Chapter 2 The Forbidden Cousin - Chapter 2
He didn't move away. He remained where he was, allowing her to squeeze past him, his body a solid, warm barrier. Kethlen held her breath, her senses on high alert, every nerve ending in her body vibrating with the acute awareness of his proximity. For a crazy instant, she imagined what it would be like to lean back, press her spine against that broad chest and feel his strong arms wrapping around her waist.
Then, the moment passed. She was in the entry hall, the cold stone floor under her feet a stark contrast to the heat now flooding her. The house smelled of waxed wood, wilted flowers, and the past.
"Grandma didn't tell me," she said, turning to face him, trying to recover some composure.
Gael closed the door slowly, the sound of the bolt echoing in the quiet room. He turned and leaned against the door, his hands shoved into his jeans pockets, the gesture pulling the fabric even tighter over the evident area between his legs. Kethlen couldn't avoid a quick glance, registering the defined bulge there. A fresh wave of heat rushed through her veins.
"I think she likes setting her little traps," he said, the smile still playing on his lips. "She knew we'd run into each other like this, without warning."
"And is this a trap?" The question was out before she could stop it, laden with a double meaning that hung heavily in the air.
Gael's eyes darkened, the amusement giving way to an intense, predatory focus.
"That depends on what you're hunting, cousin."
The word "cousin" sounded strange in his mouth, an ill-fitting label for the carnal current now clearly flowing between them. He had called her "Keth" earlier, at the gate, a childhood nickname that now sounded like an intimate caress.
"I need to get my things from the car," she said, looking away, breaking the spell. She needed space, air.
"Sure. Which room?"
"The usual one. The tower room."
He nodded, but didn't move to help her. Kethlen felt the weight of his gaze on her as she turned and walked towards the staircase. The suitcase was in the trunk, but fetching it meant passing by him again. She decided to go to the room first. She climbed the wooden steps, conscious of every sway of her hips, of the way her skirt adjusted to her backside with each step. It was a strangely powerful and vulnerable feeling all at once. She knew, with an instinctive certainty, that he was watching. It wasn't the casual observation of a relative. It was the slow, deliberate gaze of a man appraising a woman, tracing the curves of her body with his eyes, imagining what lay beneath the linen and silk.
She reached the top of the stairs and turned into the dark hallway. Her breathing was quick. The simple act of climbing the stairs under his gaze had been an ordeal. Her thighs felt weak, and a damp, hot point of desire had begun to pulse at her core, an insistent, improper throbbing that shamed and excited her in equal measure.
The tower room was just as she remembered – large, circular, with tall windows offering a stunning view of the valley. The air was still and smelled of dust and stored linens. She dropped her bag onto the four-poster bed, her hands trembling slightly. She needed to pull herself together. Gael was here. In the same house. And the attraction she had always suppressed, buried under the label of "cousins," had exploded to the surface with the force of a dormant volcano.
She went back downstairs, determined to act normally. He was no longer in the hall. She followed the sound of noises coming from the kitchen. Gael was in front of the refrigerator, drinking water directly from a bottle, his neck tilted back, the muscles of his throat working with every swallow. The scene was unpretentiously intimate and viscerally erotic. He saw her and lowered the bottle, a drop of water tracing a path down his chin.
"I thought you were getting your suitcase," he commented, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.
"Later," she said, entering the kitchen. The atmosphere was charged. Every movement, every glance, every word seemed to have an underlying layer of sexual intent. "Are you hungry? We could order something."
"Grandma left the pantry stocked. I can make pasta, if you want."
Kethlen's eyes widened. "You cook?"
"A man has to get by," he shrugged, opening the pantry. He stretched to reach a package of spaghetti on the top shelf, and his t-shirt rode up, revealing a strip of taut, tanned skin on his lower back, and the waistband of black briefs above his jeans. Kethlen felt her mouth go dry. It was a worked body, not a boy's. It was the body of a man who knew what to do with it.
"Pasta is fine," she whispered, moving away and leaning against the counter, needing something solid to hold onto.
As he moved ingredients around a pot with an efficiency that was surprisingly attractive, Kethlen watched him. She watched the way the muscles in his arms flexed, the way his broad back moved under the t-shirt, the concentration on his profiled face. Every detail was a discovery, fuel for the fire now burning in her gut. He was forbidden. He was her cousin. But in that moment, in that quiet kitchen full of ghosts, the only thing that mattered was the animal, undeniable attraction pulling them toward each other.
"So, how's life in the big city?" he asked, breaking the heavy silence. "Designing skyscrapers?"
"Something like that," she replied, crossing her arms under her breasts, a defensive gesture. "And you? Still at the garage?"
"Yeah. But it's mine now. Bought out my partner's share last year."
"Congratulations," she said, and the admiration in her voice was genuine.