22. Caleb
Chapter 22
Caleb
A piece of shit.
That’s what I feel like.
The sun peeks through the slits of my blackout blinds. I stare at my ceiling instead of going to the gym. But it’s not the lack of workout that’s making me feel shitty.
Last night, at the restaurant, I had a thought. I saw myself arriving home with Celeste and taking her to my bedroom.
Simple? Yes.
Exciting? Yes.
Normal? No. Not for me.
I didn’t lie when I told her no woman had ever visited my place. And no woman’s ever slept in my bed. I don’t do beds. Unless I’m alone .
For some fucked-up reason, I wasn’t ready to admit that. Or to break this little rule of mine. Which left me with only one option—send her home alone, wait till she fell asleep, and then tiptoe to my room like a thief.
There are several firsts that happened here.
First time I actually would have invited a woman to my bed. If I wasn’t a coward.
First time I’m more concerned about protecting someone else’s feelings. Because I couldn’t just drop her by her room’s door.
First time I’m actually ready to grovel. Because fuck, we have a good thing going, and I’m not ready to give it up just yet.
I don’t like any of these novelties.
Even though I’m not sure if she’s even pissed. Or hurt. Or indifferent.
The last option churns in my stomach. Fuck.
Another thing churning inside me is the unequivocal realization that I’m a hypocrite. I want the woman, but only on my terms.
Having Mia appear in my life and then letting Celeste in… It’s too much at the same time. No time to adjust, to reconsider my values.
My lifestyle has been uprooted, and I need time to digest. Hence the upset stomach.
Fuck, this will give me ulcers if I don’t pull my head out of the gutter. Or pull the plug on all of this .
The latter stops me in my tracks. The idea of going back to the begrudging cohabitation with Celeste lies heavy on my chest, restricting my oxygen supply. What the fuck?
The doorman calls me about a delivery, and I make my way downstairs. Celeste is in the kitchen.
Her chestnut hair is in a tight bun, and she’s wearing one of her casual dresses, though Celeste’s casual is quite formal.
The dress is black, not her usual color, but it hugs her waist and shows her curves in all the right places. She doesn’t see me, and I savor the moment for a bit.
She opens a cabinet. Always so graceful.
She rises on her tiptoes. Always so feline.
She takes a cup. Always so… uniquely Celeste.
She rubs her fingers against her neck, massaging her nape while she taps her foot, waiting for her coffee.
I lean against the post that brackets the entrance. “Good morning,” I rasp when the elevator dings.
She swirls around and my heart rate spikes, pulsing on high alert. Dark circles shadow her eyes, her face bare of makeup.
She doesn’t really acknowledge me, her gaze lifting above my shoulder toward the elevator.
“Good morning,” the concierge calls out.
“You got a delivery.” I turn slightly, so she has a better view of the enormous bouquet of red roses .
Shit, I might have overdone it. The concierge wobbles as he puts the large vase on the ground and turns to retrieve my other gift from the elevator.
“I haven’t ordered anything,” she scoffs.
“I did the ordering.” I saunter over to her. “A gift.”
She glares at me, her face set in a hostile facade.
When neither of us moves, the concierge clears his throat. “That’ll be all, Mr. van den Linden.”
“Right.” I reluctantly leave her to cross the living room toward him. “Thank you.” I give him a fifty-dollar bill and take the box from him.
He departs. Finally.
Though judging by Celeste’s stormy expression, maybe I need a human buffer. When I look back, she’s standing in the entrance to the kitchen, leaning where I was before.
Her green eyes gleam with something I can’t quite understand, but it sends chills down my spine. She looks like the version of her from before we got married. When she hated me. When she had walls up all around.
Okay, time to grow up and own the shit. I approach her, my gaze not leaving hers. There’s a challenge in hers, and I hope she can see the determination in mine.
“I think I caused some damage yesterday.” I hand her the box.
Her eyes travel from my face to the box, but she doesn’t move, cradling her coffee. Okay, if I thought she might not be pissed, I now know she certainly didn’t appreciate me leaving her behind last night.
A part of me recognizes that explaining why I did what I did would be the right thing to do here. But I’m not ready for that. Coward .
In the tense moments that follow, when she simply stares at the box in my hands, I can practically hear my heart beating in my chest.
I have no experience with groveling, but even without prior firsthand knowledge, it’s obvious I’m not succeeding.
“Come on, open it.” I try to sound casual.
A war brews behind her eyes, but then she sighs. A heavy, loaded sigh, like I’m an annoying sibling she doesn’t want to deal with.
She puts her mug on the breakfast bar behind her and finally takes the box from me. Placing it beside her coffee, she opens the lid gingerly, like I might’ve laced it with poison.
Under the tissue paper, she finds thirty pairs of delicate panties.
She cocks her eyebrow. “I’m no longer getting the company?” She purses her lips, no muscle on her face suggesting she’s joking.
I swallow. Fuck, I’m really not good at this .
“I wanted to make you happy.” Christ, I need to stop talking if this is the shit that comes out.
She snorts. “Flowers and new underwear? Having a guilty conscience, pretty boy?”
The ice in her voice could fill all the slushy machines around the city.
“I’m sorry I left you alone last night.” I step closer, but she folds her arms across her chest.
“Please, Caleb, you have no obligation to babysit me. I hope you had a nice meeting .”
She snaps the lid closed, takes her cup, and walks into the living room, giving me a wide berth.
“Come on, Celeste. Talk to me.”
She whips around at the foot of the staircase. “Look, Caleb, you don’t owe me anything. You’re free to have other liaisons. It’s not like we discussed exclusivity, but it’s shitty form to fuck me and then ditch me out of the blue.”
Fuck, she thought I went to see another woman. That didn’t even occur to me, but of course that would sound like a plausible explanation in the absence of facts.
“I had a meeting with Xander.” I hate myself for lying to her, but I just can’t bring myself to tell her the truth.
I went to the Madison Club and had a drink and talked to a few people. All of them men. And that’s not even the pathetic part of the truth.
We already broke all the boundaries of this arrangement, so what difference would it make if I took her to my bed?
But this is also about my personal boundaries, my basic principles. Ones I set up to protect myself.
From unnecessary complications.
From deeper connections.
From close dependence.
From deception.
Besides my siblings, everyone else I got close to betrayed me, starting with my parents. I’m the typical cliché of a rich boy with trust issues. Fuck. My. Life.
She sighs. “As I said, you don’t owe me an explanation, but next time, could you give me a bit of a notice? I didn’t beg you for your time. You came to pick me up.” She extends her thumb, counting. “ You took me for dinner.” She points up her index finger. “ You threw a tantrum when you thought I was with someone else.” She adds another digit. “We spent hours together, and several times during that time, you could have mentioned that you had a meeting later and Peter would drop me off.”
“I get it. I know I fucked up, hence the gifts.” I shrug, not daring to approach her. Yet.
“I would prefer it if you didn’t need to apologize for your actions. You made me feel used and discarded.”
Her bottom lip quivers, but she wipes the weakness away and squares her shoulders.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I close the distance between us. “I’m new at this. I have no point of reference for keeping a relationship alive. I fucked up, and I promise to try harder.”
It’s not lost on me that I’m still lying to her. But one step at a time. And have I just labeled this as a relationship?
“Look, Caleb, if this—whatever it is—is too much, too fast for you—”
“No, black swan. It’s not enough.” I step closer, crowding her. Her back hits the glass balustrade. “I thought getting a taste of you would be enough, but I was a fool. One nibble.” I do just that, lowering my lips to her throat. “One bite.” I sink my teeth into her warm skin.
Her chest heaves, but her body remains tense.
“One handful.” I cup her breast. “One pinch.” I twist her nipple between my thumb and finger. “One swallow of you, black swan, and I’m an addict.”
I grind my hips against her as I lift my gaze to meet hers. She glares, but she doesn’t protest.
And it might be just my wishful thinking, but her body relaxes a bit, engulfed with mine .
I lean down to pick up the hem of her dress and trace my fingers up her thigh. A whole-body shiver rakes through her and, fuck, I love her reaction, and that’s before I skim the fabric of her panties.
“Look at you, all wet and ready for me.”
“And still mad at you for ditching me.”
“Let me make it up to you.” I seize her mouth in an arresting kiss.
With my lips, I try to tell her what I can’t yet with my words. I kiss her so she knows I didn’t mean to ditch her. I had no intention of making her feel used or discarded. That I’m lost in her, and also lost in this arrangement.
Cupping the back of her neck, I pull her closer to me, trying to kiss away her worry, her anger, her indignation.
My worry. My panic. My distrust.
She moans into my lips. “Don’t fucking do that again. Just tell me you have a meeting. You don’t have to give me your schedule or whereabouts, but don’t drop me like a used toy again.”
I press my forehead to hers. “I promise.” And I mean it. I might not be ready to take her to my bed, but I never want to make her feel the way I did last night.
She snakes her arms around my shoulders and pulls me to her, crushing her lips against mine before asking, “How many panties are in that box? ”
“Thirty.”
“Then rip off the pair I’m wearing. Now.”
“You don’t have to ask twice.” I turn her around and pin her against the railing, her back molding against my body. “And one more thing, black swan. We. Are. Fucking. Exclusive.”