Chapter 3 The Forbidden Cousin - Chapter 3

He turned around, grabbing a wooden spoon. "It's just metal and motors, nothing glamorous like your projects."

"Glamour is overrated," she retorted, and their eyes met. The air between them seemed to grow thicker, hotter. He took a step toward her, and Kethlen's instinct was to retreat, but her feet were rooted to the floor.

"Yeah?" he whispered, coming close enough for her to feel the heat of his body again. He raised his hand, and for an electrifying moment, she thought he was going to touch her. Instead, he picked up a knife from the block beside her, his fingers brushing against hers in a fleeting touch. A shiver ran down her entire arm. "I think everyone likes a little sparkle, Keth. Even if it's just on the surface."

He returned to the counter, leaving her there, trembling, the point of contact where his fingers had touched burning like fire. She looked at her own hands, then discreetly slid one of them down, over the fabric of her skirt, pressing against the warm flesh of her thigh. The need was a dull, sweet ache, a throbbing begging for relief. She imagined herself crossing the kitchen, turning him around, and pulling his face to hers, feeling that hard, experienced mouth on her own, those large, rough hands moving over her body.

The image was so vivid, so real, that a small moan almost escaped her lips. She bit it back, forcing the wave of desire to recede. This was madness. It was wrong. It was dangerous.

But, God, it was exciting.

The smell of sautéing garlic and olive oil began to fill the kitchen, a domestic contradiction to the sexual tension poisoning the air. They were alone. In that big, silent house. For days.

Gael turned around again, holding the wooden spoon. His dark eyes scanned her body once more, stopping at her breasts, where her nipples were hardened, pressing against the thin fabric of her blouse. He saw. Of course he saw. A slow smile of pure masculine satisfaction spread across his face.

"Dinner will be about twenty minutes," he said, his voice a soft growl. "Maybe you'd like to... get settled. Take a shower. You must be tired from the trip."

The suggestion was innocent, but the tone was anything but. It was an invitation for her to clean up, to prepare. For what? Kethlen felt a fresh surge of heat between her legs. The idea of undressing, of standing naked in the shower with him just meters away, was absurdly erotic.

"A shower... yes," she agreed, her voice a thread of sound. "That's a good idea."

She pushed away from the counter, her legs still shaky, and walked out of the kitchen without looking back. But she felt his gaze on her back, burning through the fabric, a brand of possession that had not yet been claimed.

In the hallway, she stopped, leaning her forehead against the cool wall. Her heart was beating erratically in her chest. A shower. Alone. With the image of Gael—his strong arms, his sensual mouth, his silent promise—burning in her mind. Her hand slid down again, this time to the inside of her thigh, feeling the soft, warm skin. Her fingers trembled, hovering near the epicenter of her need. A long, low moan finally escaped her lips, a sound of surrender and pure desire.

The shower water had cascaded over Kethlen's body like an attempt at purification, but it had only heightened her senses. Every drop that slid over her skin was a reminder of Gael's gaze, heavy and carnal, which seemed to feel for her even through the walls. As she dried herself, the touch of the towel's soft fabric was almost an assault on her hypersensitive nerves. Her fingertips, brushing over her own breasts, made them pebble, her nipples hardening in an instant, traitorous response to the memory of his smile. She dressed carefully, choosing low-waisted silk shorts that hugged the curve of her hips and a tight t-shirt, no bra. The justification was comfort, but the truth, which she barely admitted to herself, was a deep desire to be seen, to provoke. It was bait cast into forbidden waters, and she waited, with a chill down her spine and heat in her core, for the shark to bite.

As she went downstairs, the smell of garlic and basil now dominated the house, a domestic, fragrant trap. Gael was standing in front of the stove, stirring a fresh tomato sauce in a cast-iron pan. The scene was absurdly homely, but nothing in his posture conveyed domesticity. He was a predator disguised as a homeowner, his movements full of a contained animal grace. The kitchen, with its warm, cozy lighting, seemed to have shrunk, making every inch of air charged with potential.

"Smells good," she said, stopping in the doorway, feeling like an intruder in the very scene she had helped create.

He turned, and his dark eyes traveled over her from head to toe, unhurriedly, as if savoring every detail of her casually sensual attire. The appraisal was so physical Kethlen felt her skin prickle.

"Tomatoes from Grandma's garden. They're still good. Hope you like your spaghetti al dente," his voice was a low buzz that echoed directly in her lower belly.

"I like things firm," she retorted, and the corners of Gael's mouth curved upward, catching the double entendre she hadn't intended to make but which had come out naturally.

"Good to know."

He picked up a bottle of red wine that was already open on the counter and poured two generous glasses.

"To help you relax," he said, handing her one of the glasses. Their fingers touched during the exchange, and a static shock, or perhaps just the pure energy of attraction, shot up Kethlen's arm. She brought the glass to her lips quickly, the need for the alcohol sudden and urgent.