Page 14 of Meet Me In The Dark (Skeptically In Love #3)

Celeste

The meeting ends with a flurry of movement and pats on the back. Voices swell around me in celebration, a low hum of pride and relief that’s well deserved. We’ve secured the project—the biggest one of my career.

And I can’t concentrate on anything anyone’s saying.

There’s clapping, nods of congratulations, and somewhere to my right, Lilian is mid-laugh with a senior partner, her champagne glass lifted in a toast to my success.

Meanwhile, I’m gripping the edge of the table with both hands, trying to steady the rush of blood pounding through my ears.

I don’t care how insane it sounds, Julian Blackwood is the man from that night. Which means the universe has officially run out of ways to punish me for something horrible I did in a past life.

What’s worse is that he knows.

I get it.

He saw my face. Well, everything except my eyes. But now he knows that I know, and I’m freaking out.

The confirmation hit me the moment I threw his words back at him.

“Would you like me to talk you through it, Mr. Blackwood?” My own voice mocks me now.

He almost looked proud.

I’d learned my lesson like the good little student who took his advice and marched it straight into a fucking boardroom. That night, he demanded I use my words, and apparently, I’m good at it.

I was a moth to a flame throughout the entire presentation.

A high-functioning, overachieving, tragically horny moth, because standing in front of him, seeing the real him—not the imagined version I’d built from muscle memory—I realized something terrifying: my imagination hadn’t done him justice.

It didn’t even come close. He’s not just attractive, he’s built to destroy.

What do I even do now?

I can’t exactly walk up to him and say, ‘Hey, you don’t happen to be the guy who left teeth marks on my inner thigh, do you?’

Here’s the real problem: From the little conversation I managed to catch during the meeting, we were told that Nathan is based out of the New York HQ. Julian isn’t flying back to New York with Nathan. No. Julian is the one who lives here. In my city. In my project.

I almost died on the spot when, at the end—when everything was agreed upon and the contracts were practically signed—Julian spoke up with one last request. To my surprise, he stated that moving forward, he would like all communication about the project to go directly through him.

This isn’t how things work. Not even close. Usually, I’d check in with someone on their team. I’m sure he’s a busy man, with his whole empire and face that ruins lives, but apparently, he’s not too busy to personally oversee my build.

The request sent a wave of dread through my stomach and, to my utter horror, a spark of anticipation right alongside it.

Honestly, I wanted to stand up and tell him to shove his contract up his overpriced ass, but those were my emotions talking. Instead, I smiled, nodded, and said, “Of course,” like the good girl I am.

It’s okay. We can remain professional. Maybe we’ll never bring up that night again. Maybe I’ll stay in blissful denial. Maybe pigs will fly.

Shaking myself from my stupor, I grab my tablet, my notes, whatever I can get my hands on, and get the hell out of the room before my legs betray me. I can’t join in on the celebrations right now. Not with him there.

Lilian calls after me, but I don’t turn around.

Just. Breathe.

I feel like I’ve been struck by a freight train of lust and panic and something that sits too close to shame.

I reach my office, push the door open, and step inside, but before I can turn to shut it, a strong hand grips my elbow. Then I’m being spun around until the door is a wall at my back, and Julian Blackwood is the wall in front of me.

“Jesus Christ,” I breathe, not because I’m scared, not really, but because his eyes are locked on mine like he’s just found the missing piece of a puzzle he didn’t know he was solving.

“I’ve been wondering what those eyes look like,” he murmurs in the kind of voice that belongs in shadows and silk-draped rooms.

My lips part, but I don’t say anything.

What is there to say?

Yes, I knew it was you the second I heard your voice.

Yes, I’ve been thinking about your hands ever since they stopped touching me.

“Mr. Blackwood,” I manage, clinging to professionalism like it’s not already splintering beneath me.

His mouth curls at the corner, as if he’s deeply amused. “Don’t play stupid with me.”

“I’m not.”

I hate how badly I want to punch him.

Or maybe kiss him.

His suit jacket brushes against my breasts, and I can smell the expensive cologne that should be illegal on someone like him.

He drops his gaze to my mouth.

My nipples tighten under the silk of my blouse, and I’m genuinely considering pressing my thighs together in front of him to take the edge off.

His fingers shift to my jaw, tilting my face until I’m looking directly into his eyes. They’re a deep, piercing blue, intense enough to reveal every secret I’ve ever tried to hide .

I swallow back the nerves. “Mr. Blackwood—”

“I swear to God, Celeste, if you call me that one more time.”

“I didn’t know it was you.” The truth spills out before I can stop it. “Not until…”

Not until my body betrayed me.

Not until I saw your mouth curl into that same cruel smile and realized I’d been dreaming about it for nights without ever actually seeing it.

“Words, Celeste. Use them.”

Hearing my name on his tongue is enough to undo me.

I close my eyes to absorb it and take a moment. I need to collect my thoughts.

“Why did you say it?” he asks. “Why test me?”

“For the same reasons you did. I had to know,” I whisper, my voice breaking a little.

“But you already knew.”

Of course I did.

His eyes darken as his hand pauses just over my sternum. It moves lower and grazes the underside of my breast before he trails his thumb across my hardened nipple.

A tiny, humiliating sound escapes me.

His smile is pure sin. “There she is.”

“Do you always act this unprofessionally with women you fuck in the dark?” I snap, grasping at control, at dignity, at anything.

“Only when they stare at me across the table like they want to climb onto it and ride my cock in front of their coworkers.”

My jaw drops. “I did not—”

“Celeste.” His voice cuts through me like a blade. “You were wet before you even started the presentation.”

I hate the moan that slips out of me.

This can’t happen. This is my office, my career, my life.

I somehow find my spine and straighten it.

“Let me be clear,” I declare, chin held high. “We work together now. That night was a one-time thing.”

He doesn’t flinch. “Sure.”

“I’m serious.”

His eyes flick back to my mouth. “I believe you.”

“Then give me some space.”

Don’t. Please don’t.

He does as I ask and steps back. The loss of heat hits me like a punch.

“This can’t happen again,” I tell him.

“If that’s what you want,” he replies with a nod.

I believe him. I shouldn’t, but I do. My trust in this man is based on just one night. I trusted him blindly then, and he repaid me for it.

That’s when I realize why he’s looking at me like that.

He doesn’t believe me .

Frustration hums low in my stomach and tightens with each breath.

I hate him for it.

But mostly, I hate myself.

For reacting.

For feeling.

So I do the only thing I know how to do. I shut everything else off. I build the wall, brick by brick. It saved me before.

“It was one night. Sex and nothing more. We move on. Simple.” The words feel like knives in my throat. It’s a lie so brittle I can barely force it out, but I can’t afford the alternative.

I can’t afford Julian Blackwood.

“Simple?” he echoes, scrubbing a hand over his jaw.

“Yes.”

“We move on?”

I’m supposed to be agreeing, but I’m already shaking my head no .

I barely have time to take my next breath before he moves.

One step.

That’s all it takes.

Suddenly, my back hits the door again, and Julian is in my space with his hand wrapped around my throat.

Well, there goes my damn wall.

His palm stays flat around my neck, but his thumb lifts and grazes across my jaw in a gentle back-and-forth stroke.

It feels like he’s figuring out what to do with me.

Defiantly, I stare up at him, refusing to look away as his thumb dips, catches the curve of my bottom lip, and pulls.

“I’m regretting not tasting you here.”

The air leaves my lungs in a ragged, broken puff.

“I’m not,” I fight back, the lie tasting bitter.

When he leans in, I think he’s going to kiss me. I brace for it—body tight, chest rising fast—but instead, he dips lower and kisses the curve of my neck.

With a sinfully slow stroke, he drags his tongue from the base of my throat to the shell of my ear, and every inch of me trembles.

“Your reaction says otherwise. I bet your panties are soaked through.”

My chest heaves, but two can play that game.

He only realizes I’ve lowered my hand when I palm his cock.

It’s hard and thick, straining against the front of his tailored slacks.

Hissing, he squeezes my throat a little tighter.

I look up at him, smile sweetly, and whisper, “And you’re hard as a rock.”

There’s an unspoken tension crackling between us, something neither of us is ready to confront.

“So what now, Celeste?”

And just like that, the next move is mine.

Taking one step forward could break me.

One step back might save me.

But right now, I can’t tell which direction is which.