Page 8 of Meet Me In The Dark (Skeptically In Love #3)

A tall man stands at the entrance, arms crossed, dressed in black like every other gatekeeper here. His expression reveals little, but his gaze stays steady.

“Going in?” he asks.

My heart pounds against my ribs. I could still walk away, turn on my heel, and pretend this was just curiosity.

“Yes,” I say, surprising myself.

He nods once and unhooks the rope.

The change is immediate when I step through.

It’s quieter here. There’s still a bass line humming from the other rooms and music from the lounge, but everything feels closer.

More intimate.

A woman approaches me. Her mouth is painted a rich red, and when she smiles, it’s smooth.

“Welcome,” she says softly. “I’m Nina. I’ll be guiding you through the process tonight.”

My stomach flips. “Process?”

Her smile doesn’t falter. “A few choices. That’s all.”

I nod.

“Male or female?”

“Male,” I manage.

“Seeing or Unseeing?”

I’ve known since I walked in. “Unseeing.”

She steps closer and takes my wrist, tying something soft and light around it—a thin black band with a small button embedded in the center.

“If you want to stop at any point, press the button. Someone will come to get you. No questions.”

I look down at it.

“I understand,” I whisper.

“Good.” She extends her hand. “Come with me.”

We pass by a few closed doors before she stops at one near the end of the hall and unlocks it.

Inside is dim but warm. Shadows are softened by the amber glow of lights and candles. There’s a wide bed in the center of the room, framed by tall posts draped with fabric.

The walls are lined with toys and instruments, some sleek and modern, others looking like they belong to medieval punishment tools.

The air feels heavy with a charge that makes my skin prickle, and my throat goes dry.

Nina gestures to one of the plush chairs in the corner, upholstered in velvet so dark it looks black in this light. “You can take a seat if you’d like.”

I accept the offer because my legs aren’t exactly steady.

When I sit down, she steps behind me, and I feel her fingertips at the edge of my mask. She gently removes it and replaces it with something heavier until all I see is darkness.

A blindfold .

It’s soft but snug. No slits. No light. Just black.

The moment it’s secured, everything becomes sharper—my hearing, my breathing, the sensation of the chair’s upholstery beneath my fingertips.

“You’re safe,” Nina murmurs. “Just wait. He’ll come to you.”

Then, she’s gone.

The door closes quietly, and I’m alone in the dark, blindfolded, with every nerve alert.

“I’m going to be sick,” I whisper.

Please don’t let me puke on the first man I touch in two years. That’s definitely grounds for getting banned.

I grip the edges of the chair as if I’m bracing for turbulence on a flight I willingly boarded without a seatbelt, no escape hatch, and apparently, no vision.

Breathe, Celeste.

In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Try not to spiral. Try not to pass out before anything even happens.

I keep doing that until I hear the sound of the door opening on the other side of the room.

There’s a shift in pressure and a faint swirl of cologne in the air.

It hits me like a drug. It’s clean, but with a darker undertone that lingers at the back of my throat.

He doesn’t speak at first, or maybe he took one look at me and decided I’m not for him.

“Would you like to leave?” His voice hits me. It’s smooth yet gravelly in a way that feels expensive, like a long sip of aged whiskey, warm and slow as it sinks into your bones.

It’s only a voice.

Maybe it’s the blindfold.

Everything feels sharper in the dark .

That has to be it.

Remembering that he asked me a question, I shake my head. “No.”

He inches closer, but I can’t hear his footsteps. I only notice the warmth in the air shifting.

“Is this your first time?”

“Yes.” My voice is small.

“Then we’ll go slow. Just talking, for now. You set the pace.”

My shoulders drop an inch. Not much, but enough.

“What’s your name?”

I don’t answer right away. Something about giving this man my name feels too personal.

He must sense my hesitation because he moves on. “How does the blindfold feel?”

“Strange. A little tight, but not in a bad way.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

He hums low in his throat.

“Have you ever been in my position? As in, the one wearing this.”

His returning chuckle sends a jolt straight to my core. “No, but I am curious.”

“About?”

“You.”

That one word travels down my spine like a shiver.

“I saw you arrive tonight.” His voice curls around me in the darkness. “You looked nervous. Yet here you are. What changed?”

My breath catches as the memories come rushing back. “I saw something.”

“What did you see?”

“There was a crowd,” I start, my voice barely a whisper. “They were gathered around an archway, watching…watching…”

“Watching what?” he encourages.

My throat tightens, but I push past the nerves, and the embarrassment gives way to something hotter. “A woman. She was… on display. Bound to a bench. A man was kneeling between her thighs.”

“And what was he doing?”

“He was using his mouth on her.” My words grow breathless as I speak, and I wonder if he knows how much the memory is affecting me.

“Did you watch too?” His voice drops lower, a dark thread winding through each word.

“Yes,” I admit, cheeks blazing even as I shiver from head to toe. “I couldn’t look away.”

“Why couldn’t you look away?”

My breath quickens. “The freedom. Her surrender. She wasn’t ashamed or afraid. She was powerful.”

He’s so close, I can feel the fabric of his clothes brush my bare knees.

“And you want that too?” he asks. “To let go? To stop thinking?”

Remaining silent, I nod.

I think he crouches in front of me because I can feel his warm breath on my cheek.

“I have one rule tonight,” he says. “If this is going to work, I’m going to need you to use your words. Understood?”

“Understood,” I agree.

“So, do you want that? What the woman had?”

“Yes.”

There’s a long pause, so heavy with anticipation that my pulse thuds painfully at my temples.

“Give me your hand.”

I lift it without thinking, and his fingers wrap around mine. His large palm is warm and calloused in places.

“You’re in control here,” he reassures me. “Whatever happens is your choice. If you want to stop, we stop. If you want more, you tell me.”

The way he says it makes it sound like a promise, and I believe him.

His thumb moves in circles over the back of my hand. Once. Twice. “Would you like me to talk you through it?”

Relief washes over me. “Yes, please.”

“We should get to know each other a little better, then. What do you think?”

I nod.

He tuts softly. “Words.”

“Yes,” I agree a little too eagerly.

When he guides me to stand, my legs shake. It’s not from fear, but from something else. Something I don’t know how to name yet.

The moment I’m upright, my back meets the wall and presses against the luxurious fabric-covered paneling.

His cologne wraps around me, richer now, heady and intoxicating.

He’s closer.

Not touching, not yet, but near enough that the warmth of his body licks at my skin.

“Put out your hands,” he orders, and I obey. “Do you want more?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to touch your wrist, is that okay?”

“Yes.”

His thumb brushes lightly over the back of my hand. It’s almost worse than if he had jumped right in .

He guides my hands up to his chest. “Feel me.”

His shirt is soft, maybe cotton or something finer, but I can feel the heat of his skin beneath it. Solid muscle with a heartbeat thumping steadily under my palm.

I let my hand drift upward, past the fabric, past his throat—where I feel the subtle bob of a swallow—then higher still.

My fingers brush the edge of his sharp jaw, then the curve of his cheekbone. I pause at the ridge of his brow before drifting upward.

His hair is short but slightly wavy. It’s thicker than I expected, a bit unruly near the crown. My fingers curl into it before I realize what I’m doing, and I swear he leans into the touch.

He’s warm and solid. Everything about him is quietly magnetic, and I only have pieces—a jawline, a heartbeat, a voice like sin wrapped in velvet.

Suddenly, not being able to see him feels like the biggest tease of all.

I skim the solid breadth of his shoulders and feel his muscles flex under my touch.

He’s big.

Tall.

Broad.

Heavier breath drifts against my cheek, and my stomach flips.

“I…uh…I,” I stutter over my words, searching somewhere for an ounce of confidence.

“Tell me what you want.”

I blow out a slow breath. “I want you to touch me.”

His thumb strokes across my cheek—the first real touch—and my breath escapes in a shudder. My nipples tighten beneath the delicate fabric of my dress, painfully aware that he can see everything. Every response. Every weakness.

A soft hum of satisfaction rumbles low in his throat. “You’re beautiful.”

My lips part—maybe to say thank you, maybe to deflect—but before I can speak, his touch drifts lower. It’s a torturous path over my collarbone and down the center of my stomach before he circles back up, tracing the swell of my ribs, until his knuckles brush the underside of my breast.

He pauses. “Are you sure?”

I think if he stops touching me, I might die on this spot. “Y-yes.”

In the next breath, I feel the lightest touch over my nipple through the dress, and a sharp pulse cracks through me.

I bite down on my lip, but this time there’s a firmer stroke that drags over the hardened point.

The moan that rushes out of me is helpless and far from quiet.

“Tell me.” Then comes the pressure of a subtle pinch, sharp enough to draw a cry from my throat. “Do you like it when I touch you like that?”

“Yes,” I pant, sounding too far gone to care.

He presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the base of my throat.

I’m shaking from the inside out.

This isn’t just arousal.

It’s need.

His mouth hovers beside my ear. “Are you wet for me?”

The question sends a jolt through my chest, and much, much lower.

“Yes. ”