Page 51 of Taboo
“I am on my best behavior,” he murmurs, his grin wicked, but his eyes soften, a flicker of something deeper, something that makes my chest ache. But he pulls his hand back. Not before his thumb brushes my wrist, a promise that lingers.
We eat in silence for a moment, the band shifting to a slower song, a sultry saxophone weaving through the air. Guests around us chat, their voices a low hum—talk of donations, art auctions, city gossip—but I’m lost in Max, in the way his knee brushes mine under the table, deliberate, teasing. I glance at him, catch the spark in his eyes, and desire curls tight in my core.
“Do you want to dance?” he asks.
I nod, and he stands and offers his hand. My throat feels tight as I take his hand, his fingers warm and sure. He leads me to the dance floor, the polished wood gleaming under the chandeliers. The band plays a slow melody, and Max pulls me close, his hand settling on my lower back, just above the curve of my hips, his touch firm, possessive. My body fits against his, the silk dress sliding against his tux, and I feel every inch of him—his warmth, his strength, the steady beat of his heart under my palm.
“You belong with me. Like this. Always,” he murmurs, his lips close to my ear, breath warm against my skin.
His hand tightens on my waist, guiding me in a slow sway, the music wrapping around us like a cocoon. I lean into him, my cheek brushing his jaw, his stubble a soft scrape that sends a shiver through me. The room fades, the other couples blurring, and it’s just us, moving together, bodies pressed close, a dance that feels like a vow.
“I feel like I belong with you, too,” I say, voice soft, barely audible over the music. The words slip out, raw, honest, and his eyes darken, a flash of pain crossing his face, mirrored by the ache in my chest.
He spins me slowly, the slit baring my thigh, and his hand grazes the exposed skin. “You’re killing me,” he says, voice rough, pulling me back against him, closer now, our bodies flush. “I don’t know how to let you go again.”
His words crack something in me, and I look up, meeting his eyes, seeing the same turmoil, the same desperate love.
The song ends, and we pause, still holding each other. The applause of the other guests is a distant hum. I pull back, my hand lingering on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart.
“Max,” I say, voice trembling, as we step away from the dance floor, the music shifting to something faster. “Can we talk? Somewhere quiet?” My heart feels suddenly heavy with what I need to say, what I’ve been dreading.
He nods, his jaw tight, and leads me to a corner of the ballroom, a small alcove with velvet curtains, partially shielding us from the crowd. The air is cooler here, scented with lilies from a nearby arrangement, and the dim light casts shadows across his face, sharpening his features. I turn to him, my hands twisting in front of me, the emerald silk rustling.
“This… It’s too much,” I say, voice soft, breaking. “It’s everything I ever wanted, Max. You, this life, the way you make me feel—like I’m alive, like I’m me again. But it’s not real. Sara’s coming back soon, and this—” I gesture between us, my throat closing—“it’ll break my heart. We should stop now, before it goes any further.”
His eyes darken, pain flashing, raw and sharp. He steps closer, his hand cupping my cheek, thumb brushing my skin, warm and gentle. “Amelia,” he murmurs, voice raw, broken. “I’m sorry, but I can’t stop. I don’t know how. This is real to me, more real than anything I’ve ever had.”
His forehead presses to mine, his breath warm, ragged, and I’m trembling, torn between the love that consumes me and the fear of what comes next.
Chapter
Thirty-Four
MAX
Her words had hit like a fist.
Wild anger at the very thought of losing her flares hot in my chest, and frustration burns through my veins. Stop? Why? Because everybody else says so? All these ‘people’… who are they? They are nothing to me. Why should I bend my will to theirs? What business is it of anybody who I take as my lover?
The idea of ending this bliss is like an imposition I can’t bear. The ballroom beyond the velvet curtains—laughter, clinking glasses, the band’s slow jazz—is drowned by the storm in my chest.
I pull back, her face still in my hands, but her words hurt so much because there is truth in what she says. Am I really going to hurt Jason? And Sara’s imminent return looms. Like a ticking bomb—and yet the thought of letting her go feels like death.
I square my shoulders, and without a solution for my predicament, I guide her back to the crowd, my hand on herlower back, the silk of her dress warm under my palm. The gala continues around us, guests in tuxedos and gowns, their smiles polished, their eyes glancing our way, but I don’t care.
I have never cared what anyone thought—not the whispers about my wealth, my past, my mother’s status as a housekeeper. And now I have to justify to myself what is stopping me from having her beyond the fact that people would talk.
We dance again, her body pressed to mine, the music slow, sultry, wrapping us in its rhythm. Her hands rest on my shoulders, fingers brushing my neck, and for this moment, I forget the ticking time bomb and just immerse myself in the way she moves, fluid, like she’s part of me.
Every moment with her feels like home, like the life I was meant to live.
I always knew it would be this way, this intensity, this perfect fit like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, which is why I still can’t wrap my head around how she can possibly be my half-sister. It feels like a sick joke. The feelings I have, the way my body craves her, the way my heart breaks for her—it’s too much, too real for a brother-sister tie. It’s not right, not possible. Maybe it’s because we didn’t grow up together. Whatever it is I don’t know, but neither can I voice it aloud, so I keep silent.
The night drags on—speeches, toasts, a silent auction I barely notice—and through it all, I’m restless. My hand finds hers under the table, squeezing tight, needing her to ground me. She squeezes back, her touch a lifeline, but my troubled thoughts refuse to leave.
Eventually, we decide to call it a night.
When we slip out, the cool night air feels like a shock after the heat of the ballroom. The limousine waits, its black body gleaming under streetlights. I open the door and help her in, her dress rustling as she slides across the plush leather seat. I settle beside her, and call for the partition to be raised, needing for itto be just us, sealed in our private world scented with leather and faint champagne.
