In the sultry dark, my cousin took me on the stone table, and morning found no regret in my coffee.

They say blood is thicker than water. They never mention how hot it runs when you’ve wanted something forbidden for fifteen years.

His name is Rafael. My cousin. Thirty-five now. I was seventeen when I first noticed the way his eyes lingered on my legs at the summer house in Nerja. Nothing happened then. Nothing could.

This summer the family gathered again. Big villa. Pool. Too much wine. Too many old memories.

Rafael arrived late, alone. His wife had left him six months earlier. He looked… hungry.

I waited until the house was quiet. Midnight. Everyone asleep or drunk. I wore the white sundress I knew he remembered—the one that got wet when I jumped in the pool years ago.

I found him on the terrace, smoking. Shirt unbuttoned. Chest rising slow.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” I said.

“Neither should you, Valeria.”

I stepped closer. Close enough to smell tobacco and his cologne.

“I’ve been alone a long time,” I whispered.

His eyes flicked to my mouth. “Don’t.”

I reached for his belt. He grabbed my wrist. Hard.

Then he kissed me.

It was violent. Teeth. Hands everywhere. He lifted me onto the stone table, pushed the dress up to my waist. No panties. He groaned when he found that out.

His mouth was on my neck, my breasts. Then lower. He ate me like a man starved. Tongue deep, fingers curling inside, thumb on my clit. I came shaking, biting my own hand.

He stood. Dropped his jeans. Cock thick, veined, angry.

“Last chance to run,” he said.

I spread my legs wider.

He fucked me like he hated me. Like he loved me. Deep, punishing strokes. The table rocked. I clawed his back. He growled my name when he came, flooding me, marking me.

We didn’t speak after.

He lit another cigarette. I fixed my dress. Went back to my room.

The next morning at breakfast he wouldn’t look at me.

I smiled into my coffee.

Some sins taste sweeter when you know they’re wrong.