The continuation of the confession scene 5

Old man, he said. Thirty years old. He wasn’t old. He was perfect. Everything she wanted. Everything she dreamed of every night when she touched herself under the blankets, burning with guilt and pleasure all at once, imagining it was his hands instead of her own, imagining his voice whispering filthy, loving things against her skin.

“You’re not old,” she whispered, soft enough that he almost didn’t hear it. Then, louder, bolder, “I don’t want more. I have everything I need right here.”

She reached out across the table, her fingers brushing against the back of his hand. He flinched at the touch, like her skin burned him, but he didn’t pull away. He let her rest her small, soft hand on top of his larger, calloused one, his breath coming out in a shaky exhale.

“Lila,” he said again, quieter this time, strained. “Don’t do this. Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“Harder for who?” She turned his hand over, sliding her fingers between his, lacing them together, holding on tight like she was terrified he would disappear. “Harder for you? Or harder for me? Because it’s been hard for me for a long time, Elias. Harder than you know.”

He finally looked back at her, his eyes dark, swirling with so many emotions—guilt, longing, fear, hunger—so much hunger it made her head spin. “What are you saying, little one?”

Lila stood up slowly, moving around the table until she was standing right next to his chair. She didn’t let go of his hand. She leaned down, pressing her chest against his arm, her face inches from his, so close she could feel the heat of his breath against her lips.

“You know what I’m saying,” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly—not from fear, but from overwhelming desire. “I’m not a child anymore. You can’t treat me like one. You can’t send me away to try and forget about whatever this is between us. Because I know you feel it. I’ve known for years. I see the way you look at me. I see the way you can’t stand to be away from me. I see the way you hate anyone else getting close to me.”

He stared at her, his pupils blown wide, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He looked exactly like a man fighting a war he knew he was destined to lose.

“I raised you,” he said, his voice raw, broken. “I took you in when you were ten years old. I am your guardian. Your uncle. This is wrong. It’s twisted. I could lose everything for this. You could lose everything. People would talk. They would judge you. They would call you names… they would say I corrupted you.”

“I don’t care,” she interrupted fiercely. She lifted their joined hands, pressing a soft kiss to the back of his hand, right over his knuckles, never breaking eye contact. “I don’t care about any of that. I don’t care what anyone says. I only care about you. I have loved you for years, Elias. Years. And I know you love me too. Don’t tell me you don’t. I know you do.”

He let out a groan—low, tortured—and suddenly, all the fight drained out of him. He pulled his hand away from hers—not to push her away, but to reach up, cupping her face in both his large, warm hands, his fingers digging into her skin like he was terrified she would vanish if he let go. His hands were shaking.

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