Page 61 of Meet Me In The Dark (Skeptically In Love #3)

I sit in the armchair of our lodge bedroom, one hand scrubbing over my jaw, the other drumming impatiently against the armrest. The fire crackles low in the corner, throwing light across the wood-paneled walls, but my eyes keep darting toward the bathroom door.

Ten minutes.

She’s been in there ten fucking minutes.

“Celeste,” I growl, loud enough for my voice to carry through the door. “I’m getting impatient.”

I hear her laugh. “That’s all part of it.”

Christ.

“You’ve got thirty seconds to get out here,” I warn, “or I’m coming in to get you. I want to see my wife. Preferably on my lap.”

“Just one more minute,” she calls back.

I groan, scrubbing harder at my jaw.

“Patience, Mr. Blackwood,” she sing-songs.

Patience is not something I have when it comes to her.

Especially not tonight. The opening of the new headquarters is next month, and I know life is about to get fucking insane again.

Tonight is ours. Every minute between now and sunrise is mine, and I’m not wasting them waiting outside a locked door while she primps.

My gaze drops to the floor.

Her wedding dress lies in a pool of white fabric at the edge of the bed, and the sight of it sends me spiraling back.

It wasn’t a gown for show. No glittering beads, no dramatic train designed for a cathedral aisle. Just soft fabric that caught the mountain air as she walked toward me, the hem brushing over wild grass as the sun dipped low and turned the sky molten.

For a man who spent most of his life looking over his shoulder, waiting for the past to catch up, I’ll never forget the moment I turned and saw her walking toward me.

Not my past.

My future.

And what a fucking future she is.

It hadn’t started like this.

After I put a ring on her finger, Celeste drove herself half insane trying to plan a wedding.

Every night it was something new: the color of napkins, the order of the vows, whether it should be a harpist, a string quartet, or if we should just say fuck it and hire a DJ.

I told her I didn’t give a shit who sat where or what shade of white the flowers were. I told her I’d pay someone to handle it. But no, she insisted on doing it herself.

Even when I helped, she ended up redoing it. She wanted it done her way, which meant no help from a wedding planner, or her friends, or her future husband .

My wife is a bigger control freak than I am.

One night, I walked into the kitchen to find her hunched over the table with seating charts spread out like war maps. She had Post-its in her hair. Her laptop balanced on one elbow. Half a glass of wine sat untouched at her side.

She didn’t even look up when I leaned against the counter.

“Celeste,” I said, “I could write a check right now and make all this someone else’s problem.”

Her pen scratched furiously over the paper. “It’s fine.”

It wasn’t fine. She was two seconds away from tearing her hair out.

I pulled out the chair beside her and sat down. She glanced at me, her eyes tired and bright with frustration. I could see it—the edge of a breakdown.

So I reached over, closed the laptop, and took her hand.

“I don’t think it’s supposed to be like this,” I said.

For a moment, I worried she was about to admit she’d changed her mind. That she was getting cold feet. That all of this—the fights, the fire between us, the obsession—had burned too hot to last.

But then her voice went soft. “What do you want, Julian?”

That answer was easy. “I want you. I don’t give a shit about a seating chart. I don’t give a shit about colors or centerpieces. I just want you.”

Her eyes filled, her mouth trembling as she whispered, “I want a marriage. Not a wedding. I want a life with you.”

That was it. That was the turning point.

Two weeks later, we disappeared into the mountains. No guest list, no ballroom, no flowers arranged within an inch of their lives. Just a lodge with views that took your breath away and a local officiant who gave us vows as the sun went down.

The only thing I asked for was to watch her walk toward me.

I needed it. Needed to replace all the years of looking over my shoulder with something better.

When she came across the field, hair pinned back, dress whispering around her legs, her eyes locked on mine—Christ, it was like breathing for the first time.

I’ll carry that image until I die.

The bathroom door creaks.

Finally.

I sit up straighter, tapping my fingers once against the arm of the chair before stilling them completely.

Celeste steps out of the bathroom in white lingerie that makes my cock twitch instantly. Silk cups her breasts, lace tracing down her stomach, delicate straps hugging her thighs. The kind of outfit designed to ruin a man.

Designed to ruin me.

My jaw locks tight as I take her in. My wife. My beautiful, infuriating, impossible wife.

“Jesus Christ, Celeste.” My voice comes out rough.

She smiles, the kind of smile that reaches every corner of me, and walks slowly toward me, her hips swaying with deliberate cruelty. “Worth the wait?”

“Get over here,” I rasp.

She straddles me, settling on my lap, and I grip her thighs like I might leave bruises.

Then she lifts something between us. “My turn.”

A silk blindfold.

“For me?” I ask, though my cock already knows the answer.

Her smile widens. “For you.”

“Celeste—”

“Are you going to deny me?” she interrupts, tilting her head, daring me.

My mouth curves. “As if I could deny you anything, Mrs. Blackwood.”

She shivers at the name, and fuck, I feel it all the way down my spine.

“Do you trust me?” she whispers.

I grip her thighs tighter, digging in. “Not even a little.”

“Don’t move.”

I let her lift the silk and wrap it around my eyes. The knot tugs tight, and just like that, the world goes dark.

It’s only her now.

Only Celeste.

Her breath brushes my ear as she leans in, and when her voice comes, it’s soft enough to make me lose every ounce of control I pretend I have.

“Would you like me to talk you through it?”