Page 4 of Meet Me In The Dark (Skeptically In Love #3)

Sex clubs.

I’ve thought about them too many times since that letter was read on the podcast, and not just in a passing ha-imagine-that kind of way , but in an it-won’t-leave-my-head kind of way .

Do I want to go? No. God, no. Yes, maybe. I don’t know. The whole thing terrifies me, but I keep imagining it.

Against my own advice, and after scolding Madison for doing the same thing, I searched online. Predictably, nothing official came up, but a forum about that podcast episode led me to a thread. Rumors say the club rotates locations, has no official name, and invitations arrive sealed in black wax.

You don’t find it.

It finds you.

It’s for the elite, with a vetting process so intense you’re watched before you’re ever considered. The only other way in is a personal recommendation from someone already inside.

No one knows who’s behind it. No names. No leaks. Just whispers.

It hasn’t helped that last week, four weeks after surgery, Dr. Patel gave me the all-clear for my extra activities. Technically, he meant morning runs, but I knew what I really wanted to ask, and I’m pretty sure he knew too. He said I was healed. That everything looked great.

On the outside, maybe.

Inside, I’m completely touch-starved.

My trusty vibrator isn’t cutting it anymore. Not even close.

Madison suggested dating apps, but honestly, they give me hives.

Would I like to meet someone? Sure. Am I opposed to falling in love? Not at all. I’d love someone to come home to. Someone steady. Someone mine.

But finding someone who wants that without the picket fence and the baby name shortlists? That’s harder, especially at my age. I’m almost thirty, and most of the men I meet who are ready to settle down want the full package—the house, the marriage, the kids.

I can handle the house and the marriage.

The kids? I’m still unsure about that.

I love children, I really do. I think I’d even be a good mom, considering my parents taught me how not to do it. But I’ve never had this urge to see my belly swell with life inside it.

Yet, when I first became a patient of Dr. Patel’s, I sat in his office and listened as he explained my endometriosis—how my uterus was fused to my bowel, how my organs were stuck together like melted plastic, and how sex would continue to be painful unless something changed.

He also mentioned that people with my condition often struggle to conceive.

Not always, but often.

I cried for days because there’s something really unfair about having a choice taken away from you, even if it’s a choice you weren’t planning to make.

So yeah, I just want something for myself. Something that feels good. Maybe ease myself back out there and remember what it feels like to be touched without bracing for pain.

And maybe a sex club isn’t the most practical way to ease into anything, but damn if it hasn’t taken up residence in the back of my mind.

Dear God, I seriously need help.

Exhaling, I focus on my new office instead because it’s safer territory than sex clubs. This space is now mine. It symbolizes the hard-earned promotion that followed the Sterling Vista Tower—a project I poured every ounce of myself into, and now a stunning silhouette outside my window.

I started here, at Sinclair Architecture, as a jittery intern who had more ambition than sense with a bad haircut, worse wardrobe, and enough self-doubt to fill a skyscraper. Now I have a bigger office and a fancy title.

“Good morning.”

“Jesus.” I scramble upright, my heart pounding in my chest. “Morning.”

Lilian Sinclair glides through the door, poised as always. Her knowing eyes scan me, and a subtle smile plays at the corners of her lips.

“How are you feeling?” She’s been asking me that every morning since I returned to work a week after my surgery .

“Good. Great, actually.” I fiddle with my pen, immediately proving otherwise.

She pulls out a chair and sits. “You seem distracted.”

“What? Me? No.” I try to sound casual, but my laugh comes out forced. “Just catching up on work.”

Leaning back, she crosses her legs. “Speaking of work, how are the preliminary designs coming along for the Blackwood & Calloway project next week? It’s a huge potential contract for us.”

“They’re almost done.” Relief washes over me as we tiptoe back to safer territory. “I worked on them over my week off, so we’re ahead of schedule.”

“You were supposed to be resting that week.”

I shoot her a look. “Right, because you would ever take a full week off and do nothing. That’s rich.”

Her mouth twitches in reluctant agreement.

She watches me for a moment, and I can tell she hears everything I’m not saying. Lilian has always been good at reading between the lines.

“Can you look over them for me?” I ask just to fill the silence.

“Of course.”

“I’ll have them on your desk later today.”

She’s still staring at me.

Why is she still staring at me?

I shift in my chair, suddenly noticing how warm my office has gotten.

“What?” I finally snap.

One shoulder lifts in the slightest shrug. “You are distracted.”

Damn her.

I lower my gaze to the papers scattered on my desk and pretend to be interested in a binder tab. “I’m just thinking about something.”

“Thinking tends to be your default.”

“It’s… a little ridiculous.”

“I’ve heard ridiculous before. Go ahead.”

“You’re going to think I’ve completely lost my mind.”

Her lips curve into the faintest smile. “You’d be surprised what I think.”

Here goes nothing.

“Have you ever done something reckless? Something out of character?”

“Ah,” she says, the syllable a soft hum. “So this reckless thing , does it have anything to do with you blushing so furiously I can practically feel the heat from here?”

My hand flies to my face. “Am I blushing?”

“Profusely.”

“Oh, God.” I groan.

“Celeste, what exactly are you trying to say without saying it?”

I glance at the door, at my laptop, at anything but her. “Forget it. It’s stupid.”

“You’ve never brought anything stupid to me.”

I exhale a shaky breath. “I can’t stop thinking about… a sex club.”

To her eternal credit, she doesn’t flinch, blink, or even pause. She simply lifts her coffee cup and takes a sip, as if I just told her I’d started a new Pilates class. “Go on.”

“That’s it? Nothing more?”

“Should there be? Everyone has their thing. Clearly, this thing is stuck in your mind.”

I look down at my hands, feeling the full weight of her words settle in my chest before I open my mouth and unload everything—the podcast episode I listened to, the letter, the way it caught me off guard and sank its teeth in, how it awakened something in me I can’t quite put back to sleep.

“It’s just…” I shift in my chair, pulling my cardigan tighter around me. “It feels insane.”

“What exactly feels insane? Is it the idea of it? Or the fact that you want to go?”

I sink lower in my chair, heat prickling the back of my neck. “I don’t know. It’s not me.”

There’s no pity in her eyes, only openness and that shimmer of respect that’s always between us. It’s a kind of maternal protectiveness that has never once made me feel small.

“You live your life by the blueprints. That’s not a flaw, Celeste. It’s what makes you brilliant, but it’s okay to color outside the lines once in a while.”

“Please tell me you’re not comparing architecture to a sex club.”

“Both involve foundations and thoughtful design. And we both know what happens when you build on the wrong one.”

Lilian stands, but she doesn’t leave right away. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re insane. I think you’re curious, and maybe a little scared of what that curiosity means, but you don’t need my permission to want something different. You only need your own.”

She allows the moment to linger before finally turning toward the door.

“Finish those designs,” she says with a small smile. “Our clients typically prefer architecture without sexually repressed flourishes.”

I bark a weak laugh. “Got it.”

The door shuts softly behind her, and I sit there staring blankly at my sketches. Even as I make myself pick up my pencil, I can feel my mind beginning to drift to the weight of a strong hand on the back of my neck and the warmth of breath against my ear.

This is so bad.

I press my palms to my face and exhale again.

I need to stop freaking out about this. It’s pointless. I’ll never even know if that club really exists.

Sure, there are other clubs, but I don’t want them.

I want that one.

The one from the letter.

The one that comes recommended, so to speak.

What that woman described?

I want that.