The balcony air tasted like jasmine and smog, thick enough to lick off the back of your tongue. Los Angeles glittered below us, a million lights winking like voyeurs, but up here the only show was the one unfolding between us.

The railing was cool under Jasmine's palms, the city breeze teasing the hem of her dress, but nothing cooled the heat rolling off her skin.

She'd dared me. Now the dare was daring her back.

I stepped in until the space between us was nothing but breath and heat. My voice dropped into the Whisper of Sin—low, velvet, impossible to ignore.

"I can already imagine my hand sliding under that dress… right now… while the city watches your nephew finger-fuck his own aunt's greedy cunt."

The words sank into her like molten sin, spreading slow and thick. The Forbidden Appeal turned the very wrongness of it into a drug—the public exposure, the age gap, the family tie twisting every nerve into a live wire.

Her breath caught—sharp, audible, the kind of hitch that happens when a body remembers what it wants before the mind can veto. Her knees softened. Her hand clutching the railing slid down the metal, fingers curling like she needed something to hold onto that wasn't me.

Yet.

I didn't touch her. Not with hands. I let the Lust Presence do it. The invisible weight that pressed against her skin, her throat, the inside of her thighs. The kind of pressure that made her feel claimed before a single finger had grazed her. Her nipples tightened under silk, two hard points begging for attention she hadn't asked for yet.

A tremor ran through her hips, subtle, but I saw it—the way her thighs pressed together, the way her lower lip caught between her teeth.

She was soaked. I could smell it. Sweet, sharp, unmistakable. The scent of a woman who'd just realized how close she was to the edge.

The Bloodline Tension made it worse—better—every heartbeat screaming nephew while her body screamed take me, you filthy little bastard.

"Peter—" Her voice cracked on my name. Not a warning. A confession.

I leaned in, lips brushing the shell of her ear, breath hot against the sensitive skin there. "You're dripping for your nephew, Jasmine. Say it. Say you're a dirty fucking aunt who wants her sister's son to ruin her cunt, to stretch her out and fill her with family seed."

The words hung between us like smoke. She swallowed. Once. Twice. Then, soft as a prayer in a church she'd already set on fire:

"I'm a dirty fucking aunt who wants her sister's son to ruin my cunt… to stretch me out and fill me with family seed."

The admission broke her open. The Bloodline Tension flared—her pulse hammering at the hollow of her throat, the word nephew echoing in her blood like a drumbeat.

Her eyes fluttered shut. Her body swayed toward me like gravity had flipped. I caught her wrist—Touch of Taboo—and the contact lit her up like a match struck on skin.

A full-body shudder rolled through her, starting at the point where my thumb pressed against her pulse and racing down her arm, across her chest, pooling low in her belly. Her breath came in shallow, desperate pants.

Her free hand flew to her throat, fingers pressing against the frantic beat there, as if she could slow it down, as if she could stop what was already in motion.

She couldn't.

I slid my hand lower—slow, agonizing—until my fingers brushed the hem of her dress. The silk was damp where it clung to her thighs. I didn't go under. Not yet.

I just rested my hand there, palm flat against the tops of her thighs, heat bleeding through fabric. Her hips jerked forward, seeking more, chasing friction she hadn't earned. The Forbidden Appeal made every second of denial feel like a caress.

I let her chase.

Her eyes snapped open—dark, glassy, wrecked. "Please—"

"Please what?" I murmured, lips grazing the corner of her mouth. "Please stop? Or please don't stop fingering your aunt in front of the whole fucking city while she begs her nephew to breed her?"

She didn't answer with words. She answered with a sound—a low, broken moan that vibrated in her chest and spilled into the night.

Her hand came up, fisted in my shirt, pulling me closer. Her mouth found my jaw, my throat, open-mouthed kisses that were more breath than contact, like she was trying to taste the air around me.

I let her.

I let her tongue trace the line of my collarbone. Let her teeth scrape the skin just above my pulse. Let her body press flush against mine, the hard length of me trapped between us, throbbing against her stomach.

She gasped when she felt it—really felt it—and ground her clothed pussy against me instinctively, a slow, rolling motion that made her dress ride higher, made the wet silk of her panties drag against my jeans. The Bloodline Tension made her grind harder—nephew, nephew, nephew—each roll of her hips a confession she couldn't take back.

I still hadn't kissed her. Not on the mouth. Not yet.

I wanted her to beg for that too.

I pulled back—just enough to see her face. Her lips were swollen, parted, glistening. Her eyes were wild, pupils blown wide. Her chest heaved with every breath, the neckline of her dress slipping lower, revealing the upper swell of her breasts, the faint sheen of sweat gathering in the valley between them.

I locked eyes—Gaze of the Unspoken—and the hidden kinks flared like neon in the dark: the thrill of being watched by the city, the age gap burning like a brand, the family tie twisting every nerve into a live wire. Her breath stuttered. Her thighs clenched.

A fresh wave of wetness soaked through the lace, dripping down the inside of her leg in a slow, shameless trail.

A gust of wind swept up from the street twenty floors down, carrying the faint scent of rain and exhaust; it teased across her exposed thighs and made her slick folds glisten even brighter under the neon glow spilling from the skyline.

I was using all my Taboo Abilities to give her a quick short sample of what only I could give—a sinful taste of the forbidden pleasure only her nephew could unleash, flooding her senses with raw, electric ecstasy that no other man could match.

"Tell me what you want," I said, voice rough with restraint, my words laced with the dark promise of everything I was holding back.

Her answer was immediate, raw, stripped of every defense, her eyes blazing with desperate hunger.

"Your mouth. On my cunt. Everywhere. Make your aunt come on your tongue like the filthy bitch she is... who raised you and now wants you to tongue-fuck her into oblivion."

I smiled—slow, wicked, the curve of my lips promising utter devastation.

Then I gave her what she asked for.

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