Page 28 of I Wish I Would’ve Warned You (Forbidden Wishes #3)

EMILY

C ole is waiting for me on the balcony that night.

Shirtless and in sweatpants, he glares at me as I approach the railing with my notebook.

“If you want to know something about me, you could just ask, Emily,” he says.

“Hey. Have you committed any crimes before?” I ask. “Surely you’d think that’s a terrible conversation starter.”

“It’s one of your better ones.” He stands and unlocks the gate, motioning for me to join him.

I show up with my notebook like it’s a shield, but we both know I didn’t come here to write.

I left dinner early to see him.

“Why would you ever drink and drive?” I ask. “Doesn’t seem like you.”

“It’s a long story.”

“But you admit that you did it?”

“That’s what I told the judge.”

I sigh. “Have you ever been drinking when you were driving me somewhere?”

“Never.”

“Have you ever?—”

“Stop.” He cuts me off, pulling me into his arms. “I’ll explain how the fuck that happened—how it never should’ve happened—but… just not now. I can only take so many surprises in a day.”

“Does that mean you don’t want me to tell you that Taylor got you a gift to prove how much you belong together?”

“Not exactly.” His lips curve into a smirk. “What is it?”

“A custom trunk for all your brushes.”

“That actually sounds nice.”

“She superglued photos of herself all over the top of it.”

“Don’t tell me anything else.”

I laugh, and he lets me go.

“Do you have a lot of orders to handle this week?”

“Not really, just four. Why?”

“I was hoping to cash in on your offer for a painting.”

“Sure,” he says. “What do you want?”

“Myself.”

“Okay.” He looks me up and down. “I can do the base sketch now if you sit on the window chaise.”

I take a few steps back until my knees hit the cushion, watching him pull out an extensive pencil collection.

He positions a stool in front of a blank easel, then looks at me like I’ve grown two heads.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“I’m waiting for you to get into the right position for me to paint you.”

“This is it.” I push my hair away from my forehead. “Should I lean back a bit further?”

“You should take off your clothes.”

“What?”

“I already have pictures of you with them on.”

He hands me a sketchpad and flips it open—images of the night we met, the dinner that changed everything, the moment he caught me crying. This past weekend.

“Like I was saying…” He tugs at my tank top strap. “Take this off.”

I hesitate.

He softens. “You should consider turning some of your poems into country songs. Best genre for storytelling.”

“I thought that was pop.”

“You’re joking.”

“Yes.” I smile.

“Good.”

I peel off my tank top and slide my shorts down. I’m naked on his balcony—bare under the moonlight—and I try to laugh it off.

The night air prickles across my skin, and for a second, I almost reach for the blanket. Not because I’m cold—but because I’m suddenly aware of every inch of me he can now see.

“I feel like I should apologize in advance for the reality of me,” I murmur. “The lighting was kinder a second ago.”

“Don’t.” His voice drops. “You’re perfect like this. Every inch.”

He crosses to me slowly, like a lion who’s waited too long to pounce. He presses his hands to my hips, heat pouring into my skin. Then he leans forward and sucks my nipple into his mouth.

I gasp as it tightens under his tongue, a spark shooting straight between my legs.

Then—without warning—he lifts me into his arms and carries me inside. Not to a bed. Not to a chaise. But straight to the floor.

Soft pillows scatter as he lays me out beneath him, warm skin to warm skin, his sweatpants low and his desire unmistakable.

He trails his mouth down my stomach, lips brushing my navel before settling between my thighs.

Then he licks me—slow, deliberate, devastating. Like he’s making art of me. Like this is how he worships.

“I want you to be my first,” I whisper, breathless.

“That’s not happening…”

“Why not?”

“You know why.” He breathes hot against my skin. “Stop talking.”

“No.” I push up on my elbows, chest rising fast. “I… I can’t do this, Cole.”

“Do what?”

“Play a fucking edging game with you every time I’m around you.”

“I’m shocked you even know what that means.”

“Truth or dare?”

“This isn’t the time to play games.”

“Truth or dare, Cole.”

He studies me. “Truth.”

“Do you have feelings for me like I have feelings for you?”

“Yes.”

“So—”

“You don’t get another turn,” he says, voice hoarse. “It’s my turn.”

“You sounded like you didn’t want to play.”

“I changed my mind.” He drags a finger along my bottom lip. “Truth or dare?”

“Dare.”

“I dare you not to blame me for ruining you if we cross the line.”

“That doesn’t seem like a real dare.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

His mouth crashes into mine.

He kisses me like he’s starving. Like this is the last night on Earth and I’m the only thing left worth touching.

He presses me into the floor, hand gliding down my thigh, teasing the edge of where I ache the most. Then I feel the press of the condom wrapper tear between us, and he’s already sliding it on.

He sinks into me slow—inch by inch—watching my face, reading my every breath.

I arch against him, and the stretch makes my eyes sting, but I don’t stop him.

“Do you want me to stop?” he whispers.

I shake my head. “No.”

His lips brush mine, and he pushes deeper.

My fingers claw at his back as he finds a rhythm—slow, deep, devastating.

Every thrust is a vow he won’t say out loud. Every sound I make, he drinks in like oxygen.

Then he shifts, hooks one of my legs over his shoulder, and hits a spot that makes me cry out—loud, sharp, raw.

“Fuck, Emily…” His voice is broken. “You feel like—like everything.”

He lowers again, wraps his arms under me and lifts my hips off the ground, grinding into me until my body trembles.

I come hard—shaking, gasping, unraveling in his arms.

And he doesn’t stop.

He rolls us, pulling me on top of him, guiding my hips until I find the rhythm again. This time I take control—riding him slow, deliberate, lost in the feeling of having all of him.

He watches me like I’m the only thing he’ll ever need to see again.

“Say it,” he growls.

“What?”

“That you’re mine.”

“I’m yours.”

And that’s when he lets go.

He spills into the condom with a curse and a gasp, his hands gripping my hips as if I’ll disappear.

After, I collapse against his chest, and we just lie there. Tangled. Quiet. Everything slowed down to the sound of our breathing.

When I glance up, he’s already looking at me. Like he never stopped.

“You okay?” he asks.

I nod. “Better than okay.”

He runs a hand down my spine. “I wasn’t gentle.”

“You didn’t need to be.”

He kisses my temple. Then my jaw. Then the corner of my mouth.

“You ruined me,” I whisper.

“You promised not to blame me.”

“I lied.”

He smiles, and I know I’ll never be the same.