Page 135 of Meet Me In The Dark
“I don’t need your sympathy either, Julian.”
Understanding flickers across his gaze before he dips his chin in agreement.
Compared to what he had, my childhood was padded in privilege but hollow as hell. A carousel of boarding schools and parents who gave me everything except time or any affection.
Julian had a rough beginning, but he had love. Real love.
If I could trade all the picture-perfect Christmas cards and housekeepers and cold, quiet dinners for a single moment of what Margaret gave him, I would.
The tide creeps closer, white foam licking at our toes before sliding back into the dark water.
Neither of us says a word. We just stand there, watching the waves roll and crash under the moonlight,each lost in our own thoughts about what we’d trade, what we’d keep, and what we might still have left to give.
Forty-Two
Julian
She’s fucking wild.
That’s the only way to describe her.
Barefoot, soaked, and laughing like she just discovered freedom, she dances in and out of the waves with her arms out like wings. Her sweater clings to her body like it wants to hold her as tightly as I do.
I can’t stop watching her.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen her like this. No filter. No careful facade. Just moonlight and some reckless giggle that has no business making my chest feel like this.
Her hair is everywhere. Wind-tangled and sea-sprayed, it whips across her face and sticks to her cheeks. She pushes it back and turns toward me with a look that usually gets me in trouble.
“Ever been skinny dipping here?”
“Celeste,” I warn, leaning back on my hands just to drink her in as she approaches me.
“Well, have you?”
“No, but why do I have the feeling you’re about to change that?”
The beach is private. That’s why I bought this house. There’s nobody else in sight for miles. Just me, the ocean, and now her.
She takes another step toward me and grins.
“That’s just a waste of good ocean.”
“Wait a—”
Too late.
The sweater comes off in one smooth pull until she’s standing there in the moonlight, bare-skinned and breathless, wearing a black bra and not a single ounce of shame.
My jaw locks.
She knows what she’s doing. Her smile says it all. She’s putting on a show, and I’m the dumb bastard in the front row who can’t look away.
Her hands trail down her stomach, thumbs hooking into the waistband of her sweatpants. She wiggles out of them, one hip, then the other.
I can’t fucking breathe.
“Jesus, Celeste.”
