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.
