The scene is not recommended for people not ready for bed scenes and religiously vulnerable. Skipping this part will not affect the understanding of the plot.

And so, having finished their wild dancing, they ended up at the bar. The smell of alcohol and the loud music worked marvelously, blending all the emotions and feelings into an easygoing cocktail of dopamine. Mark had long been undressing her with his eyes, noting every curve and movement, even before approached him in the club. His motives were transparent — and that made it thrilling.

He didn't even noticed Ostin's absence, or, being absorbed in his own excitement, didn't want to pay it any mind. Usually Mark went to such places on his own, to avoid listening to pointless lectures from a reformed conservative.

The conversation was more superficial than any cliché in a romance novel. Mark asked 'Why are you here?', but in his head, thoughts swirled about how much time he had for foreplay. She wondered 'Are you going to work tomorrow?' but deep down, she was thinking about how to make sure he didn’t spend the night with her.

He complimented her eyes, she — his audacious smile. But their true thoughts were on something else. So he said he would save her number. And he did, entering it as “beloved.” Yeah, Mark simply didn't remember her name — for him, what mattered more was how this night would end.

They began like decent people — or not entirely, but it was clear to everyone: this night would continue in bed. The tension, the glances, and the throbbing in each chest spoke louder than any words.

[In decent society, after all, sex is not treated as a mere physiological need. It's taboo, and any moralist-priest would cross himself.]

They were not lost or failed. On the contrary, they succumbed to temptation with the equanimity of professionals who pretend that circumstances are in control.

He — a handsome, charismatic guy, she — no less attractive and audacious.

[Yet the scriptures of the Bible would label them sinners.]

His — because he had cheated, her — because she hadn’t asked about the relationship.

But that night everything was simpler: they were each lonely in their own way, also in a club on top of it, so they simply chose each other as a temporary oasis. Like people searching for tiny doses of dopamine just to forget themselves. No one cares about the quality or duration of the effect. In truth, these two also mixed it with a lion’s share of adrenaline.

Mark went into cheating because he knew something he wasn't supposed to — and that realization only spurred his interest and thrill. She went to Mark because love doesn't make you run to clubs or hide from social conventions. But society would never see it as the consequences of unresolved triggers; rather label it as weakness, quietly doing far from the most innocent of things.

[But sometimes the white coat pinches, doesn't it?]

Now they were both looking at each other, and there was neither romance nor promise in their gazes. And it was exactly that which didn’t stop them — it was just a moment and its consequences, created by themselves.

This is not a love story that makes you cry into your pillow and point to your partner with a reproachful: "Why don't you do that?'

It was the harsh truth of life — the realization of which causes a mixture of internal stress and physiological tension; followed by sweet denial — the arguments of whose are crazier than any conspiracy theory.

[Can I call it a conspiracy of the soul? Road, where emotions and desires rule the ball, and logic and external rules smoke aside. There are places where rationality will never exist.]

They entered the room she had paid for in advance. Mark inwardly smiled at her independence, but, like a decent guy, he carefully held the door open for her. In her soul she laughed at his decency.

Candles flickered in the room, wax running from them, and the gentle scent of roses blended with the aroma of opened champagne. They continued to dance in the moonlight, then engaged in meaningless talk to show a semblance of purity. And now they were together in bed. A place where many had been, perhaps even themselves.

He wouldn’t erase her contact after this night — purely forgetting about it, she won't remind him of her name — wanting to be forgotten.

Starting with pure romance, they gradually forgot about foreplay and ended up against the wall.

Mark pressed her against him, resting his hands on either side, and leaned in, studying every curve of her neck, slowing his breathing to feel her reactions. The phone flashing on the table and the nagging notifications lost all significance to him — all his attention was on her. The girl's soft moans showed distinct priorities, the only reality for him right now.

She moaned skillfully, but not from pleasure, but from impatience. Mark skillfully moved the fabric of her dress, the girl slightly caught his shirt.

They barely looked at each other, not even evaluating bodies. Only sensations, movements, subtle reactions.

[Desperation under the flavor of lust. The diablo would have applauded their synchronized fortune.]

He entered her sharply, almost without any preparation. Tension filled the entire space of the room, and the floor lamp even swayed from the impact. She dug her nails into his back and bit her lip, suppressing an involuntary moan — that very mixture of pain and arousal. It was obviously painful, but it was precisely the sharpness that triggered that surge of feeling, driving one mad. Micro-pain likes to amplify arousal by aggravating nerve endings.

There was no foreplay here, there was intent. Perhaps that's why they initially caused each other slight pain before allowing themselves pleasure.

[After all, the scriptures said: endure.]