Chapter 11 - Emerald

The taste of darkness lingers on my lips, sweet and dangerous, like chocolate-covered poison.

I can't stop touching them, my fingers tracing where Cohen's mouth claimed mine as we drive back through the snow-covered streets of Emerald Hills.

His kiss was nothing like I've read in books or seen in the movies I've stolen in my bedroom.

My first kiss. Given to my stepfather on the hood of his Aston Martin while snowflakes melted in my hair.

The thought should horrify me. Should make me feel sick with guilt or shame or... something. Instead, I'm just hungry.

Hungry for more of the way he held me. For more of his taste—chocolate and something dark, something forbidden. Something that belongs to the shadows. Something that belongs to him.

I sneak glances at him as he drives, unable to look away for long. The streetlights paint shadows across his sharp features, and my heart does this weird stuttering thing every time I catch him watching me from the corner of his eye. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel, and there's tension radiating off him in waves that make the air feel thick enough to drown in.

"Stop biting your lip," he growls softly, his eyes never leaving the road as his hand slides over to grip my thigh. The warmth of his touch burns through my jeans, and I can't hold back a shiver.. "Unless you want me to pull over and finish what we started."

The threat—promise?—in his voice sends a rush of heat through me, settling between my thighs. I press them together, trying to ease the sudden ache there. My heart races as I imagine what he might do if he pulled over. What he might do to me.

What's happening to me?

But then his hand relaxes, and he gives me a look that's half amusement, half warning. "Soon, little phoenix. Soon, I'll show you everything."

The car slows to a halt in front of the Delacroix mansion, and Cohen's hand slips from my leg.

Panic starts clawing at my chest as reality crashes back. My mother. Oh god, what will she say? What time is it? Have we been gone too long?

"Breathe, little one," Cohen murmurs, his hand finding mine across the console. His touch calms me better than one of my mother’s Xanax, steadying the wild rhythm of my heart. "Let me handle your mother."

"But how will you—"

He silences me with a look that brooks no argument. "I'll handle her," he repeats, his voice firm and unyielding. "You did well tonight. Trust me to take care of things."

I swallow hard, nodding as I let him help me out of the car. My legs shake as we walk across the driveway. Before we get to the front door, it swings open, spilling warm light across the snow and revealing my mother standing in the entryway. Her face has that pinched, disapproving look she gets when she's really, really angry.

"Where have you been?" she snaps, her eyes flicking back and forth between us. "The menu tasting was supposed to start two hours ago."

I shrink into myself, but Cohen's hand finds the small of my back, steady and warm. I straighten my shoulders. "That was my fault," he says smoothly. "The meeting with Emmitt ran long, and then we had to deal with some unexpected business.”

My mother's eyes narrow, scanning over us both with laser precision. I hold my breath, certain she can see the truth written all over my face. Can she tell I've been kissed? Does sin leave visible marks? Because that's what this is, isn't it? Sin?

"Business," she repeats, the word dripping with skepticism. "And this business required you to be gone for hours?"

"Actually, yes." Cohen's voice carries that edge of authority that makes even my mother hesitate. "Emmitt was... difficult. But it's handled now. Isn't that right, Emerald?"

I nod quickly, relieved when my voice comes out steady. "Yes. Everything's arranged for the auction."

My mother's lips press into a thin line, but she steps aside to let us inside. "Well, I suppose we'll have to reschedule the tasting. Though really, Cohen, you should have called."

"You're right," he says, helping me out of my coat with careful hands that linger just a little too long. "My apologies."

She watches this interaction with sharp eyes, and something in her expression makes me nervous. Like she knows.

Does she know?

Can she see the way he affects me? Can she see that her daughter is a twisted, sick thing that craves the touch of a man that could ruin her life? Can she see it? Can she feel the darkness that clings to us?

"Emerald," she snaps, making me jump. "What are you wearing?"

Oh god. The jeans. In all the chaos of kissing Cohen and coming home late, I'd completely forgotten about my rebellion against the ridiculous dress code my mother enforces. Panic rises in my throat again, choking me with the fear of what she'll do. My mother doesn't tolerate defiance, especially not in front of guests. I brace myself for her tirade, for the icy anger that's about to rain down on me. "Mother, I can explain—"

But Cohen cuts in smoothly. "My suggestion," he says. "For the meeting with Emmitt. I thought a more... approachable look might put him at ease."

My mother's eyebrows shoot up. "Approachable? Since when does my daughter need to appear approachable?"

"Since Emmitt's ego needed managing," Cohen replies, his tone carrying just enough bite to make my mother blink. "Trust me, Madeline. It worked perfectly."

A tense silence follows as they stare each other down. I hold my breath, caught between them like a butterfly in a spider's web. Finally, my mother lets out a sharp sigh.

"Fine. But Emerald, change immediately. And get some rest—we have the photographer coming back tomorrow for additional shots."

"Yes, Mother." The words taste like ash in my mouth, but I say them anyway. It's easier than fighting.

I start toward the stairs, my legs shaky, but my mother's voice stops me. "Oh, and Emerald? Come see me in my office first thing tomorrow morning. We need to discuss some things."

My blood turns to ice water in my veins. "Of course."

I practically run up the stairs, my heart pounding against my ribs like it's trying to escape. Behind me, I hear my mother saying something to Cohen in that sharp, controlled voice she uses when she's angry, but I don't stop to listen.

Relief crashes through me as I slam the door to my room and lock it, then lean against it. My whole body feels jittery, like I've had too much caffeine, and my thoughts are a whirlwind of fear and confusion and something else—something hot and desperate and wild.

Cohen.

The way he looked at me. The way he kissed me. The way he made me feel alive for the first time in my life.

I touch my lips which are still a little swollen from his kisses.

But it's wrong. So wrong. He's married to my mother and old enough to be my father.

And yet... I can't bring myself to regret it. I don't want to regret it.

I sink to the floor, my back against the door, and bury my face in my hands. The weight of what I've done, of what I still want to do, threatens to crush me. How can I face my mother tomorrow? How can I pretend nothing has changed?

Eventually I change into my nightgown on autopilot, my mind spinning in circles. I climb into bed, but sleep is impossible. Every time I close my eyes, I see his face. Hear his voice. Feel his touch.

I pull the covers up to my chin like they might shield me from whatever storm is coming. My mother's words echo in my head: "Come see me first thing tomorrow morning."

Nothing good ever comes from those meetings.

I must drift off at some point because the next thing I know, I'm jolting awake in the darkness, my heart racing and my breath coming in short gasps.

A noise. There was a noise that woke me.

I lay perfectly still, straining my ears. For a moment, there's nothing, and I start to think I imagined it. But then it comes again—a soft, barely audible sound. The lock on my bedroom door opening and then the click of it closing.

How did they get in? I locked my door… didn’t I?

Fear spikes through me, adrenaline flooding my veins, before I recognize Cohen's familiar shadow moving through the darkness.

"Cohen?" I whisper, sitting up as he approaches my bed. "What are you—"

"Shh," he murmurs, perching on the edge of my mattress. His hand finds my cheek in the darkness, his thumb tracing my lower lip. "I couldn't stay away. Not tonight. Not after..."

I swallow hard, my pulse pounding in my ears. "After what?"

He leans in, his breath warm against my skin. "After that kiss. After everything. I had to see you, touch you, remind myself that it was real."

My heart skips a beat. "It was real," I whisper.

"And this is, too." His mouth covers mine, and suddenly, there's no fear, no doubt—just heat and need and the desperate ache of wanting him closer. I kiss him back, losing myself in the taste of him, in the way his tongue teases mine, coaxing me to open wider. To let him deeper.

His hands slide under the blankets, skimming up my sides and sending shivers of pleasure through me. When he cups my breast through the thin fabric of my nightgown, I gasp into his mouth, arching into his touch. I can't believe this is happening. Can't believe I'm not stopping him.

I should stop him. This is wrong.

"My mother—"

"Is asleep," he finishes, his lips trailing down my throat. "She took one of her pills an hour ago."

I should tell him to leave. Should push him away and remember all the reasons this is wrong. Instead, I find myself tilting my head back to give him better access. I'm pulling him closer, my fingers shoving into his hair as his mouth moves lower. I whimper and I don't even know why or what I want. More, I think.

But more of... what?

He tugs the strap of my nightgown down, baring my breast, and a moan slips out when his lips close over my nipple.

The sounds he's pulling out of me are so embarrassing that my face burns and I'm glad he can't see it in the dark.

"Cohen," I breathe, the word catching on a moan as his tongue swirls around the hardened peak. There are sparks shooting beneath my skin like one of those sparklers from the Fourth of July, and the magic of what he's doing with his mouth settles between my legs.

His fingers find my other nipple, rolling it gently as he sucks, and the sparks turn to fireworks, bursting through me with a force that leaves me trembling. I'm not sure what's happening to my body, but I don't want it to stop. It's like he's casting a spell, weaving a web of sensation that's trapping me, holding me prisoner, and I never want to escape.

I'm panting by the time he switches his mouth to my other breast, teasing the first with his fingertips until I'm squirming beneath him, needing... something. I'm not even sure what, just that I need it desperately.

He kisses me again, his tongue sweeping into my mouth, and there's something hard pressing against my thigh, even through the blankets. When his hand slips between them, finding how... wet I am there, I jerk away. "I'm sorry," I choke out, trying to close my legs. To keep him from feeling how I've drenched my underwear. "I don't know why—"

He groans and catches my knee, holding me open. "You're perfect," he whispers fiercely into the dark. "Perfect, little one. This means you're ready for me. That your body wants what I'm giving you. Do you understand?"

I shake my head, my face hot. "No," I whisper. "I don't understand any of this."

"Oh, Emerald." His thumb strokes my inner thigh. When did he pull the blanket off me? "Let me show you."

His hand slides higher, tracing the line of my underwear, and I freeze, every muscle in my body tensing. He hesitates, his fingers so close to where I ache, and I don't know what to do.

"Relax," he soothes. "I won't hurt you. I'm just going to take this ache away. I promise."

And because I trust him—despite everything, despite the danger—I force myself to let go. To relax, like he asked. To give myself over to his touch.

The second I do, his fingers slip inside my underwear, and he groans again when he feels the slickness of me. "Fuck, little one. You're so fucking wet for me. I knew you would be."

A flush of shame heats my cheeks, but then his finger finds a place that sends off more of those fireworks, and I gasp, my hips lifting off the bed. He circles that spot slowly, and the pleasure is so sharp it's almost painful. Almost too much to bear. I clutch at his shoulders, my nails digging into his bare skin.

That makes me stop and I pry my eyes open and study him. He's wearing sweats but nothing on top, and his chest is broader than I realized. The muscles defined. I can see the ink swirling over his ribs and up his shoulder and the sight of him looming over me, half naked, only makes that ache worse. "What are you doing to me?" I manage to say, my voice thin and strained.

"Showing you how good we're going to be together," he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear as he keeps playing with that place between my thighs. "How right."

I'm lost in the sensations he's drawing from my body, in the heat and need and hunger that's building inside me. When he slips a finger inside me, I can't hold back a cry. It's too much. It's not enough.

He covers my mouth with his, swallowing my cries, and I cling to him as he works me with his hand. His thumb still circling that spot while his finger moves inside me, deeper, faster. The pressure builds until it's unbearable, until I'm shaking and panting and begging him without words.

"Come for me, little phoenix," he whispers in my ear. "Let go and fly."

I don't know what that means, but my body does. I break apart, shattering into a thousand glittering pieces, each one brighter than the last. My vision goes black and I'm flying. And then he's there to catch me, his arms wrapped tight around me, holding me close as I come back to myself.

When I can breathe again, when I can see, he's looking at me. His gray eyes glint in the moonlight, and there's that smile again. That soft, almost boyish grin that makes him look younger and more gorgeous than he has any right to.

"How was that?" he asks, his voice low and rough.

"Amazing," I breathe, still floating on the high of whatever he just did to me. "I didn't... I've never felt anything like that before."

"Good," he says, brushing a lock of hair off my forehead. "Because that was only the beginning. There's so much more I'm going to show you. So much more for us to discover together."

My heart stutters in my chest at his words, and I'm not sure if it's from fear or anticipation. Maybe a bit of both.

"But not tonight," he says, kissing the tip of my nose. "We have to be careful. Patient." His fingers tighten in my hair. "No matter what your mother says tomorrow, remember this moment. Remember how this feels."

I nod, unable to form words past the lump in my throat. He presses one more kiss to my forehead before untangling himself from me and standing.

"Sleep," he orders. "I'll see you in the morning."

I sink back into the pillows, feeling his absence like a physical ache. But then his lips are on my forehead again, and I don’t know how I’m going to fall asleep tonight. Not when I have his words echoing in my head, and the memory of his touch burned into my skin.