Page 18 of I Wish I Would’ve Warned You (Forbidden Wishes #3)

COLE

E mily hasn’t uttered a word in fifty miles.

Staring straight ahead, she’s clenching her jaw and shaking her head every few minutes. It looks like she’s fighting between the urge to cry and the urge to scream.

As much as I want to ask her what happened between her and her mother, I hold back.

It’s none of my business.

The windshield wipers swatting the rain serve as the only sound between us.

When we arrive at the café—Petals & Notes—I have to circle the block five times. The lack of parking in New York is always a reminder why I’ll never take the bait and build my art gallery here.

“You don’t have to come in,” Emily says, finally speaking. “I’m sure you’d rather do something else than watch a bunch of writers read poems, so… maybe just drop me off and then come back in a few hours?”

“No.” I look over at her. “I want to see.”

“Okay.” She nods, staring straight ahead.

I spot a delivery truck pulling out of the alley and steer into his spot.

“They’ll tow your car if you park here,” Emily finally makes eye contact. “The sign says ‘for deliveries only.’”

“I’ve got that covered,” I say, stepping out. “Hold on.”

I walk to my trunk and pull out an “Art Delivery” sign I made years ago for situations like this. I snap it on the center of my hood before lifting an umbrella and opening Emily’s door.

When she steps out, she looks at my sign and laughs.

“How often does that come in handy?”

“You’d be surprised.” I smile at her. “I’ve yet to get a single ticket. Speaking of which, do I need to pay for anything when we go inside?”

“No, I have this for you.” She rummages in her purse and pulls out a lanyard that reads: Guest Who Loves Good Poetry.

“You really don’t have to come to this, Cole. There are a lot of weird writers, and some of the poems?—”

“Stop.” I press a finger against her lips. “Isn’t this the original event you invited me to when we first met?”

“Yeah…”

“Then why would you ask me to walk away now?”

She blushes in response and I press my hand against the small of her back as we walk down the alley. There’s a faintly lit sign reading: Pour out your soul…

Inside, tables draped in light blue and candle centerpieces surround an elevated stage.

The host immediately smiles at Emily and leads us to a booth in the back.

“May I interest either of you in a drink?” a server steps in front of us. “If so, I just need to see your IDs.”

“I’ll have a cranberry vodka,” Emily says, pulling out what is definitely a fake driver’s license. “Oh, and can you ask the bartender to crush sugar on the rim?”

“Absolutely.” He glances at her card without catching a thing. Then he reaches for mine. “And you, sir?”

“Whatever IPA beer you have on tap is fine.”

“Be right back.”

He walks away, and I stare at Emily—waiting for her eyes to meet mine.

“Where the hell did you get that driver’s license?”

“Some guy made it for me when we lived in Oregon,” she says. “My mom paid for it.”

“Let me see it.”

She presses it into my palm and I’m immediately impressed. The art is perfectly aligned, as is her picture, and the only flaw is her listed height.

This license claims she’s five foot nine, but she’s five foot five—at best.

Handing it back to her, I wait until the server steps away from our table to speak again.

“Your mom might be a half-decent match for my dad after all,” I say. “At least in one department.”

“Reckless parenting?” She presses her glass to her lips. “Child endangerment? Or negligence?”

All of the above…

A microphone suddenly squeals before I can answer, and we both look toward the stage.

“Good afternoon, everyone.” The host smiles at the crowd. “We’re picking up with our next poet, Grant Malone, who is going to read ‘Her Lost Innocence.’”

The crowd applauds, and a guy in a jean jacket takes to the stage.

He looks up at the ceiling for several seconds before stretching—actually stretching like he’s about to run a marathon.

Then he paces the stage, not saying a word.

Okay, Emily might’ve had a point about the weirdness…

“I am now ready to perform my future bestselling poem of all time,” he finally speaks into the mic.

“I slide my cock against her hymen, but it’s tough like a diamond.”

What the fuck…

“She feels warm, wet, and tight.” He snaps his fingers. “The sensations are hard to fight…”

“As my heart aches, the condom breaks…”

I take a long sip of my beer.

“When the rubber stretched,” he looks way too confident about his words, “my cock compressed.”

He snaps his fingers again. “The end.”

Silence.

“I said ‘the end,’” he speaks a bit louder. “You may all bask in my greatness now.”

The crowd applauds softly, and I look over at Emily.

She’s smiling and looking happy for the first time tonight.

“Okay, then…” The host returns to the mic. “Next up, we have Emily O’Hara, performing her original piece, Inheritance: A Love Letter to My Mother…”

Emily downs the rest of her drink and whispers, “Wish me luck,” before heading to the stage.

She makes it to the mic and pulls a sheet from her pocket. Unfolding it, she stares at it for a few seconds and shakes her head.

“Correction,” Emily says, opening her purse and pulling out a different sheet. “I’ll be performing a different piece tonight. This one is titled Words Left Unsaid.”

A few polite murmurs ripple through the audience.

She grips the mic and takes a breath before glancing at the page. Then she begins:

You taught me love with fingers crossed,

A lullaby of gain and loss.

Your voice was sweet, your smile divine,

But lies were laced in every line.

You said I mattered, said I shone ? —

But left me crying, all alone.

I watched you chase a thousand men,

Each time you swore, “It’s different then.”

You traded hugs for empty praise,

For silks and rings and brighter days.

I begged for crumbs of what you gave

To strangers you would bend to save.

You dressed my wounds, then made them bleed,

Fed off my silence, cloaked in need.

Now all I have are shards and shame,

A mother’s love—a twisted game.

You birthed a girl, then left a ghost,

And I still ache for you the most.

She steps back, finished, and loud applause fills the café.

I stare at her amidst the clapping—holding back my hands because it feels wrong. Like applauding someone for bleeding in front of strangers.

She steps down, and her eyes find mine, but she doesn’t return to the table. Instead, she makes a beeline for the exit.

Confused, I set a few bills on our table before following her into a light rain.

I find her turning toward the alley, and I grab her from behind, pushing her against the bricks.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I ask. “Am I missing something?”

“I’m ready to go home.”

“That’s not what I asked you.” I look into her eyes. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I hate that I met you this way.” She hisses. “I hate it so much.”

“Why is that?”

“Because if it were any other way, I would want you to kiss me and tell me I’m not a fucking psychopath for feeling the way I do about my mom.” Tears fall down her face. “I’d want you and I to have a potential future, but that’s not possible, so—I’m ready to go home.”

Silence.

“Do you mind unlocking your car now?” she asks. “I would really like to?—”

I press my lips against hers before she can complete her sentence.

She parts her lips like she’s been waiting, like this is what the poem was really building toward. Her mouth is hot, soft, hungry. She rises on her toes, pressing harder, fingers curling in the fabric at my chest.

I tilt my head, deepen the kiss. Slide my hand to the back of her neck, the other gripping her hip tight enough to bruise.

She moans against me—quiet but unfiltered—and that’s all it takes.

I pin her hips against the brick wall, careful but firm, never breaking contact. Her spine arches slightly, chest brushing mine, rain hitting her arms as her hands climb to my shoulders.

Her thighs shift, brushing mine, and her body presses harder.

She slides a hand into my pants, catching me slightly off guard, but the taste of her mouth is too sweet for me to let go just yet.

My cock hardens in her hand, and for a moment I try to remember why I shouldn't be doing this. Why this is the exact line I promised myself not to cross.

But that moment passes fast. She says my name, and everything else drops away.

“Emily…” I bite down on her bottom lip and she gasps.

But her hand doesn’t stop.

I shouldn’t be touching her again. I shouldn’t be letting this happen. I already know this is the point of no return—but I can’t stop. I don’t want to.

I slide a hand under her dress, caressing her thighs.

Pushing her panties to the side, I rub my fingers against her clit—stalling when I feel how soaking wet she is.

“Fuck…” I slowly slide a finger inside her, and she sucks in a breath as I push it as far as it can go, then slip in another.

She’s gripping me, pulsing, hips moving against my hand like we’re not pressed up against a wall in the middle of a city we don’t belong to.

“Is this what you want?” I whisper.

She moans as I thrust my fingers in and out of her, as I bite her skin while she moans against me.

My cock is rock hard, and the feel of her hand trailing up the shaft, combined with the way she clenches around my fingers, has me fighting not to lose it too soon.

“Move your hand away from me, Emily,” I manage. “Now.”

She slowly obeys, and I rub my thumb against her clit before plunging my fingers back inside.

“Show me how you’d ride my dick,” I whisper against her lips. “Fucking show me.”

Staring into my eyes, she moves her hips against me, slow and deliberate. Teasing. Testing.

She tightens around my fingers, and when I feel her legs tremble, when I hear her say my name like it means something?—

I kiss her hard and let her fall apart.

She comes with a stuttered breath, her body shaking, and her hand slides back down my jeans.

She strokes me as I press kisses along her jaw.

“I’m about to come,” I say, breathless. “Let go for a second…”

She doesn’t.

Instead, she unzips my pants and slides her mouth over the head of my cock.

She takes me down her throat, slow and confident, and I tangle my fingers in her hair as everything breaks apart inside me.

I come hard. Harder than I should. Harder than I have in a long time.

And I know it’s because of her.

We stare at each other through the rainfall, neither of us speaking.

I’ve never wanted someone more.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Emily asks. “Did I do something wrong?”

I shake my head. “I think we both did.”

“Do you care?”

“No.”

“Me either…” She lets out a breath and zips my jeans.

I smooth her dress. She picks up her purse.

I walk to my car and open the door for her.

She falls asleep after I’ve driven a few miles, her hand entwined in mine over the gear shift.

Every stoplight I reach flashes red as we leave the city, warning me to stop whatever this is while I still have the chance.