Page 27 of Meet Me In The Dark (Skeptically In Love #3)

I bite the inside of my cheek, fully aware that my next words are a terrible idea, but my brain has taken a vacation without telling me. “Alright, fine. I’ve never called anyone Sir during sex before. ”

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the slight pause in his breathing. He swallows, as if he’s replaying the exact moment in his head.

“I’ve never had anyone call me Sir during sex before.”

I whip my head toward him. “What? No. That’s bullshit.”

His mouth curves. “Honestly.”

“You asked me to.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did. You asked me a question, I said yes, and you said, ‘Yes, what?’”

He leans back in his seat, eyes still on the road, but every line of his body radiates smugness. “Yeah. I was looking for you to beg. I thought you were going to say please .”

“You were trying to teach me manners.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” Heat detonates in my chest and shoots straight down. My thighs press together because my body is a traitor. “Oh my God. No.”

“Yes,” he says, and the way his voice dips makes the word feel filthy.

“Julian, stop talking.” I slap my hands over my face, but unfortunately, my ears still work.

He tries to smother his laugh, but it breaks free.

“Why the hell didn’t you stop me?” I blurt, my voice slightly strangled.

The laughter fades.

His answer is so blunt, so unflinching, it robs me of oxygen. “Because I fucking liked hearing you say it, Celeste.”

I’m gone. Brain melted. Nerve endings fried. Someone call the coroner, because I am officially deceased.

But even I laugh after that because if I don’t, I might cry. Eventually, it fades, and the car settles into a comfortable quiet.

“Do you think it’s strange?” I ask into the stillness.

His eyes flick to me. “What?”

“That we forgot to kiss that night.”

“Forgot? That’s one way to put it.”

“Well, I have an excuse. It was my first time. I was a nervous wreck.”

“I’m taking that excuse.”

My brows pull together. “There’s no way that was your first time.”

His gaze stays on the road when he says, “Believe it or not, I’m very selective with who I blindfold.”

The admission does something strange to my chest, but before I can overthink it, the words slip out. “I haven’t gone back. Have you?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

He stays quiet for so long, I think he might not answer at all.

“Because I’d be searching for someone who’s not there.”

My heart slams against my ribs, so I keep my head down and tug at a loose string on my hoodie.

“Yeah,” I murmur, barely loud enough to hear myself. “Me too.”

I’m not sure if he catches it. I don’t look to find out. Instead, I turn toward the window and watch the city roll.

When he finally parks in front of my apartment building, I slide out of the car with my legs feeling like jelly .

I stall at the open door and turn back to him, words tumbling out before I can stop them. “You know what?”

He meets my gaze. “What?”

“I don’t think I hate you as much anymore.”

Those broad shoulders lift on a bark of laughter, the rich sound sliding deliciously down my spine.

“That’s good, because I’m tired of pretending I hate you.”

A stupid grin curls my lips as I roll my eyes and shut the door.

By the time I get to my kitchen, my hands are trembling and my pulse is racing for reasons that have nothing to do with boxing.

I’m just pouring myself a glass of water when a sharp knock pounds at my door.

Frowning, I rush over and swing it open.

Oh .

“Julian, what are—”

“I forgot something,” he interrupts, voice gravel-edged and strained.

My brow furrows. “What the hell did you forget?”

“This.”

Before I can take another breath, he steps forward and crowds me into the doorframe. His hands cup my face a second before his mouth crashes onto mine.

Oh. My. God.

I’ve died.

I’m sure of it.

Everything stops.

Thought. Air. Time.

There’s nothing but the heat of his lips and the way he kisses with such hungry need, like he’s trying to undo every second we’ve spent pretending we could stay away from each other.

It takes me a beat to catch up.

Three seconds, maybe four.

Then I’m moving.

My hands fly into his hair, twisting in the thick strands, yanking him closer and giving back everything he’s taking.

My heart slams so hard against my ribs it hurts.

In the next breath, the kiss turns from raw hunger to brutal.

His tongue sweeps into my mouth, claiming it like it’s his right.

This isn’t careful.

This isn’t sweet.

This is a collision.

Walls crumble. Boundaries collapse.

For one reckless second, I feel him again.

That man.

The one who touched me in the dark as if he owned me. The one who fucked me as if I were something precious and breakable, and then broke me anyway.

He’s here now, in the daylight, no mask, no blindfold, and he still makes me burn like I’m standing in fire.

He drives forward, hips pinning me to the wall, every hard, hot line of him pressing into me until there’s no space left to pretend with. I arch up into him, desperate to feel all of him, to close the distance we’ve been holding between us like it could keep us safe.

Just when I think I might pass out from the sheer force of it, Julian pulls his mouth away with a pained groan.

The loss is so sharp I nearly sob. “ What are you doing?”

His eyes are squeezed shut. “Don’t speak, okay?”

So I don’t.

I wait.

And I wait.

“Julian—”

“I’m trying really hard to be respectful here, Celeste.”

When I lift my hand to his jaw, he finally opens his eyes and nearly burns me with the heat in them.

“Julian,” I whisper, my core aching with need. “Try being a little disrespectful.”

And with that, this unfathomable man shatters like glass.