Page 30 of Taboo
He leans back, his mug cradled in his hands, a wry smile tugging at his lips, softening the tension in his jaw. “It wasn’t easy,” he admits, his voice low, thoughtful. “Started small, just me and my laptop, hustling for clients. Long nights, bad coffee, deals falling through, wolf at the door. But I kept at it, found a niche in e-commerce, and built a platform that caught on. Got lucky with some investors, scaled fast. The wolf slinked off and now it’s… big.” He shrugs, but there’s pride in his eyes, a quiet fire, and I feel it, a warmth at his success.
“That’s incredible, Max,” I say, my voice genuine, my eyes meeting his, and for a moment, it’s just us, sharing a truth that feels safe. “And that is also an incredibly brief summary.”
He laughs out. “Want me to tell you the details? It could take all night.”
“Are you willing to?”
His eyes bore into mine. “I’ll do anything for you, Amelia. Anything.” The words hang between us. Explosive.
I look down, my finger tracing the cup’s rim, and my voice is a whisper. “Anything?”
“Anything,” he says quietly.
I stand suddenly and head towards the sink to wash my cup, needing to move, to break the spell. Max follows, his mug in hand.
“Let me,” his voice firm, reaching for the sponge. I laugh, a nervous sound, and nudge him aside, our hands brushing, a spark that jolts me.
“I’ve got it,” I say, but he’s stubborn, grabbing the cup, and I struggle and the cup slips, a sudden clatter as it hits the ground and shatters into jagged pieces that glint like broken stars. We freeze, staring at the wreckage.
Sara’s cup is broken.
I broke Sara’s cup.
The breakage takes on momentous meaning and my breath catches, tears welling, a sob breaking free. I sink to my knees, gathering the shards, my fingers trembling, and the tears spill, hot and relentless, because it’s not just Sara’s cup—but the cup is me and our relationship too, broken and unfixable, a mirror of everything I’ve lost.
“Amelia,” Max says, his voice rough, kneeling beside me, his hand on my shoulder, warm and steady. “It’s just a cup. It’s okay.”
I shake my head, my voice choked, the lie spills out. “It’s not the cup. It’s… Dad. Everything’s broken, Max. So many things can’t be put back together.” The words are half-true, a shield for the real pain—the love I can’t reclaim—but they’re enough of an excuse for me to crack open, my sobs raw in the quiet.
He pulls me into his arms, his embrace fierce, his bare chest warm against my cheek, and I cling to him, my tears soaking his skin.
The broken cup lies scattered at our feet, the shards glinting like fragments of our past. All around us are stark shadows. His warmth is a comfort, but it’s also a danger, a blaze I’ve fought to keep at bay.
A sound escapes him, soft, ragged. No more than a whisper, but I feel the shift.
The warmth is turning into fire.
His lips brush my forehead, a soft, fleeting touch, so gentle it steals my breath. I tilt my head back, unthinking, my tear-streaked face catching the light, my eyes meeting his. His are dark and stormy. The world narrows, the kitchen fades—the shattered cup, the moonlight, the hum of the fridge—all dissolving until it’s just us, Max and me, suspended in a moment too fragile to hold.
His gaze drops to my lips, a flicker of hesitation, of self-loathing, and I see it—the battle raging in him, the brother he’s supposed to be warring with the man who wants me so desperately he can’t control himself. My heart pounds, a frantic beat, and I know I should pull away, should stop this before it begins. There are a thousand reasons to, but my weak body betrays me. I lean closer, drawn by a pull I can’t resist.
His hand moves, slow, trembling, cupping my cheek, his thumb grazing my skin, wiping away a tear with a tenderness that cracks me open. “Amelia,” he whispers, his voice raw, breaking on my name, a plea and a warning wrapped in one.
His breath is warm, scented with the honey and chamomile tea, and it brushes my lips, a ghost of a touch that sends a shiver down my spine. My hands are still around his waist, my fingers digging into the soft cotton, and I feel the tension in him, the restraint, the line he’s fighting not to cross.
His lips hover over mine, so close I can feel the heat of them, the barest whisper of contact, and time slows, each second stretching into an eternity. My breath catches, a soft gasp, and I tilt my head, just a fraction, my lips parting, an invitation I don’t mean to give. His eyes search mine, dark with need and guilt.
It’s war inside him.
Then, I see the exact moment he breaks, the restraint shattering like the cup at our feet. With a growl, his mouth swoops down and finds mine, a ravenous kiss that steals away my breath. His lips are hot and demanding, a devouring hungerthat consumes me whole. There is not even an attempt at gentleness—it’s ferocious with desperate yearning, a decade of want poured into the press of his mouth, the sweep of his tongue.
It's pure fire.
I melt into him, my body alive, electric, my hands sliding up his chest, feeling the pounding of his heart under my palms. His tongue explores, fiery and deep. Everything it touches it claims for itself, and I respond, a soft moan vibrating against his lips, my fingers curling into his skin, anchoring me to this man I’ve loved and longed for in equal measure.
This is everything I’ve ever wanted—his taste, his heat, the way he kisses me like I’m the only thing that matters. And it’s everything I’ve feared—the line we’re crossing, the truth I can’t share, the betrayal of the family he’s built. For a heartbeat, I’m lost, drowning in him, in us, my body pressing closer, my hips brushing his, the friction sparking a fire I can’t contain. His hand slides to my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me deeper, and I’m falling, spiraling into a place where nothing exists but this kiss, this need.
The ache between my legs.
