Page 35 of Taboo
They all disperse, and in less than an hour, the house is ours—mine, Amelia’s, Jason’s—a big, empty canvas for our stolen time. I call my secretary to rearrange my calendar so that I can work remotely and only come in if I am absolutely needed. I have given everything to my business and the office can wait for me now; Amelia can’t.
I head to the kitchen, the marble counters gleaming, the air scented with the lingering coffee Maria left behind. I rummage through the fridge, pulling out eggs, bacon, a loaf of sourdough, determined to make breakfast, something special for Amelia and Jason. I decide on a full English breakfast and French toast with maple syrup. A memory from our summer mornings in the Fitzwilliam kitchen. I whisk eggs with cinnamon and vanilla, the batter thick and fragrant, my hands moving with a care I haven’tfelt in years. The sizzle of bacon fills the air, the rich, smoky scent curling up the stairs.
As I expected, footsteps patter down the stairs, light and quick. Jason appears, his dark curls tousled, wearing his blue pajamas with little stars all over them. His gray eyes are wide with surprise. He pauses at the doorway. “Daddy?” he asks as if he can’t believe his eyes. “Where’s Maria? Where’s everyone?”
I smile, flipping a slice of toast in the pan, the golden crust hissing softly. “They’re all on vacation, buddy,” I say, my tone warm. “I’m here today and in charge. I thought we’d have breakfast with Amelia. Sound good?”
He nods, a big grin breaking through, and my heart swells with contentment. My son and I should be closer. I decide in that moment that I am going to spend more time with him and me alone. It is never the same between us when Sara is around. Somehow, he is more aloof and withdrawn.
“Wash these,” I say, handing him a bowl of strawberries, their red skins glossy.
“Sure,” he agrees, almost snatching the bowl off me. He sets to work, the water splashing all over the place.
I focus on finishing the toast, and then I stack them high on a tray with crisp bacon.
“I’ll be right back, buddy,” I tell him. “Wait at the table. I’ll go get Aunt Amelia.”
“Okay."
Chapter
Twenty-Three
AMELIA
The morning light slips in and bathes the room in a dreamlike haze. My body feels like it’s been wrung out, every muscle aching, and my limbs heavy as if they’ve melted into the mattress. I’m exhausted, bone-deep, the kind of tired that clings like damp cotton. I can’t move, I don’t want to.
Last night pulses through me vividly—Max’s hands, possessive and tender, his lips, hot and hungry, his body, hard and unyielding, pressing me into the bed. I bit my lip raw to keep quiet, terrified Jason might hear down the hall, but damn, it was good. My skin still hums, tingling with the memory of his touch.
“Amelia, I missed you. God, how I missed you,” echoes in my ears like a vow I can’t unhear.
We’re playing with fire, and every stolen moment risks burning it all down.
I close my eyes, my breath shallow, and let the images flood me. My heart thumps, a wild, unsteady beat as my hand reaches out to the empty space beside me. The sheet is already cold, a stark void where his warmth should be. He’s gone, slipped awaybefore dawn to protect us from Jason’s curious eyes, but the absence cuts, a sharp pang that twists in my chest. I want him here, curled around me, his breath warm on my neck.
A soft knock jolts me. My heart leaps, panic sparking through the haze. Is something wrong? Maria? Max? One of the maids? My arms feel heavy as I pull the duvet higher, covering my bare skin, my body still tender from him.
“Come in,” I call, my voice rough, cracked from sleep.
The door opens, and Max steps through, his presence filling the room like a storm rolling in. A black T-shirt clings to his broad chest, and his jeans are low on his hips. His dark hair tousled as he’s been up for hours wrestling with the same thoughts tearing through me. His blue eyes meet mine. They are warm but shadowed, a flicker of need that makes my pulse race. I sit up, clutching the duvet to my chest, suddenly shy, exposed, wondering if he sees the chaos in me, or the way I’m unraveling under his gaze.
“Hey,” he says, his voice wraps around me like a soft blanket.
He crosses the room, his steps sure, and sits on the edge of the bed, close enough that I feel the heat of him, the faint scent of cedar soap. My naked body waking under his nearness, fights the restraint I’m trying to hold onto.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, my voice trembling, searching his face for a sign of trouble —Jason, Sara, us.
He smiles tenderly and leans closer, his hand finding mine under the duvet, his fingers warm, achingly familiar. “Everything’s fine,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing my knuckles, a touch that sends a shiver through me. “I just… needed to see you and say….” His eyes hold mine, intense, and before I can respond, he leans in, his lips brushing my forehead, then my cheek, soft kisses that feel like sunlight breaking through fog. My eyes flutter closed, my heart swelling, and I leaninto him, greedy for his warmth, his affection a balm to the ache I’ve carried since he left my bed.
His lips find mine, a gentle, lingering kiss, not the desperate hunger of last night, but something sweeter, deeper, a promise that steals my breath. “Good morning,” he whispers against my mouth, his voice rough with emotion, and I smile, my lips tingling, my body alive under his touch.
“Good morning,” I whisper back, my voice soft, shaky. I pull back and meet his eyes, searching for regret, for doubt, but all I see is raw, unguarded, real emotion. My chest tightens, the memories of last night rushing in—the way we crossed every line. I should be drowning in guilt but I’m not, not when he’s looking at me like this. Not when I’ve waited for so long. Suffered. Endured. I’m a victim too.
A victim of a horrendous lie.
He shifts, his hand still holding mine, and his expression turns serious, his brow furrowing. “Amelia,” he says, his voice low and urgent, “about last night… I’m not going to apologize. I’m not sorry for making love to you. I could never be sorry for that. Not even if the punishment was boiling oil thrown on me. Tell me if I’ve made you feel dirty, or if I’ve tainted you. If I’ve done that, then I’ll apologize, I’ll beg for forgiveness.”
His words crack me open. I shake my head, my throat tight, tears prickling at the edges of my eyes. The truth burns in my chest—he’s not my brother, not bound by Dad’s lie—but I can’t tell him, not when it risks hurting Jason.
