Page 2 of Forbidden Vows

"Blaze," I whisper, my voice pleading. "This is a church. It's wrong. We're...we're siblings."

He chuckles, a sound that is both alluring and wicked. "Only by marriage, you cute thing.”

“I know.” I shake my head, trying to break free from his spell. My voice is barely a whisper. "Still, this is wrong on so many levels."

He leans in closer. “Let your big, strong older brother take care of you.”

“My older brother. I like that,” I say. I’ve always wanted that kind of protection from him. “In a platonic way,” I add. “That’s how I should be thinking of you?—”

His eyes darken with desire, his voice going raspy with lust as he comes even nearer. “You didn’t let me finish. Let me take care of you. Pleasure you. Make you feel so good in only the way a man who truly knows you can.”

His dirty words manage to turn my body’s response to ‘high heat panty melt’ while cranking my red flag alert to ‘stop now,’ ‘beware,’ and ‘run.’ I only manage to stutter out a weak response of, “Uh…uh.”

His eyes never leave mine, glittering with laughter as if the word family is a mere technicality. Reading my ‘good girl’ anxiety meter as rising, he attempts to persuade me, changing his tactics. "We're not blood-related, Cleo. We didn't grow up together. We met when we were practically adults. And our parents ended up getting divorced anyway. This isn't wrong. It's fate."

“Fine.” He wins. “So, we’re not blood related.” And in his mind, it’s not that taboo, even though in mine, it’s still off limits. There are many other arguments I could provide for why we should not be doing this. “But what about the fact that we do not mesh in the real world? You’re a total player! You can—and do—have any woman in this city that you want. I have to know someone’s Social Securitynumber to let them get to second base. And I follow the rules. I like the rules. I love rules! You act like they don’t exist?—”

Before I can convince him, his mouth is back on mine, shutting me up, his tongue exploring my mouth, his hands on me like I’m his property. His hands sneak up the short hem of my fluttering skirt, smoothing their warm way over the bare flesh of my outer thigh. His fingertips hook into the elastic waistband of my panties.

“I can’t.”

My body argues back, screaming,yes!as I grip his shoulders. He traces a path down my bare leg as he crouches, his breath hot on my skin. He lifts one foot, then the other, freeing me from the lace that was the last barrier between us. He pockets the panties, a trophy of this illicit moment, his eyes never leaving mine as he stands, pressing his body against me once more.

"Blaze," I gasp, making one last desperate attempt to cling to reason. "We shouldn't..."

"Shh," he whispers, his breath hot against my ear. "Just feel. Don't think."

But that’s the problem. I’m feeling far too much. I shake my head, denying his words even as my body moves further into his touch. His fingers find their way between my thighs, stroking gently and coaxing a soft moan from deep within me. I can feel the rough calluses on his skin. My body betrays me, arching into his.

"No, Blaze," I gasp, making one last attempt at reason, but his name on my lips sounds more like a plea than a protest.His hands grip my waist, lifting me onto the polished wooden table behind us; the cool surface is a stark contrast to the heat of his body.

"I've wanted you for so long. That time living with you as your brother was torture.”

“Step. Brother,” I correct, gasping as he kisses my neck.

“Pure torture. I wanted you every moment of every day," he murmurs, his lips trailing kisses down my neck, his hands exploring every curve of my body. "And now, here you are. Hiding in the back of a church. And all mine."

Not fair. His words fill a void inside me. It feels so good to be wanted.

I'm shocked by how hard my heart thumps in my chest and by the excitement I feel at the thought of being desired by a man who is not only off-limits but can have any woman he wants.

And he wants me.

I’m currently single, and the man who made me that way didn’t make me feel this desired at the best of times. Still. I should push him away and run from this twisted seduction, but my body is paralyzed, trapped between his touch and the cold table beneath me.

His hands glide up my thighs, pushing the skirt of my dress higher and exposing more of my bare skin to the cool air of the church. I shiver, but it's not from the cold; it's from the way his touch brings me to life. Every nerve ending is wide awake.

The guilt cuts in deep and hot with shame. "Blaze, please," I beg, but even I don't know what I'm asking for. For him to stop? Or for him to continue? My mind is a whirlwind of confusion, torn between the morality hammered into me since childhood and my need for him. And the wanting cuts deeper.

His lips find mine again, swallowing my pleas as he presses against me, his body hard and insistent. I can feel his heart pounding against my chest, echoing my own racing pulse.

He finds his way to the very core of me, and I gasp as he gently strokes the most sensitive part. My hips ease into his touch, betraying my inner turmoil. He stops kissing to watch my face, his breath hot on my cheek as he whispers, "Tell me you don't want this, Cleo. Tell me to stop, and I will."

But the words won't come. Instead, a soft moan escapes my lips; the sound is like a white flag, a surrender to the forbidden desire that is him. His eyes, intense, search mine for a moment before leaning in to kiss me again, his expert fingers never stopping their torturous dance.

My body jolts at the contact, a wave of pleasure crashing over me. He swallows my gasps, deepening his kiss as he strokes and circles, driving me to the brink of madness.

"You're so wet, baby,” he murmurs against my lips, his voice hoarse.

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