Page 48 of Meet Me In The Dark (Skeptically In Love #3)

The rain hasn’t stopped all night.

We’re stretched out in her bed, the sheets a mess from the shower we didn’t behave in earlier. Celeste is sprawled across my chest, wearing one of my stolen T-shirts.

I run my hand up and down her back. “Why don’t you come to dinner with me?”

She tips her head back to look at me. “Are you still sulking about that?”

I don’t answer.

She huffs out a laugh at my expression and drops her head back down on my chest. “Fine. Last time a guy brought me to dinner—”

“Already hate him,” I mutter.

She swats my side without lifting her head. “—I was just coming off a bad flare-up. By dessert, I was so bloated I could barely breathe. When I stood up, he looked me dead in the eye and asked when I was going to tell him I was pregnant.”

Her laugh vibrates against me .

I don’t laugh.

I grab her little sketchpad and a pencil from the dresser and set them on my chest next to her face. “Name and address.”

Her gaze snaps to mine. “You can’t be serious.”

“Dead serious.” I tap the pad. “While you’re at it, write the other names too. All of them.”

She swats the sketchpad off and swings a leg over, straddling my hips. There’s a smug spark in her eyes that I want to kiss off her mouth. “Are you a little jealous, Mr. Blackwood?”

“Fucking seething,” I say, hands closing over her hips. The way she shivers tells me she likes that answer.

“Oh, please. I’ve heard a thing or two about you,” she teases, rolling her hips just to be cruel. “You’ve got quite the reputation.”

“You shouldn’t believe everything you read.”

“Not even the part about the Victoria’s Secret model?”

I groan. “We went out one time and got photographed. That’s it.” I drag my gaze up her body and let it settle on her mouth. “Besides, I prefer architects.”

“Is that right?”

“Positive.”

She tries to play queen of the mountain on my waist. Cute. I buck my hips and tip her sideways. She squeals and lands beside me, and I’m already rolling after her, hands at her sides, fingers finding the spot that makes her lose her mind.

“Julian—no—don’t—” She’s laughing so hard the words fracture. “Stop—stop—”

“Come to dinner with me,” I murmur, leaning in like I might bite.

Her grin is pure trouble. “Counteroffer. I get dessert for dinner.”

“That isn’t a counteroffer. That’s a cry for help.”

“Chocolate lava cake,” she singsongs.

“Say you’ll come and I’ll order two.”

She plants her foot against my hip and tries to shove me. It doesn’t work. “Jesus, you big fucker.”

I arch a brow before diving back in.

“Julian, no,” she cries. “Mercy.” She melts for one second, then rallies. “Truce?”

“Temporary,” I warn, and slow my hands, smoothing instead of tickling. The laughter winds down, but it leaves color on her cheeks.

We stare at each other like idiots while the rain keeps time.

“You’re really not over the dinner thing,” she says.

“No.” I run my knuckles down the length of her thigh. “I want you at my table where everyone can see you’re with me.”

“Possessive.”

“Correct.”

She swallows and pats my chest. “Give me a minute.”

I’m still catching my breath when she slips out of bed and disappears into the wardrobe. The bathroom door opens and shuts. I stare at the ceiling and wonder why my pulse is suddenly in my throat like I’m about to be ambushed.

The door opens.

She steps out in a short satin nightdress the color of sin. Bare legs, bare everything else, and hair a little messy from her hands. She stops at the foot of the bed and pretends not to notice the way my mouth falls open .

“This is Victoria’s Secret,” she says, voice gone innocent. “Think I could give her a run for her money?”

“Jesus. Fuck. Celeste.” I drag a hand over my jaw and sit up against the headboard. “Are you a little jealous, Ms. Morgan?”

“Seething,” she says sweetly, and crawls onto the mattress.

She takes her time about it—palms on my knees, satin sliding over my thighs, those eyes locked on mine.

I’m not sure I’m breathing.

“You’re coming to dinner,” I say, because apparently I still think I have self-control.

“Maybe.” She leans in and ghosts her mouth over mine without kissing me. “If you ask nicely.”

“Celeste.”

“Yes, Julian?” She’s the picture of innocence. It’s a lie, and we both know it.

I open my mouth to push, to bargain, to say something that sounds like control. She shifts in instead, kisses me once, slow enough to steal the words, then sinks further down the bed with that same unhurried patience, the sheet going with her until cool air hits my stomach.

My hands fist in the linen because I know what comes next, and I’m already gone for it.

Her mouth closes over me, and thought stops being a thing I’m capable of. My head tips back against the headboard, a low curse scraping out of me as one hand finds her hair under the sheet and the other braces hard at my side.

Outside, the rain keeps its steady rhythm. Inside, I’m not thinking about dinner, or names and addresses, or anything except the woman I’m sharing a bed with and the way she ruins me with a smile and a mouth and a laugh I think is in my bones.

∞∞∞

The vibration on the nightstand drags me out of sleep.

For a second, I don’t register the sound, only the weight of Celeste’s leg hooked over my thigh, the way her hair fans out over my pillow and into my face. I only sleep this deeply when she’s beside me.

It’s still dark, and rain lashes against the window.

I ease out of Celeste’s warmth, careful not to wake her, and press the phone to my ear without a word.

If it’s business, they’ll get to the point.

Silence.

Then a shaky inhale.

“Julian?” The voice is feminine but unfamiliar.

“Who is this?”

Another long pause, and then, almost timidly, she answers, “It’s… Catriona. Y-your… sister.”

Everything stops.

The world narrows to the tiny speaker pressed against my ear.

Catriona.

One of the daughters my mother had after she gave me away.

I’m seconds from ending the call when she rushes in. “Wait. Please. Just… hear me out.”

I stay silent.

“Mom is really sick. She doesn’t have long. Hours, maybe.”

Something thick lodges in my throat.

Anger .

Pain.

A dull, remembered ache I’ve buried beneath careful layers of control and indifference.

Her voice trembles. “I know you don’t owe her anything. I know I shouldn’t even be calling, but she’s asking for you.”

I almost laugh and hurl the phone across the room at the fucking nerve of it.

She’s asking for me now?

After decades of pretending I never existed.

After I stood in front of her five years ago—a grown man, heart in my throat—begging her to see me, to acknowledge me, only for her to turn me away again.

Yet, even as the fury burns hot, I find myself saying, “I’ll be there.”

Because despite everything—every scar, every carefully guarded wound—I’m not completely heartless.

I end the call and swing my legs out of bed, pulling on clothes from the chair in the corner.

Behind me, the sheets rustle. “Julian?”

“Go back to sleep,” I tell her, brushing her hair back from her face. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Where are you going?” she asks, the question drowsy but too close to the bone.

I swallow down the guilt and the old, sharp ache pressing at my ribs.

Then I lie right to her fucking face. “Business emergency.”

I turn to go, but her fingers hook around mine. “Come back?”

I dip my chin, lean down, and kiss her slow enough to make it count.