Page 9 of Meet Me In The Dark (Skeptically In Love #3)

“I’m going to take off your dress now. Is that okay?”

I nod, swallowing hard. “Yes.”

His fingers trail lightly down my back until they find the zipper. With one swift movement, the silk slides down my body like water, and cool air kisses my skin.

My first instinct is to cover myself, but before I can move, I hear his voice.

“Look at you.” There’s a breath of silence. “So fucking beautiful.”

A full-body tremor rushes through me before his heat wraps around every inch of bare skin.

Taking my hand, he wraps it around his. “Do you want to show me how wet you are?”

I can hardly catch my breath when I say, “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

The shiver that rolls down my spine is instant. I don’t even know where it comes from—some deep, instinctual place—but it’s there, and I give in to it.

“Yes, sir.”

Yes, sir, Celeste? Yes, fucking, sir?

He might have just meant Yes, please .

He might be trying to teach me manners.

But he groans, so I guess that is the correct answer. “Good girl.”

The praise hits hard. It sinks into me, heating every nerve, coiling tight in my belly until my thighs press together in reflex.

Heart about to pound out of my chest, I guide him beneath the lace of my panties, and try to keep my breathing even.

He hums in approval when he finds me already soaked.

One finger drags through my core, teasing the slick heat gathered there, and my breathing turns ragged when his thumb ghosts over my clit.

“You like being touched when you can’t see it coming?”

“Yes.”

He strokes again. A little firmer.

“You like being made to wait for it?”

Another circle over my clit.

“Y-yes,” I breathe, hips bucking against his hand.

“That’s good because I’m going to take my time with you.”

His fingers slide lower, parting me and spreading me open with slow, testing strokes.

I whimper, a sound that hardly registers until I feel his smile against my skin.

“I want to hear you,” he whispers just as two fingers press inside, causing a slow, thick stretch. “Hold onto me.”

I grip his shoulders, digging my nails in, feeling the solid muscle underneath.

With long, lazy thrusts, he fucks me with his fingers while his thumb circles my clit in tormenting circles.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t think.

“Oh, God,” I cry out, feeling myself shake.

“Good girl,” he whispers, feeling my body tense around his fingers.

I come hard, a strangled cry slipping from my lips as pleasure rips through me.

It’s been so long—too long—since I’ve felt anything close to this, and it crashes over me like a tidal wave.

His grip tightens, holding me through it, his fingers slowing but not stopping, stroking me through the aftershocks.

My head spins, but I barely have time to catch my breath before I feel his hands shift, gripping my thighs, and then I’m airborne.

A surprised gasp escapes me as my legs instinctively wrap around his waist.

I’m still too lost in my post-orgasm state to realize I’ve probably already died.

After taking a few steps, I feel the mattress beneath me and the cool sheet against my heated skin.

“Lie back.” His voice is rougher and more demanding now.

I shouldn’t like this as much as I do.

But God help me, I do.

I like that he’s guiding me.

That he knows exactly what he’s doing.

That I don’t have to think.

I sink into the sheets, feeling a need I hardly understand.

“You can give me another one.”

I feel the press of his strong hands spreading my thighs before his breath ghosts over my already aching core.

Then his mouth is on me, and I ascend.

A shocked, broken moan escapes as his tongue works me into submission before his lips close around my clit and suck.

Holy fuck.

I arch, hands gripping the sheets, my entire body on edge, as he devours me like it’s his job.

I can’t see him.

I can’t anticipate his movements.

I can only feel.

And he makes damn sure I feel everything .

“Oh, God,” I hiss, fingers fisting the sheets.

He hums against me like he enjoys the way I sound.

“Keep those legs open for me,” he says, his mouth brushing against me with every word.

I try, I really do, but I’m writhing now.

It’s too much and not enough. He’s everywhere and still somehow nowhere near where I need him most.

“Please,” I gasp, not even sure what I’m begging for.

He answers with action.

Two fingers slip inside me just as his mouth becomes rougher. His tongue flicks fast, then slow, then fast again. His fingers curl upward, stroking that devastating spot inside me with precision.

“You’re doing so good for me,” he says, voice strained, like he’s holding himself back.

That familiar feeling begins to coil tight in my belly.

“I—I can’t,” I cry out, feeling like I can barely breathe as the orgasm begins to build.

“Ride it out.” He flicks his tongue. Once. Twice. Then I’m tumbling over the edge, and I shatter.

A strangled cry breaks out of me, full-bodied and uncontrolled, while my thighs clamp around his head as my orgasm rips through me like a lightning strike.

His tongue laps gently, coaxing every last wave of sensation from me until I’m boneless.

I sink into the mattress, limbs limp, chest heaving as he trails hot kisses along the inside of my thigh. I feel the brief but sharp bite of teeth before it’s gone, and he’s back to kissing a path up my body.

My hands fumble forward blindly, needing to anchor myself to him, but instead of skin, my fingers find fabric, and I freeze.

He’s still dressed .

“Off.” The word escapes before I realize I’m saying it.

I grab his shirt and tug.

It’s in my way.

I hear the scrape of movement and the soft metallic slide of a belt being unbuckled. Then come the sounds of buttons slipping free and fabric rustling as he sheds the last layers separating us.

I’m so locked into every sound that I almost miss the touch of his fingertips gliding gently across my stomach.

They pause at a thin, sensitive line just above my hip.

My scar.

He doesn’t ask.

I don’t explain.

He just touches it and moves on.

“Are you still with me?”

I nod quickly. “Yes.”

“Still sure?”

“God, yes.”

There’s a pause.

A breath.

Then the unmistakable crinkle of foil.

A condom.

Good, safety first, and all that.

Heat floods through me so fast I can’t even brace for it.

His bare skin collides with mine, and every inch of me lights up.

He’s bigger than I expected.

Broader. Heavier. Harder.

My fingers clutch at his arms, searching for stability.

When his hand rests on my throat, he doesn’t squeeze; he just strokes his thumb along my jaw.

“Breathe for me.”

I force a shaky exhale, trying to ground myself.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”

Chasing more, I arch into him.

“Spread your legs.”

I try.

I try to listen. I focus on the warmth of his body, the grounding pressure of his hand, and the steady cadence of his voice, but my body won’t let go.

This is always the moment I brace for—the shift from pleasure to pain, where understanding turns into impatience and tenderness becomes fumbling, making me feel like I’ve failed.

I’ve been here before.

The quiet disappointment. The effort it requires. The way it becomes work.

So I tense up, blinking back the sting in my eyes, and wait for it.

Instead, his hand lifts from my throat to my chin.

I can’t see him, but I know he’s watching.

“We can stop.”

I shake my head. “I don’t want to.”

“Breathe,” he orders again, voice firm. “I mean it.”

I suck in a full breath, feel it burn through my lungs, and release it slowly.

“Again.”

I obey, and something inside me starts to loosen.

“One more.”

This time, I melt.

I don’t even realize it’s happening until my limbs go soft and my body slackens beneath his, but my mouth curves into a small, relieved smile.

“I’m going slow. If you want to stop, tell me. Got it?”

I nod. “Got it.”

And then, finally, pressure.

He pushes in, inch by deliberate inch, and my body goes still.

I brace for the pain I know all too well, but it doesn’t come.

There’s just this slow, growing ache that isn’t sharp or painful or cruel.

My mouth falls open. “Oh my God.”

His hands tighten on my hips, holding me steady. “Talk to me.”

“It doesn’t—It feels good.”

I feel his breath of relief across my skin.

“Move,” I beg. “Please, just move.”

“You want more of me?”

“Yes.”

He slides in deeper, hips rocking forward in slow, shallow pulses.

My fingers curl in the sheets, but there’s still no pain, just the weight of him, and the unbelievable fullness that makes my legs tremble.

“You feel that?” he murmurs.

“Yes. God, yes.”

“You’re taking all of me so fucking well.”

I moan as my head drops back against the mattress.

He’s fully seated inside me now, his hips flush to mine.

A deep groan tears out of him. “You make it so hard to stay gentle.”

“Don’t stay gentle,” I whisper, half delirious. “Not forever.”

“Christ.”

He pulls back before pushing in again, stretching me open, filling me so perfectly, so completely, I could sob from it.

My heels dig into the back of his thighs, pulling him closer, harder, faster.

“I’m going to—” I can’t even find words anymore.

“You’re going to what, huh?” he coaxes.

I don’t know why, but I’m nodding furiously.

“Words,” he demands.

“You’re going to make me come again,” I cry out, back arching so much I’m surprised it doesn’t spasm.

His hands tighten on my hips.

He’s giving me exactly what I asked for, and everything I didn’t know I needed.

His cock thrusts into me again and again, and I swear I see stars behind the blindfold.

“You feel that?” he whispers into my neck. “That sweet little spot I keep hitting?”

“Yes,” I pant, hips lifting to meet his next thrust. “God, yes, right there.”

“That’s your spot, and I’m going to fuck it until you come on my cock.”

His fingers slide between us, finding my clit to stroke filthy little circles.

“Let go. I’ve got you.”

That’s it.

Those words are my undoing, and I’m gone.

A scream catches in my throat as pleasure tears through me. It’s sharper and deeper this time, like my body knows what to do now.

I pulse around him, muscles clenching tight, dragging him deeper with every wave of release.

“Fuck,” he groans.

One more thrust.

Two .

And then he breaks with me.

A deep, guttural moan escapes him as he slams into me one final time, burying himself to the hilt.

He stays there with his arms braced around my head before his forehead presses to mine.

We stay like that for a long moment before I feel the gentlest kiss to my cheek, followed by one to my temple.

An unexpected tightness pulls at my throat.

My whole body feels raw—stretched, soaked, and trembling.

But not broken.

Not in pain.

Not this time.

His weight lifts from the bed. I hear him move, the faint rustle of clothing, and then… water running.

After a minute, a warm, damp cloth is pressed between my thighs, and I stiffen at the contact.

He doesn’t say anything, but he keeps his touch steady and respectful, wiping away the mess with careful movements.

It’s such a small thing, but it splits me open.

He finishes, then gently slides my underwear back up my legs.

My hands curl into the sheets, my throat thick because he… he’s dressing me.

When his hands find my waist and I sit up, I realize I never even took off my heels.

Jesus.

Holding my arms up, he slips the straps of my dress back over my shoulders before pulling the fabric down over my skin.

No one prepared me for this part.

I came here expecting to feel used .

Instead, I feel seen without ever seeing the man responsible for it.

“Thank you,” I whisper, not knowing what else to say.

He doesn’t answer right away. “You don’t have to thank me.” Another beat of silence, and then his mouth brushes my temple. “You were perfect.”

I don’t know what to do with this feeling.

Right before he steps away, I feel one final press of his lips against the back of my hand.

And then… he’s gone.

The door clicks shut behind him, and I’m alone.

The silence settles around me like smoke.

I sit there for a long time, too stunned to move, my heart still pounding somewhere in my throat. The blindfold is still on, and for some reason, I don’t rush to take it off.

I don’t know why.

Maybe because if I keep it on, I can pretend this feeling will last a little longer. That I’m still who I was in that moment. That I’m desired, wanted, and cared for.

Taking a deep breath, I finally find the courage to remove it.

The room is dim and softly illuminated by flickering candles in glass sconces. My eyes blink against the low light.

Empty.

Of course it is.

There’s no trace of him, only the scent of his cologne and our imprint on the sheets.

He could be anyone.

He could be a stranger I pass on the street tomorrow, and I’ll never know unless he speaks to me. I didn’t see him, but I’m pretty sure that voice has embedded itself in my bones.

I came here expecting one thing: a night of anonymous sex. To reclaim my body in a way that didn’t come with pressure or strings. To do something bold. Maybe something stupid.

But I didn’t expect him .

I didn’t expect the way he talked me through every moment. The way he waited. The way he saw the hesitation in my body before I even admitted it to myself. The way he never pushed.

Now, here I am, legs trembling, pulse still pounding, and I’m okay. Better than okay.

I didn’t feel pain, and I didn’t feel ashamed.

I rise slowly and smooth my hands down my dress.

There’s a mirror across the room, and I catch a glimpse of myself as I pass. My eyes are a little wide, and my cheeks are still flushed.

I don’t recognize her, but I think I want to.

It’s when I step closer and see my lipstick still intact that I realize we never even kissed.