30. Celeste
Chapter 30
Celeste
T he one time I met Charles van den Linden was up there as the most embarrassing day of my life.
The man destroyed my career once, and the way he glares at me right now sobers me up. Caleb tenses beside me.
“Merde,” I mumble.
When I got my dress for this event earlier, I was excited about spending a glamorous night out. I hoped Caleb and I could just have a blast, without thinking about work, our entanglement, our growing unnamed feelings, his daughter, or my visa.
Just two people having fun.
But his question about my dress triggered the deepest wounds in me, and I overreacted to his offhand comment. I kept repeating to myself that Caleb is not my father, but the memories still streamed in.
I know, deep down in my marrow, he isn’t like my father. But his comment… the motivation behind it… it unleashed so many fucked-up insecurities.
And speaking of fathers.
The brunette on Caleb’s father’s arm is definitely not his wife. She’s probably younger than me. Beautiful, tall and skinny. I never feel threatened by women who look like supermodels. My best friend is one, for fuck’s sake.
But the way her stare fixates on Caleb… that I find threatening. I mean, she’s here with another man, but…
I look at Caleb, whose gaze is on her as well. With contempt, I assume. I hope. I have no real claim on this man, and perhaps it’s just the aftermath of my insecurities, but the tall brunette sparks something inside me.
A flicker of self-doubt grows in intensity, consuming me faster than I can regroup.
“Father.” Caleb gives them a curt nod. “Carly.”
So it’s not some random arm candy for the night. Caleb knows the woman. Against my better judgment, that prompts me to step away from him.
Caleb looks at me, frowning, and then takes my hand and squeezes. “Celeste, this is Carly. Carly, meet my wife.”
My wife .
Those two words spread through me like a much-needed confidence potion. I don’t even bother to question their unresolved validity.
Squaring my shoulders, I give Carly my best performance, smiling like this introduction is a true highlight of my night.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Carly.” I don’t bother extending my hand, because I know she’ll just ignore it.
Carly’s—whoever she might be—face falls. She eyes me with suspicion, and a generous dose of contempt.
Caleb’s father doesn’t acknowledge us, but takes Carly’s hand and kisses her knuckles. “We should get to our table, darling.”
Carly scoffs. “In a minute.” She turns to Caleb. “Your wife?”
“Enjoy your evening.” Caleb’s voice is clipped as he tries to move past them.
Carly grabs his biceps. “She’s not your type.”
Caleb takes a long breath in and closes his eyes briefly. “And how do you know my type?”
Now, a smart woman would remember she’s here with another man. Perhaps the other man would interfere. But Carly seems set on debating the topic, and Caleb’s father doesn’t seem interested in moving on. It’s like he enjoys the impending drama.
Drama that might get out of hand if the bitch doesn’t remove her hand from my husband. Drama that’s getting contained only because, unlike her, even drunk, I know I’m here to support Caleb, not embarrass him.
Her behavior, however, helps lessen my insecurity. She’s definitely not attractive.
“Well, she’s…” Carly vibrates with indignation. “You know.” She rakes her haughty gaze down my body. Is she really going to compare our body types here and now?
Caleb smiles at me, and then turns to her. “Do you mean graceful, elegant, and smart? Exactly my type.”
My heart swells in my chest. I have defended myself against snarls like this many times, but having someone give me a compliment to rebut the venom? It shakes me to the core. God, I don’t need a knight in shining armor, but it feels good to have one.
Carly doesn’t read the room and gasps. “But she’s—”
“She wants to say I have more fat on my bones.” I shrug.
“Carly,” Caleb’s father warns.
“Carly, if you have nothing nice to say about my wife, then shut the fuck up.” Caleb swirls me around and leads us to our table.
“So?” I can’t help myself, and my drunken, unfiltered mind wants to find out how he knows the woman.
“Not now,” Caleb growls, as he moves the chair for me to sit. My retort dies on my lips as the lights dim, and the host takes to the stage.
The ceremony unfolds, with boring speeches interrupted by dinner courses. The conversation at our table flows, mostly thanks to Xander’s efforts at meaningless chatter. His companion has a bubbly laugh, but absolutely no personality.
Cormac looks bored the entire time while his lady converses with us. And Declan, who—according to Caleb—comes to these events only with a hired escort, plays with his food and keeps checking his watch.
Caleb is his usual charming self, but tension radiates from him. I don’t think anyone else notices, but I do.
His jaw is set, and he seems distracted.
“I saw your old man earlier,” Corm says, and Caleb’s foot bounces.
It’s a slight movement, but I sit close enough to feel it. Merde, I was so wrapped up in my own world, I didn’t even realize what impact our earlier run-in might have had on Caleb.
“Corm, I hear you own a nightclub.” I pretend his question never happened. “It must be challenging running so many businesses.” Praising a man has never failed.
Corm’s not an idiot, though. An asshole for sure, but not an idiot, and I half expect him to throw me under the bus and continue his taunting.
“I love clubbing,” Xander’s plus one chirps.
Corm ignores her and pins me with his glare. “You know a lot about me, Celeste.”
“Only fair, given the interrogation you submitted me to earlier.” I smile at him.
“It was just a fun, friendly conversation.” He shrugs, leaning back.
“Oh, I had fun, but I wouldn’t go as far as counting you among my friends.” I lace my sarcasm with honey, beaming at him.
“Did you know Celeste and my sister are best friends?” Caleb asks, his pinkie hooking with mine on the table.
Corm’s features freeze. His jaw sets in a scowl, as he glares at me like my friendship with Saar offends him.
“Isn’t your sister the famous supermodel?” the woman who came with Corm asks.
Caleb nods, and at that moment a group of servers swarms the place, quickly removing our plates and serving us the next course.
The conversation moves to other topics .
“Are you okay?” I ask Caleb.
“Of course.” He shrugs, and his brush-off deflates me a bit. I guess I’m not a person he wants to confide in. But then he sighs and adds, “As good as someone can be when their father pretends they don’t exist.”
“Fuck him. He’s an asshole, anyway. Nothing good happens when he actually notices a person.”
Caleb whips his head to me and then laughs. “Fuck, you’re refreshing.”
“What are you talking about?” A smile tugs at my lips, his laugh contagious.
“You’re the first person who didn’t say ‘oh, Cal, I’m so sorry.’”
I feign shock. “Oh my, was that supposed to be my line? Did you want me to pity you?”
“Shut up.” He laughs, cupping my neck and pulling me in for a kiss.
It’s just a peck, but it feels like the most significant show of affection between us ever. It doesn’t come from physical need, from desire or temptation. It spawned from a completely different level of intimacy.
Keeping his hand on the back of my neck, he holds me only an inch from his face. He smells of whiskey, and something distinctly him. Heat swarms behind his eyes, but there’s something else there too .
Affection.
Care.
Respect.
“Get a room, the two of you.” Xander breaks the moment.
“Fuck you,” Caleb hisses, but he pulls away.
I gulp down the first glass that I grab while I force my mind to find the rubble of my protective walls, and rebuild some sort of defense around my pounding heart.
I’m so distracted I don’t even realize it’s wine until the glass is empty. Shit. This won’t go well with the two cocktails from earlier.
When another round of awards, and even longer speeches, start just before dessert, Caleb shifts his chair, getting closer to me.
He turns a bit, seemingly angling his body to have a better view of the stage.
“Have I told you that you’re the most beautiful woman in the room?” His breath fans the side of my throat.
A delicious shudder ripples through me, pulsating between my legs. Jesus, he only breathed beside me.
“You didn’t seem so keen on this dress—”
“Hush.” He puts his hand on my thigh, the tips of his fingers sliding under the slit of my skirt.
“Who’s Carly?” I scan around the table, but everyone seems like they’re following the proceedings on the stage .
“It doesn’t matter, but if you need to know, she’s a nurse I dated briefly when my brother was in hospital. She was after my money, so I broke it off quickly, but I guess now I know she was after money, regardless of who the owner of the bank account is.”
“She seemed adamant you married below your standards.” I hate how petty I sound, seeking reassurance.
“She’s several leagues below you, but do I detect a bit of jealousy, black swan?” His hand travels higher and I shift in my seat, my legs falling apart a bit.
I wish he wouldn’t touch me, so I can find my confidence and wits. Why did I drink that wine?
“Please stop, Caleb. People…”
He leans in. “I need this, I need you to—”
“Then let’s go—”
“Here, now, only you. Relax, and keep watching the ceremony.”
My protest dies because his fingers graze my pussy. I stifle a moan, and Caleb lets out an almost inaudible rumble.
“Have you run out of all the underwear I bought you?” His voice is low, laced with need.
“No.”
“Your pussy is fucking naked. Has it been like that all night?” he whispers into my ear.
The sensation of his fingers circling my entrance, his thumb teasing my clit, and his words so close to my skin, short-circuits something in my brain.
“The easy access was a surprise for the ride home. Not for here.”
He hums and plunges two fingers inside me, and I whimper. My gaze meets with Cormac’s while Caleb casually puts his arm across my backrest, watching the ceremony over my shoulder.
Corm frowns, but luckily his companion leans in and tells him something that distracts him enough to look away.
Not that him looking is my only problem here. We’ve had sex in public several times already. But this is a new level of fucked-up. And somehow a new level of exhilarating.
“Hmmm, black swan, your pussy is so greedy. I love how you swallow my digits. Such a good girl, so wet for me.”
I close my eyes, trying to tune out where we are. “Stop,” I whimper-whisper.
His fingers sheathed deep inside me, he stops. A few beats, but he doesn’t resume.
I turn my head to him. “What are you doing?” I hiss.
“You asked me to stop.”
“Je vais te tuer. ”
He hums again, the bastard. “Talking French, black swan. Mixed signals here…”
“Batard.”
He chuckles, but thank God he resumes his ministrations, edging me, and then slowing down. I’m a puddle of nerves and sensations.
At one point, I almost double over, masking it by casually bracing one of my elbows on the table.
This is so wrong.
And so right.
I don’t know who this man is anymore. My fake husband is my real lover. He asked me to let him figure it out. But the more time he takes, the deeper I’m falling.
Caleb moves his hand in a leisurely tempo, and I clench desperately, chasing my release.
“Let go, Celeste.” His words fan my nape, and I explode around his fingers, barely stifling a cry.
A thundering applause erupts around me, and I throw my head back, letting the remnants of pleasure seep through my body. Letting the audience reward—
What the actual fuck? I’m not on stage. The applause for the award of the night is only a bizarre coincidence.
But for a moment there, my mind lost its grasp on what’s reality and what’s make-believe. For a tantalizing moment, I didn’t know who I was .
I was stripped down to bare sensation. But besides the physical, a genuine feeling blossoms inside me.
How am I supposed to play a role when the role morphed into real life?
Too real to pretend otherwise.
Too visceral to act superficially.
Too significant to maintain the sham.
I blink a few times while the clapping turns into a standing ovation. Dazed, my gaze finds Caleb’s.
A satisfied smirk on his face, he ignores the mayhem around us and licks his fingers casually, his eyes locked on me.
Heat spreads up my cleavage into my cheeks. I attempt to stand up. Caleb jumps up to help me.
A ghost of a smile traces his beautiful face as he looks at me with adoration.
I’m hyper-aware of his hand touching my elbow. His eyes piercing through me. My arousal sticking to my thighs.
Something new passing between us.
It’s confusing and overwhelming. It terrifies and enchants me.
I panic and turn to the table, and gulp down another glass of wine. Yes, a normal person would just deal with their emotions.
A mature person would have tried to have a conversation. Why would I guess if he feels the same when I can just ask him?
Well, why would I ask him if I can pretend that my attraction is still purely physical?
Why would I do any of it if I can just flush it down with wine?
Because I’m scared.
I never had a ballerina’s body, and yet I pursued dancing.
I came to New York, broken emotionally and financially, and I made it.
But now, for the first time in my life, I want something, and I’m too scared to reach for it.
Caleb puts his hand on my wrist gently to stop my guzzling. “Let’s go home.”
We don’t say our goodbyes. We don’t talk in the car or in the elevator. We just execute the exit strategy like we’re running.
Away from these feelings, or toward them?
My head is swimming with alcohol, and my heart is galloping like a spooked horse as Caleb leads me up the stairs.
He opens the door to my room. This is the first time he’s come in here. He’s never once set foot in here before.
The energy between us is charged, but I’m not sure what drives it. I stumble and he studies me .
Merde. I’m drunk.
Caleb kisses my forehead, and I sway a bit. It’s funny how I’m completely aware of the new energy between us, but equally unable to stand on my own feet.
He slides my dress down my shoulders and unzips the skirt part. The silk pools by my ankles. He kisses my temple and my shoulder. There is no urgency or heat in his touch or his kiss. His attention is similar to that peck on my lips at the gala.
Reverent.
Caring.
Affectionate.
He unfastens my corset, because I might have not worn panties, but that dress needed some control over my curves.
And it occurs to me that, while I’ve had sex with Caleb—a lot of mind-blowing, earth-shattering sex—and he saw my pussy or my breasts, he’s never seen me naked.
I’m glad I’m drunk, and I wish I wasn’t. Suddenly I’m self-conscious. I reach for his belt, just to occupy my foggy, unhelpful mind.
He circles his palm around my wrist and pulls it away. Gently.
Stepping back, he studies me, his gaze roaming around my body. “You’re fucking gorgeous. ”
A gasp forms but comes out as a hiccup, and Caleb chuckles. It’s then that my drunken mind tilts my axis and I stumble again.
Strong arms grab me, but instead of steadying me, Caleb hoists me bridal-style and takes me to bed. Effortlessly.
“I’m swooning here, pretty boy.”
He laughs, lowers me to my bed, takes off my shoes, and throws the comforter over my naked body. What is happening?
“Good night, black swan.” He kisses my forehead and leaves.
What the actual fuck?