Page 28 of Meet Me In The Dark (Skeptically In Love #3)

One second, his forehead is pressed to mine; the next, I’m in the air, his hands gripping the backs of my thighs as he hauls me up.

It’s clear he’s done waiting.

Good.

So am I.

We’re both done pretending this hasn’t been tearing us apart since that night.

He kicks the door shut with his foot, then slams me against it hard enough to make the frame shake. His mouth crashes into mine with force and zero hesitation.

I meet him with the same hunger and frustration.

He bites my bottom lip hard enough to make me gasp, then chases the sound with a kiss that has my whole body trembling.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I remember the workout we just did and wince.

“Shower,” I pant against his mouth.

“Uh-huh. Got it.” His agreement is a low growl against my lips.

We’re still kissing like we want to kill each other when we reach the bathroom. He fumbles with the nozzles one-handed until the shower turns on.

When he sets me down, it’s only to tear the clothes from my body.

My hoodie is yanked over my head so fast I stumble, but he catches me, pulling my sports bra up and off before I can regain my footing.

In the next breath, he’s on his knees, grabbing my leggings and underwear in one handful and dragging them down my legs. The cool air hits my bare skin, followed immediately by the heat of his mouth. He kisses just above my hip, then lower, along the inside of my thigh.

“I think about this pussy every goddamn day,” he mutters against my skin. “You know that?”

He sounds… angry.

With me. With himself. I can’t tell.

My mouth opens to reply, but all that comes out is a helpless moan.

He glances up. “That’s what I thought.”

He stands in one smooth motion, peeling his shirt off with one hand, then shoving his sweatpants and boxers down in the same rough pull.

The sight of him—every inch of muscle and hard lines—makes my pulse stumble, but he doesn’t let me linger. Before I can take him in, he’s hauling me into the shower.

The water hits my back, scalding and perfect, but it’s nothing compared to the heat rolling off him.

He slams me against the tile, one arm braced beside my head, the other sliding between us like he’s claiming what’s his .

And maybe he is.

“You’re soaked.”

“No shit.”

His eyes lift. “Watch your mouth.”

“Make me.”

Two fingers slam into me, and I gasp as my head falls back against the tile. My nails dig into his biceps, searching for something solid as my body strains against the onslaught.

That familiar white-hot flame blooms low in my belly.

“You want to come like this?” he rasps, crowding in until I can feel every inch of him.

I nod. It’s all I can do.

“Words, Celeste.”

“Yes. God y-yes.”

“Yes, what?”

Screw him. He’s not getting it that easily.

“Fuck you,” I snarl.

His returning dark chuckle almost drags me over the edge. “Oh, my girl is in fighting spirit today.”

“Again, fuck you.” I reach down and cover his hand with mine, driving him into me harder, needing more. “And I’m not your girl.”

His thumb circles my clit in tight, merciless motions, and the second I start to shake, he grabs my thigh and hooks it over his hip. My entire body clenches as I brace and unravel.

“Show me,” he says against my neck as he bites and sucks and brands me.

The orgasm tears through me so fast I cry out his name, shuddering as my body locks before my knees threaten to give. He grips me tighter and holds me until I come back to earth .

God, he looks dangerous like this.

The water pounds over us in hard bursts, streaming off his chest, slicking his dark hair to his forehead, and tracing the ridges of his body.

A vein strains in his neck as if he’s holding back with sheer force.

“Turn around,” he growls.

And I do because I’m a good girl after all.

God, I sicken myself.

“How do you want me? Rough or slow?” he teases, lips brushing my ear.

I arch against him, grinding back until I feel the thick press of his cock. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re dying for me to fuck the attitude out of you.”

“Try me.”

He drags his cock through my slick heat once, then twice. I whimper when he doesn’t push in, only to curse when he pulls back instead.

“You know what I’ve been dreaming about?” One hand pins my hip, the other slides around my front. “This. Your pussy wrapped tight around my cock.”

“Then stop teasing.”

“Where are your manners?”

One hand works between my thighs while the other grips my jaw, forcing my face to his.

“Come on, Celeste. You’ve got such a pretty mouth when it’s not arguing with me. Use it.”

I hate him.

I hate how badly I want to give it to him.

“Please,” I whisper.

He stills for a single beat before slamming into me in one brutal thrust.

My forehead hits the glass as he fills me completely, stretching me so deep I forget how to breathe.

“Jesus,” I hiss.

He doesn’t move, but his voice is right at my ear. “You think that mouth’s going to scare me off? You’ve been driving me insane for months. I like when you fight me.”

Then he pulls almost all the way out and drives back in hard enough to make the hinges rattle.

I gasp again, voice breaking on the cry of his name, and he groans at the sound of it tearing from my lips.

His hand slides up my body, pressing flat between my shoulder blades to pin me to the glass as he starts to move. It’s slow at first, but each thrust of his hips becomes more punishing. Wet skin slaps wet skin, and every inch of him demands I remember who’s inside me.

“You feel that?” he pants against my neck. “That’s mine. You understand me?”

I bite my lip so hard it stings.

“Say it.”

“Yours,” I cry out.

He tightens his grip on my jaw. “Say it like you mean it.”

“Yours,” I snap. “All yours, you fucking asshole.”

He groans, hips snapping harder. “Good girl.”

His.

But I own him right back, and he knows it.

It’s with that realization that he angles his hips and slams into a spot that has my eyes rolling back. My hand slaps against the glass for balance, and my knees start to buckle.

“Look at me.”

When I refuse to give in, he spins me until my back hits the tile. My legs wrap around his waist on instinct as he lifts me and drives back into me without pause.

My nails drag down his shoulders, leaving red marks he seems to relish.

“Look. At. Me,” he grits out when my head falls back.

I do, because how could I not?

His hair is dripping, jaw clenched, eyes so dark they’re nearly black. Every muscle is taut as if he’s about to break, but he refuses to go first.

The next thrust shatters me.

My legs tremble as the orgasm rips through me, white-hot and consuming.

“Jesus fuck,” he snarls, his hands digging into my ass as he slams into me again, chasing his own release.

My muscles are still spasming when he follows me over the edge with a guttural groan.

One final thrust, another, and then he’s buried deep.

Steam curls around us.

My legs are still locked tight around him.

Neither of us speaks.

We just breathe harsh, uneven breaths in the humid air, while the water pounds over our backs. The tension doesn’t dissolve. Not yet. It just hums in the space between us.

Julian’s forehead falls to my shoulder.

I think he left something vital inside me, and he’s still unsure how to get it back.

Slowly, his hands shift. One slides up my spine while the other runs down the back of my thigh, soothing the muscles he just fucked into oblivion.

His grip isn’t punishing now. It’s careful in a way that punches something in my chest.

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. There’s nothing to say .

So instead, I just breathe him in.

Eventually, he puts me down while keeping a steadying hand on my arm.

Neither of us makes eye contact when he reaches for the body wash and pours it into his hand.

When he steps behind me and I feel his hands slide over my shoulders, I go still.

The soap glides over my skin in slow arcs, circling my arms, my ribs, my stomach. Every stroke feels intentional, like the touch itself matters more than the act.

I think he needs this part more than I do.

Closing my eyes, I give in and let my head tip back against his chest.

My scalp tingles when he reaches for the shampoo, lathers it between his palms, then threads his fingers into my hair.

A shiver runs down my spine, not from heat, not from cold, but from him. The quiet care. The silence. The absence of the man who wrecked me minutes ago. He’s still here, but not sharp right now, like the storm passed through and left nothing but wreckage.

“You okay?” he murmurs finally, voice rough.

I nod. “I’m good.”

His thumb brushes a faint mark on my hip. “Did I hurt you?”

Far from it.

Something in me still aches, but it has nothing to do with the marks his fingers left behind.

“No,” I whisper.

“I shouldn’t have—”

“You should.”

He goes still.

“I wanted it too,” I add quietly. “I needed it. All of it.”

His reply is a slow kiss right below my ear.

When I turn, his hands drop from my body like they weren’t ready to let go.

We’re face-to-face again. The high is gone, and in its place is something heavier, something neither of us has the words for.

I glance at his mouth. He glances at mine.

Then I press up on my toes and kiss him once. It’s soft and barely there, but the sound of relief that comes from his throat is the same as when we devoured each other.

When I pull back, he doesn’t chase it.

He reaches for the body wash on the ledge to wash himself, but I grab it first.

His eyes flick to mine, like I’ve just threatened to detonate the fragile balance we’ve stumbled into.

“Celeste—”

“Hush.”

I lather the soap between my hands and press my palms to his chest.

He goes rigid beneath my touch, as if he’s bracing for impact instead of care.

God, this man. This massive, furious, tightly wound contradiction who fucks me like vengeance one minute and touches me like worship the next.

I glide my hands over his pecs, down his stomach. I’m not sure he’s breathing, so I go slow.

I make it impossible for him to mistake this for anything else. This is me caring for him, for Julian. The man who dominates every room, every deal, every inch of my body. The man who just washed me as if it mattered.

I drag my hands down the ridges of his abs, over the faint trail of hair disappearing below his hips.

“Relax,” I whisper.

His body finally gives in.

Just enough.

His hands rise, not to stop me, but to steady himself. One presses flat against the wall beside my head while the other curls lightly around my hip.

I reach for the shampoo. He lets me.

When I nudge his chin, he tips his head back, and I run my fingers through his hair the same way he did mine before rinsing out the shampoo. His breathing is deep. Not soft, never soft, but settled.

I reach for his face, but he grabs my wrist and holds it there for a long beat before pressing a kiss to my palm, and it’s almost more intense than the sex.

His eyes meet mine, darker than ever. “What the fuck are we doing?”

I don’t know, not really, but I know I don’t want to stop.

So I shrug and say the only thing I can. “Showering.”

He huffs a quiet, humorless laugh and leans in to kiss me.

When he pulls back, I’m still a bit breathless, but at least he’s smiling.