Chapter 4 The Forbidden Cousin - Chapter 4

Dinner was prepared in a choreography of bodies dancing to avoid touching. She was tasked with the salad, chopping vegetables on the cutting board beside him. The proximity was a delicious torment. She felt the heat radiating from his arm, saw the way the muscles in his back moved under his t-shirt when he turned to grab the salt. The air was saturated with him, his scent mixed with the food, a primal and arousing combination.

"Remember when we tried to build a treehouse in the backyard?" Gael asked, breaking the tense silence with a thread of nostalgia.

Kethlen let out a genuine laugh, the alcohol already beginning to loosen her limbs and her caution.

"I remember. And you fell from the branch and broke your arm. Grandma was furious."

"Worth it. I spent the whole summer with you doing my schoolwork and feeding me grapes," he laughed, a rich, warm sound that made something inside her melt. "You were my personal slave."

"I was a sucker who felt sorry for you," she shot back, smiling. "You faked more pain than you were actually in."

"Maybe," he admitted, raising his glass in a toast. "But I got your undivided attention that whole summer. It was a brilliant strategy."

The conversation flowed, fueled by the wine and shared memories. They reminisced about beach holidays, family parties where they whispered gossip in corners, the easy complicity of two cousins who understood each other. But beneath every innocent memory, a new current of desire was forming, rewriting the past with a lens of latent sensuality.

It was when Gael, while pouring more wine, commented, his tone slightly altered by the alcohol:

"It's strange. After Nina left me, I pulled away from everyone. The workshop is consuming, it's true, but sometimes the loneliness is a choice. It's less complicated."

Kethlen looked at him. The confession was rare, a glimpse of the vulnerability behind the confident facade. She felt emboldened, the wine warming her veins and loosening her tongue.

"It was always easy for you, Gael. All my friends had a crush on you. They pestered me for news about you, to get your number... it was hell."

He stopped what he was doing and leaned against the kitchen island, turning completely to face her. His eyes, now almost black in the kitchen's dim light, fixed on her with an intensity that stole the air from her lungs.

"All but one," he said, his voice a soft, loaded growl.

The phrase hung in the air between them, heavy, warm, undeniable. Kethlen felt her legs go weak. He wasn't talking about her friends. He was talking about her. The wine and the tension had brought her to the brink of a confession, and he, with the precision of a hunter, had thrown the bait back, bolder, more dangerous.

She opened her mouth to say something, to deny, to joke, but no sound came out. His gaze held her, challenging her to admit the truth. Instead of answering, she looked away, desperately seeking a distraction.

"The salt shaker..." she stammered, pointing to the object near him.

He picked up the salt shaker, but instead of handing it over, he stretched out his arm, forcing her to step closer to take it. Her fingers wrapped around the object at the same time as his. This time, the touch was prolonged, deliberate. His skin was rough, marked by small scars from manual work, and the contrast with the softness of her own skin was electrifying. She pulled her hand back as if burned, clutching the salt shaker to her chest, her heart beating so hard she feared he could hear it.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice trembling.

Gael didn't respond. He just kept watching her, a satisfied, knowing smile playing on his lips. He knew. He knew the effect he had on her.

Shortly after, he needed a herb from the cupboard above her.

"Let me get the oregano," he said, and before she could move out of the way, he was behind her.

Kethlen froze. He didn't touch her, but his body formed a cage around her. He leaned over, reaching for the cupboard, and his torso was inches from her back. She could feel the radiant heat of him through the thin layer of her t-shirt. His breath stirred the loose hairs on her nape. Her breasts, sensitive and heavy, brushed against the counter in front of her. The world shrank to that tiny space, that near-unity. He stayed there for one, two, three seconds longer than necessary, and she could have sworn his mouth was close enough to her neck for him to feel her racing pulse in her jugular. An intense scent of man, sweat, and desire filled her nostrils, and a trickle of warm moisture escaped between her legs, an unmistakable and embarrassing sign of her arousal.

Then, he moved away, as calmly as he had approached, holding the jar of oregano.

"All set," he said, as if nothing had happened.

Kethlen released the breath she was holding, a ragged, husky sound that was too loud in the silence. Her hands were shaking. The damp spot on her silk panties was a mute testament to her agony. She was one step away from turning around and burying her hands in his hair, from pulling that mouth to hers and devouring him right there, on the kitchen counter, among the tomatoes and basil.

The confession was there, on the tip of her tongue, a monster about to be unleashed. I've always wanted you, Gael. Since forever. Even when I shouldn't.

But fear, shame, the weight of the taboo, were stronger. She swallowed the words, swallowed the moan, swallowed the desire.

"I think the pasta is done," she managed to say, her voice strange and distant.

They ate sitting at the kitchen table, the conversation dying and being replaced by a heavy, charged silence. Every mouthful was an effort. Kethlen felt his gaze on her like a physical touch, tracing her neck, the line of her neckline, her lips. She found herself imagining what his mouth would feel like, its taste, the texture of his tongue. An imagination interrupted by the sight of his hands holding the fork, large, veiny hands that she imagined roaming her body, squeezing, exploring.

When she couldn't take it anymore, she stood up.

"I'll take the dishes," she announced, gathering the plates with nervous haste.

"I'll help," he said, standing up as well.