Forbidden To Taste. JC Harroway

I’ve kept her that way in order to atone and for self-preservation.

      Panic subsides as I remember the dessert. She came with a mission. I know she had a passion for cooking. But she and her autistic sister, nine years her junior, live in Bath. A long way to deliver dessert.

      Another surge of adrenaline traps my breath. Is Tilly sick? Do they need help? Money? Am I the only person she can turn to? I swallow razor blades. Have I neglected her? She must miss Sam. She’s far too young to be a widow. And too fucking beautiful.

      My heart stutters frozen as another thought occurs: I have no idea if she’s seeing someone. Three years is a long time for celibacy. I fight the urge to make fists, the idea of some worthless bastard laying his hands on her souring a perfectly satisfactory Michelin-starred dinner.

       Enough.

      One glimpse of McKenzie Porter and my regimented life turns to chaos. I suck it up. Repeat the mantra: thoughts, eyes and hands off. She’s Sam’s.

      I’m about to bang my head against the wall of the lift to knock some sense into my libido-ridden brain when it slows, releasing an electronic ping so welcome, I’m mentally fist-pumping the air at surviving the journey.

      ‘We could have talked downstairs in the bar, you know,’ she says, a flash of admonishment in her pretty eyes reminding me of the times she bawled out Sam for some bawdy, barrack-room joke.

      The doors glide open.

      ‘Three years is a long time.’ A lifetime. ‘I’d say that warrants a...private reunion, wouldn’t you?’ I hold out my arm for her to exit.

      Her mouth thins with censure. ‘I’ve only just moved to London; if you’d wanted to find me sooner, you knew where I was.’

      The urge to kiss that sensual mouth slams into me with previously unexperienced force. How can this woman do that to me? Is it just the forbidden thing...? I never considered myself such a puerile arsehole, but hey...anything that helps me keep my hands off her.

      She pauses outside the lift. I indicate the direction, and she precedes me down the hallway with a sexy flounce of attitude.

      ‘I did.’ She’s right. I’ve known where to find her all these years, but couldn’t be a part of her life. ‘And if you needed me, you could have called.’ The lash of guilt slashes between my shoulder blades. Have I punished her, too, in punishing myself for wanting her, for keeping secrets, for plunging her into a life without Sam? I bite back a wince, my jaw aching where my teeth grind together.

      By castigating myself and avoiding temptation, I’ve neglected my obligations—the promise made to Sam when neither of us believed it would need to be honoured.

      It was better to keep my distance. Better for her because she wouldn’t have wanted to hear what I had to say, and better for my unscrupulous conscience. Because even when I oh, so briefly held a sobbing McKenzie in my arms while she grieved for another man—a man we both loved, a man I made promises to, a man I kept secrets for—my thoughts weren’t wholly innocent.

      At the suite door, the only one at this end of the corridor, she turns, big eyes finding me in the gloom, burrowing through my self-protective skin. ‘Yes, well, I wouldn’t be here either if I wasn’t desperate, believe me.’ She flushes and blinks, looking away.

      Desperate? My mind races with possibilities, turning my stomach. I let her down, but it was better for her this way. And the sooner I warm her up and get her talking, the sooner I can send her on her way.

      ‘Great,’ I bite out. ‘You don’t need me and I’ve done a shit job of keeping in touch.’

      Her glare dissolves into mocking humour. ‘Fair assessment.’

      I unlock the door and activate the suite’s lighting, swallowing the real reasons I stayed away from this forbidden woman. Those damaging words are locked deep inside, out of harm’s way. Harm to Kenzie, to the memory of Sam and to any hope of being in her life in the future. Distant acquaintance is better than nothing. Distant acquaintance keeps me sane.

      ‘So, coffee? Tea? Something stronger?’ Fuck, I need something stronger. I unbutton my cuffs and roll up my rapidly drying shirtsleeves, the previously comfortable ambient temperature in the suite now stifling, thanks to her presence.

      ‘Do you have any wine?’ she asks.

      I nod, reaching into the cupboard off the entranceway for a spare towel, holding it at arm’s length in offering.

      ‘Thanks.’ She takes it with a grateful smile and towels the ends of her hair. She’s still wearing my too-big jacket. A mark of possession that pumps my blood faster. How would she look in one of my shirts and nothing else? How would her skin react to the scrape of my facial hair, a map to every place I’ve been lucky enough to run my mouth?

      ‘Take a seat and I’ll get you a glass.’ And a bucket of water for my own parched throat...

      I head to the kitchen, activating the sound system for the distraction of some background music. I select a bottle of wine from the rack, not that alcohol is a good idea around her but I need to keep my restless hands and hungry mouth occupied until she leaves.

      Silently, I give myself a talking-to—I can handle a little self-discipline: I’m an expert around Kenzie’s particular brand of temptation. And just because she’s turned up on my doorstep, nothing has changed.

      I carry the wine and glasses into the lounge, finding Kenzie holding her hands out to warm in front of the fire.

      ‘I switched it on. I hope you don’t mind?’ she asks, hesitant.

      ‘Of course not. It’s put some colour in your cheeks.’

      She smiles, shrugs out of my jacket and places it on the chair. I look away, telling myself that, when she’s gone, I will under no circumstances inhale the fabric to catch her lingering scent. But then she removes her own denim jacket and my fucked brain fries.

      Her white blouse is partially see-through from the rain. I’m gifted a flash of lace straining across the fullness of what I’m a million per cent convinced are spectacular breasts, before I look away to pour wine with a trembling hand.

       Damn, don’t think about her breasts.

      ‘Would you like to borrow a change of clothes?’ I ask. ‘A robe?’ A scream sounds in my head. The last thing I need is her removing any more clothing, even in another room. Fuck, another country is too close for comfort. I swallow, tearing my thoughts away from her naked, crying my name as she comes on my tongue...

      ‘I’ll be fine, thanks.’

      I hand her a glass. Her smile widens as she scans the bottle. ‘Mmm... Pinot Noir—my favourite.’

      ‘Oh...?’ I shrug, pretending I didn’t know that tiny detail. Despite the nuclear meltdown happening inside my body, I turn up the fire, the small gesture worth the sweat it will cost me when she gifts me another of those killer smiles.

      She takes a seat and I slide onto the sofa next to her. I can do this—keep things PG. Foster a relationship of fond acquaintance, connected by our love for Sam.

      Remembering my manners, I raise my glass, touching it to hers while I force my face to conceal the turmoil tumbling inside, like jagged rocks before the hard edges have been polished. ‘Cheers. To...chance meetings.’

      Not friends. Never that.

      I take a sip, the wine tasting acidic. I should have toasted Sam. Perhaps he’s the reason she’s come to talk. My temples start to pound, the conflict in my head seeking an escape route.

      She covers her small frown with a big gulp of wine. ‘So I take it you left the army?’ She crosses slim legs covered with sheer black stockings.

      I look away from her legs, grateful for the perfect distraction. ‘Yeah. I’d done two tours. And...after...’