, began to untie the belt of her robe. Leo's breath stopped entirely as she let the silk cord fall to the floor, the robe held closed now only by the weight of the fabric and the precarious way it draped over her shoulders.

This was his moment to look away, to preserve some shred of decency, to remember that she was married and he was a stranger. Instead, Leo found himself pressing closer to his own window, his entire being focused on the goddess across the forest who was about to reveal herself to him.

She shrugged, and the robe slipped from her shoulders like water.

Even at this distance, even through the barrier of darkness and glass, Leo could see she was magnificent. Her body was mature, womanly, unapologetically sensual. Full breasts that would fill his hands perfectly, a waist that curved into generous hips, skin that seemed to glow in the lamplight. She stood there for a long moment, letting him look, letting him absorb every detail.

Then she moved her hands to her own body, trailing her fingers along her collarbone, down between her breasts, across her stomach. The touches were light, teasing, designed to drive him absolutely insane with want.

Leo's own hands were pressed flat against his window now, his forehead nearly touching the glass as he strained to see every detail. His body was responding with an intensity that bordered on painful, but he couldn't look away, couldn't break the spell she was weaving.

She was touching herself now with more purpose, one hand cupping her breast while the other trailed lower, and Leo realized with a shock that she expected him to do the same. This wasn't just a show—it was a shared experience, a mutual seduction that required his participation.

His hands moved to his own body without conscious direction, following her lead, matching her rhythm. The sensation was incredible, intensified by the knowledge that she was doing the same thing, that they were connected in this intimate dance despite the distance between them.

The forest around them seemed to hold its breath as they moved together, two silhouettes in lighted windows performing an ancient ritual of desire and release. Leo lost track of time, lost track of everything except the woman across the darkness and the fire building in his own body.

When the climax hit, it was with an intensity that nearly buckled his knees. He gripped the window frame for support, his vision blurring, his entire world reduced to the pulsing pleasure and the woman who had given it to him.

When he could focus again, she was standing at her window in the burgundy robe, once again perfectly composed. She raised her wine glass in another toast, this one clearly celebratory, and Leo found himself smiling despite his exhaustion.

But as she turned to move away from the window, she paused. Something small and white was left on her windowsill—a piece of paper, or maybe a card. She looked directly at Leo's window one more time, her meaning unmistakable: That's for you.

Then she was gone, the lights in her cabin dimming one by one until only a soft glow remained.

Leo stood at his window for a long time afterward, his body still humming with satisfaction and his mind reeling with implications. What they had just shared was beyond anything he had ever experienced, but it was also dangerous territory. The line between fantasy and reality was blurring rapidly, and that small white object on her windowsill suggested she was ready to cross it completely.

The question was: was he?