5. A Dangerous Touch

The rehearsal dinner had ended hours ago, and the house was quiet, except for the faint hum of the city outside and the soft tick of the kitchen clock. I should have been in my room, scrolling through my phone to escape the ache in my chest, the constant pull of her in my thoughts. But somehow, I found myself wandering the hallways, drawn toward the living room.

She was there. Of course she was.

Celine leaned casually against the doorway, a glass of wine in hand, her eyes catching the dim light and turning it molten. She didn’t speak at first—just watched me, quiet and deliberate, and my stomach twisted with the ache of desire. Every step I took closer made my pulse hammer, every inch a gamble with fire I didn’t want to escape.

“You’re here again,” she said softly, almost teasing, though her voice carried a weight that made me shiver. “I was wondering when you’d sneak out.”

I swallowed hard, my throat dry. “I… I couldn’t sleep,” I muttered, trying to sound casual, though my heart betrayed me. “Thought I’d get some air.”

Her smile was small, knowing, and devastating all at once. “Or maybe you were hoping to see me.”

I froze, heat rushing through me. She stepped closer, close enough that the faint scent of her perfume wrapped around me—warm, intoxicating, addictive. I could feel the tension between us building, tangible, almost pressing against my skin.

“You shouldn’t,” I whispered, though my body betrayed my words. Every fiber of me wanted to lean into her, to let the pull between us finally consume me.

“And yet,” she murmured, closing the gap until I could feel her warmth, her presence surrounding me like a tide, “here we are.”

Her hand reached for mine slowly, deliberately. My breath hitched as our fingers brushed, a light, fleeting contact that sent sparks shooting up my arm. I wanted more. I wanted her to close the distance, to let the fire we’d been kindling for weeks ignite into something undeniable.

Her touch lingered, teasing, exploring, and I shivered. “I’ve wanted this,” she admitted softly, voice low, almost a whisper, “since the first moment I saw you.”

I couldn’t breathe. “I… I wanted you too,” I confessed, words trembling, raw, and forbidden. My heart felt as though it might burst.

Her fingers threaded with mine, pressing just slightly, enough to make me ache for more. The world outside didn’t exist anymore. My sister’s wedding, the rules, the boundaries—they all faded into nothing. There was only her, only the heat radiating between us, only the forbidden electricity we couldn’t resist.

She leaned closer, her lips brushing against my temple, sending shivers down my spine. My hands itched to touch her face, her hair, to close the small distance between us, to give in completely. Every rule I’d told myself I’d obey shattered under the weight of her presence.

“You feel it too,” she whispered, breath warm against my ear, “the pull, the fire, the… need.”

“Yes,” I breathed, voice raw. “I feel it. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

She smiled faintly, dangerous and intoxicating. “Good. Because I don’t want you to.”

Her lips hovered just above mine, teasing, the tension unbearable. My fingers clutched at her waist, desperate, needing, aching for the forbidden. Every inch we closed felt like a risk, a stolen crime against the world, against my sister, against reason itself. And I didn’t care. I didn’t want to care.

But just as I tilted my head, ready to finally bridge the gap, she pulled back slightly, a faint smirk on her lips, eyes dark and knowing. “Not yet,” she whispered. “We can’t—at least, not all the way. But this… this is ours.”

The brush of her fingers against mine lingered far too long, a delicate, maddening contact that seared my nerves and set my blood on fire. Her breath, soft and warm against my cheek, left a trail of heat I could feel crawling down my neck and pooling low in my stomach. My chest ached, taut with want, and every rational thought I tried to cling to dissolved in an instant. I wanted more. I wanted all of her. And I knew, deep down, there was no going back.

She stepped away, and the sudden absence of her proximity left a vacuum, sharp and painful. I could feel her still in the air around me—every inch of her presence lingering like a scent I couldn’t escape. My fingers itched, twitching as though they had their own memory of her touch. I pressed my palms to my face, trying to steady the heat racing through my veins, but it was impossible. Every nerve screamed at me, every thought spiraled into the same unrelenting mantra: I want her. I need her. I can’t stop thinking about her.

I paced the room, restless, unable to settle. My mind replayed the brush of her fingers, the softness of her breath, the curve of her lips hovering so close I could feel them in my imagination. I imagined the pull of her body against mine, the way she would fit perfectly, impossibly, like she had been carved to occupy every hollow in me. Every scenario twisted in my mind, each one more forbidden than the last. A kiss stolen in the shadows, hands finding places they shouldn’t, whispered confessions in the dark—all of it danced before my eyes like fire, leaving me trembling and dizzy.

Sleep was impossible. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her. Every time I tried to distract myself, my thoughts betrayed me, drifting to her smirk, her dark gaze, the heat that had suffused the space between us. Even the quietest moment—the ticking of the clock, the hum of the city—felt charged, as though the world itself had aligned to keep me tethered to her. I could feel her everywhere, and it was intoxicating.

The ache in my chest grew sharper with every second I wasn’t allowed to bridge the distance. Desire twisted into obsession, and obsession twisted into frustration. I wanted her so badly it hurt, a raw, gnawing ache that pulsed with every heartbeat. I could taste her in my memory, smell her in the faint trace she’d left behind, feel her warmth as though she had pressed herself against me and then vanished. And yet, I couldn’t reach for her. I couldn’t let myself cross that line. Not now. Not yet.

And the impossibility only made the fire burn hotter. Every glance, every fleeting touch, every whispered message became a dagger and a thrill all at once. I was trapped in the tension, addicted to the ache, desperate for a release I couldn’t allow myself. I paced, I sank to the edge of the bed, I pressed my hands to my skin to try to channel the heat into anything else, but it was useless. She had claimed me, body and mind, even when she wasn’t physically present.

The fire had been lit, and it consumed me entirely. I knew, with terrifying clarity, that this was only the beginning. Every stolen glance, every brush of fingers, every secret word would pull us closer to a line we weren’t supposed to cross. And even though I had to restrain myself now, even though the night kept us apart, I knew one thing with absolute certainty: I would not stop. I could not stop. I wanted her, needed her, and the tension—raw, maddening, deliciously unbearable—would only grow until the moment we finally gave in.

The ache in my chest, the heat crawling over my skin, the fire in my veins—it was all hers. And it would stay that way, burning, untamed, until she let me cross that impossible line.