Page 50 of Taboo
He grins wolfishly.
“Has Jason’s babysitter arrived?”
“Yup, she’s here. Pizza is ordered. All is good. We use her all the time, and she has my number in the event of an emergency.”
He offers his arm, and I take it. His warmth seeps through the tux, and it makes me feel a part of him as we head downstairs into the quiet foyer. The moonlight is spilling across the marble, and outside, a limousine waits, its sleek black body gleaming under the streetlights. I am incredibly surprised at this, as I’m sure this is among his fleet of cars. I turn to him then, and something in his eyes tells me there’s a dot to connect here.
"This is… extravagant, no?" I ask. "Am I missing something?"
“I was supposed to take you to prom,” he murmurs, voice low, as he opens the limo door. “I couldn’t then. So I wanted to make it right tonight.”
His words hit deep, like a wound and a gift. I am too shocked by his words to answer. I stare at him in disbelief. He remembered that it mattered to me. I have to fight to keep my tears from spilling and ruining my carefully applied makeup.
I slide into the plush leather seat inside the regal interior. It is cool inside, and scented with leather and the faint smell of champagne.
“Ready, my love?" he asks as he settles beside me. Max looks at me like I am his world.
I nod in response, feeling like a teenager with him all over again. “Thank you,” I whisper.
His thigh brushes mine, and a spark ignites my skin.
The limo glides through the city, lights streaking past, and I feel delirious with happiness. But I know that the more he does things like this, and the more time we spend together, the more my heart broods, mourning for what could’ve been. This was supposed to be my life—Max on my arm, nights like this, a world painted in colors he brings out in me. With him, I’m alive, vibrant, a woman who loves herself, who feels every shade of joy, desire, pain. But this life is not mine, none of it is mine. I’ll have to give it back to Sara.
And face the crushing reality that no man is ever going to live up to Max, and I’ll probably end up a lonely old spinster. Thank God, we arrive at the event, and I am grateful for the reprieve from my painful thoughts.
The gala is in a grand hotel ballroom, and as we head in, I am awestruck by the gorgeous chandeliers dripping crystal, their light dancing across polished floors. Everything looks so classy and elegant. Guests in tuxedos and gowns swirl around us, their laughter mingling with the clink of champagne flutes, the air scented with expensive perfume.
Max’s hand rests casually on my lower back, guiding me through the crowd, and I feel every eye on us, on the emerald dress that hugs my curves. We sip champagne, the bubbles sharp on my tongue, and he leans close, his breath warm on my ear.
“You’re stealing the show,” he murmurs, voice low, teasing, but his eyes are serious, burning with pride, with love.
I laugh, soft, nervous, my fingers tightening on the flute. “It’s the dress. Sara picked a good one.” Her name slips out, andguilt stabs me in the heart. Another reminder of the life I’m borrowing.
Max’s jaw tightens, a flicker of something—pain, maybe—crossing his face, but he covers it with a smile.
“It’s not the dress,” Max says, his voice rough, low, like a secret meant only for me. His hand brushes mine, his fingers grazing my knuckles, warm and deliberate.
My pulse races, heat flooding my veins, and a throbbing starts in my belly. I meet his eyes, so blue and so intense, locking onto mine with a blazing hunger. The ballroom hums around us, the clink of silverware and soft laughter of the fine guests blending with the jazz band’s smooth melody. But it’s all background noise, drowned by the way Max is looking at me, like I’m the only woman here, the only person that matters.
My cheeks grow warm under his gaze. “You’re biased,” I murmur, teasing, but my voice trembles, betraying the storm inside me.
“I’m not,” he says as we find our table.
We take our seats and after exchanging greetings with others, some at the table and others coming over in search of Max, the ceremony finally starts. I watch as dinner is served, appetizers first and then a spread of elegance—seared salmon glistening with lemon glaze, lightly steamed asparagus spears with butter. I’m too excited to dig in, so I start with the wine first, needing it to settle my nerves. I take a sip, and the wine is cold down my throat, rich and oaky.
Max watches me, almost as if he can’t take his eyes off me, and I watch him back, intoxicated by his nearness, his presence always pulling me under.
He leans closer then, his tuxedo jacket brushing the tablecloth, his scent—cedar and spice—wrapping around me. “You are quite possibly the most beautiful woman I know,definitely the most beautiful human,” he says, voice low, a grin tugging at his lips.
“I’m not,” I protest.
His eyebrows rise. “Didn’t you look at yourself in the mirror before you came out? You’re stealing every eye in this room, Amelia.” His fingers linger on mine, hidden beneath the table, a slow, deliberate stroke that sends a shiver up my spine.
I bite my lip, trying to focus on the plate before me. The salmon is perfectly cooked and delicate, and the asparagus is crisp, but my senses are hijacked by him, by the heat of his touch, the way his eyes trace my face, my neck, the dip of my neckline.
“Stop it,” I whisper, half-laughing, my voice soft as I nudge his hand away. “Didn’t you say you’d be on your best behavior?”
My heart pounds, the thrill of our secret mixing with the reminder that there is nothing inherently wrong with being this intimate with him. It makes me wonder once again whether I am not just torturing myself and being cruel by not telling him. I’m playing God and the devil all at once. Not wanting the guilt and sin of making him give up his family for me, yet… enjoying the sweetness from pretending to be his. It makes me feel kinda deranged.
