Page 34 of Unholy Nights

But it's wrong. So wrong. He's married to my mother and old enough to be my father.

And yet... I can't bring myself to regret it. I don't want to regret it.

I sink to the floor, my back against the door, and bury my face in my hands. The weight of what I've done, of what I still want to do, threatens to crush me. How can I face my mother tomorrow? How can I pretend nothing has changed?

Eventually I change into my nightgown on autopilot, my mind spinning in circles. I climb into bed, but sleep is impossible. Every time I close my eyes, I see his face. Hear his voice. Feel his touch.

I pull the covers up to my chin like they might shield me from whatever storm is coming. My mother's words echo in my head: "Come see me first thing tomorrow morning."

Nothing good ever comes from those meetings.

I must drift off at some point because the next thing I know, I'm jolting awake in the darkness, my heart racing and my breath coming in short gasps.

A noise. There was a noise that woke me.

I lay perfectly still, straining my ears. For a moment, there's nothing, and I start to think I imagined it. But then it comes again—a soft, barely audible sound. The lock on my bedroom door opening and then the click of it closing.

How did they get in? I locked my door… didn’t I?

Fear spikes through me, adrenaline flooding my veins, before I recognize Cohen's familiar shadow moving through the darkness.

"Cohen?" I whisper, sitting up as he approaches my bed. "What are you—"

"Shh," he murmurs, perching on the edge of my mattress. His hand finds my cheek in the darkness, his thumb tracing my lower lip. "I couldn't stay away. Not tonight. Not after..."

I swallow hard, my pulse pounding in my ears. "After what?"

He leans in, his breath warm against my skin. "After that kiss. After everything. I had to see you, touch you, remind myself that it was real."

My heart skips a beat. "It was real," I whisper.

"And this is, too." His mouth covers mine, and suddenly, there's no fear, no doubt—just heat and need and the desperate ache of wanting him closer. I kiss him back, losing myself in the taste of him, in the way his tongue teases mine, coaxing me to open wider. To let him deeper.

His hands slide under the blankets, skimming up my sides and sending shivers of pleasure through me. When he cups my breast through the thin fabric of my nightgown, I gasp into his mouth, arching into his touch. I can't believe this is happening. Can't believe I'm not stopping him.

I should stop him. This is wrong.

"My mother—"

"Is asleep," he finishes, his lips trailing down my throat. "She took one of her pills an hour ago."

I should tell him to leave. Should push him away and remember all the reasons this is wrong. Instead, I find myself tilting my head back to give him better access. I'm pulling him closer, my fingers shoving into his hair as his mouth moves lower. I whimper and I don't even know why or what I want. More, I think.

But more of... what?

He tugs the strap of my nightgown down, baring my breast, and a moan slips out when his lips close over my nipple.

The sounds he's pulling out of me are so embarrassing that my face burns and I'm glad he can't see it in the dark.

"Cohen," I breathe, the word catching on a moan as his tongue swirls around the hardened peak. There are sparks shooting beneath my skin like one of those sparklers from the Fourth of July, and the magic of what he's doing with his mouth settles between my legs.

His fingers find my other nipple, rolling it gently as he sucks, and the sparks turn to fireworks, bursting through me with a force that leaves me trembling. I'm not sure what's happening to my body, but I don't want it to stop. It's like he's casting a spell, weaving a web of sensation that's trapping me, holding me prisoner, and I never want to escape.

I'm panting by the time he switches his mouth to my other breast, teasing the first with his fingertips until I'm squirming beneath him, needing... something. I'm not even sure what, just that I need it desperately.

He kisses me again, his tongue sweeping into my mouth, and there's something hard pressing against my thigh, even through the blankets. When his hand slips between them, finding how... wet I am there, I jerk away. "I'm sorry," I choke out, trying to close my legs. To keep him from feeling how I've drenched my underwear. "I don't know why—"

He groans and catches my knee, holding me open. "You're perfect," he whispers fiercely into the dark. "Perfect, little one. This means you're ready for me. That your body wants what I'm giving you. Do you understand?"

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