Forbidden Desire

Chapter 10: Secrets Under Silk Sheets

The night was unusually warm, and the breeze that swept in through my bedroom window brought with it the scent of wildflowers and summer rain. I was lying in bed, tangled in the softest silk sheets, my body still humming from the events of the past few days. The taste of Logan still lingered on my lips. The memory of his fingers grazing my skin was etched into every nerve, every breath I took. And despite how hard I tried to forget, the weight of the secret we shared was slowly pulling me into a world where truth and desire blurred beyond recognition.

Daniel had left earlier that morning. He had kissed my forehead as I pretended to be asleep, his usual morning ritual. But for the first time in years, I couldn’t feel that comforting warmth. I felt empty. Worse, I felt like a stranger in my own body—one that had been awakened by someone else's touch.

I rolled over, pulling the silk sheets tighter around me, but they offered no protection from the storm brewing in my heart. Logan’s text from the previous night flashed in my mind.

Logan: "Do you ever think about that night, or is it just me who can’t sleep without remembering you?"

Of course, I thought about it. Every damn night. That one night had cracked open a door I never meant to open. I hadn't replied, but the silence between us had grown heavier, not colder.

Later that afternoon, I returned to the restaurant, trying to lose myself in the rhythm of work. My hands moved on autopilot—wiping glasses, aligning silverware, smiling when required. But my mind kept drifting.

I was plating a seafood risotto when I heard his voice.

"Table for one," Logan said with that signature smirk, his voice smooth as honey and just as dangerous.

I dropped the spoon.

He was dressed casually—black shirt, sleeves rolled up, exposing those inked forearms, and perfectly tailored pants that did little to hide the athletic body underneath. Every woman in the room glanced his way. He ignored them all, eyes locked on me.

"Emily," he said, as if tasting my name.

"Logan..." I whispered, suddenly hyper-aware of everything: the heat in my cheeks, the sweat at the nape of my neck, the throb in my chest.

"Can we talk?" he asked, more serious now.

I hesitated. "Not here."

"After your shift then. I’ll wait."

And he did. For hours. While I served tables and avoided his gaze, he sat there, nursing one drink. Watching me. Studying me.

When my shift ended, I found him leaning on the hood of his car outside, bathed in moonlight, looking like he belonged in a forbidden dream.

"Get in," he said.

I didn’t hesitate. That was mistake number one.

He drove us to a secluded villa outside town. I had no idea the Westwoods owned it. Apparently, it was one of their summer getaways—private, discreet.

Inside, the air was thick with tension. He poured us wine, the expensive kind, and turned on soft jazz. I took a sip, but it tasted like guilt.

"Why did you bring me here, Logan?"

He stepped closer, eyes locked on mine. "Because I can’t pretend anymore. You think I don’t know you’re trying to forget me? You think that night meant nothing?"

I looked away. "I have a boyfriend. I’ve built a life with him."

"Then why did you let me in? Why did you let me touch you like that?"

My silence said everything.

Logan set his glass down and reached for me. "Emily, I’m not here to ruin your life. But I can’t stop thinking about you. I don’t want to."

He kissed me—deep, slow, devastating. The kind of kiss that made you forget your own name. I melted into him, silk against fire.

"This is wrong," I whispered as his fingers traced the curve of my back.

"Then stop me," he challenged.

But I didn’t. That was mistake number two.

Our clothes hit the floor like confessions. The sheets wrapped around us like accomplices. Every touch, every moan, was a secret we would never be able to undo.

Logan was relentless and gentle all at once, making love to me like he was unraveling my soul. It wasn’t just s*x—it was a reckoning. Under those silk sheets, I gave him every part of me I had kept hidden.

When we were done, we lay tangled in each other, breathless. His chest rose and fell beneath my cheek.

"I’m going to ask you something," he said, his voice low.

"Okay."

"Do you love him? Daniel?"

I didn’t answer right away. The silence was too loud.

"I care about him," I said finally.

"But you don’t love him, not like this. Not like us."

Tears pricked my eyes. Because he was right, and that truth was the cruelest of all.

The next morning, I crept out of the villa like a thief. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but the damage was done. My body still ached in places he had touched, and my heart was torn in ways I couldn’t stitch back.

When I got home, Daniel was already awake, sipping coffee on the balcony, his face lighting up when he saw me.

"Early jog?" he asked, pulling me into a hug.

I nodded, too scared to speak, too afraid he’d smell Logan on my skin.

That was the morning I told my first lie.

And it wouldn’t be the last.