Page 16 of Taboo
I watch Amelia as she takes a small bite of chicken, her lips closing around it, and a smile flickers across her face, full of genuine appreciation. She looks happy, lighter than she did at the funeral, and it warms my chest, a soft glow that spreads through me. She’s here, in my home, and for a moment, it feels right, like she belongs.
But fuck, I love her.
I love her so much it is a physical ache, like an infection that poisons my gut and makes me feel bad. My eyes trace her—the curve of her cheek, the way her hair falls over her shoulder—and every nerve in my body hums with want. I force myself to eat, to focus on the plate, the clink of cutlery, the familiar sound of Sara’s chatter, but it’s no use.
Amelia’s presence is a fire, consuming me, and I’m burning up in it.
Chapter
Ten
AMELIA
My senses have been completely hijacked by Max.
Joy bubbled in my chest the moment he stepped through the front door, a reckless spark that I tried to smother, but it was no use. He is here, real and overwhelming, and my heart leaped despite every warning I’d given myself.
He looked devastating—tall, all male, his suit jacket gone, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up to reveal corded forearms. A glimpse of ink had peeked from under the fabric, a tattoo, and my breath had caught. Gosh, this was a bad idea, a daring one, and I was already drowning in it.
I forced my face into a calm smile and clasped my hands tight to hide how hard they were trembling. When he moved toward me, all my resolve crumbled. His hug engulfed me, his arms were strong and warm, and my knees very nearly buckled under the weight of the sensations that coursed through me. That close, his body hard against mine, he had smelled like cedar and spice, a scent that had pulled me back to that summer in theattic. His lips had brushed my cheek, a quick, searing kiss, and my pulse had skyrocketed, a wild and beautiful rhythm.
Now his steady gaze is on me, and I tell myself it’s only brotherly concern for the grieving sister. But every cell in my body is screaming that it’s not. It’s too intense, too heavy, and it creeps under my skin, making me shift in my seat, my thighs pressing together against the ache building. I’m wet, my clit throbbing with every stolen glance, and it’s so wrong, so shameful, especially with Sara here, her laughter so confident and utterly untroubled by any suspicion as she chats about Jason’s school. She’s so damn comfortable in the nest she has built, she doesn’t even notice the sexual tension blazing between her husband and the woman she has invited into her house. Still, her kindness is like a knife twisting in my gut. I hate how much worse it makes me feel to betray her, even in thought, in her own house.
The bread is warm, soft, and fragrant, and as I chew it, I notice the strange dynamic of the family. Max says almost nothing, and his son is even worse. He is so quiet and withdrawn he mostly keeps his gaze resolutely on his plate and throws the occasional shy smile in my direction if I directly involve him. Sara does all the talking. Not even a minute of pause or silence will she allow without immediately brightly launching into another topic of conversation. Her determination to keep the dialogue going is pretty impressive.
I survive lunch, forcing bites down, nodding at Sara’s never-ending stories and smiling at Jason, but it is a performance and I feel quite exhausted. When it’s over, I’m relieved, my shoulders loosening as Sara stands, her hand reaching for mine.
“Let me show you the rest of the house,” she says, her eyes lively.
I nod, grateful for the escape from the dining table.
She leads me through her immaculate home, her voice filled with pride, as she takes me from room to room. The house is a testament to Max’s wealth and her good taste—polished hardwood oak floors, soaring windows, classy modern artwork strategically placed on the walls.
A vibrant abstract in the living room catches my eye, a kaleidoscope of blues and golds, swirling like a storm, and I pause, drawn to its energy.
“This is stunning,” I murmur.
Sara beams. “Isn’t it? Max picked it out. He’s got a real eye for beauty.”
I swallow hard, avoiding the urge to glance back at him. We move on, through a cozy den with plush gray sofas, then a sleek office lined with books, and a conservatory full of light. I’m overwhelmed by the opulent life he’s built with Sara… the one I’m only visiting.
Sara guides me upstairs, her hand sure and assertive on my arm. She pauses outside a door, then, with shining eyes, opens it to a bedroom that steals my breath. It’s decorated in subtle shades of purple—my favorite color, the same shade Max painted our attic hideaway all those years ago. Deep violet drapes frame a wide window, pooling on the floor like liquid, letting in soft, diffused light. The bed is a cloud of white linens, accented with square lilac pillows, the headboard high and padded with lavender velvet. A plush white rug warms the hardwood, and a vanity sits in the corner, its mirror reflecting the room’s serene glow.
“This is your room,” Sara says, her voice soft.
I turn to her, shocked. “Me?” My voice cracks, gratitude and disbelief tangling in my chest.
She nods, smiling. “We wanted you to feel at home.”
I’m speechless, and my eyes are stinging. I don’t deserve this kindness, but she’s not done. She leads me down thehall to another door, pushing it open to reveal the family library, now transformed. Sunlight pours through tall windows, illuminating floor-to-ceiling bookshelves packed with leather-bound volumes. A chaise lounge in deep blue velvet sits by one window, a reading nook bathed in warmth. A sleek desk stands against another wall, papers neatly stacked, and in the corner—my breath catches—an easel, surrounded by art supplies. Paints, brushes, canvases, all arranged with care, the space a perfect studio. The room smells faintly of old books and fresh paint, a blend that stirs memories of my studio back home, but this space is grander, its high ceilings and rich colors a testament to a life I’m only borrowing. My heart swells, moved beyond words by this incredible gesture.
“And here is your studio,” she says. “I told you we’ll ensure you’ll be able to do your work here.”
“Sara, this is…” I trail off, my voice thick, unable to find the right words. No one has been this kind to me, ever.
She steps closer, her platinum blonde hair swinging and catching the light, her eyes searching mine with a sincerity that disarms me. “This is your home now. Please remember this. Come, sit,” she says softly, gesturing to the chaise, her voice a gentle invitation. “Let’s talk for a bit before I leave you to settle in.”
I nod, my throat tight, and follow her, sinking onto the plush seat, the fabric silky against my palms. Sara perches beside me, her posture relaxed, her hands folded in her lap, and the quiet between us feels intimate, woman to woman, a moment carved out from the chaos of the day.
