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“Cab Sauv from Bordeaux with hints of blackcurrant and cardamom, or Pinot Noir from Burgundy? Cab Sauv sounds nice, don't you think?”
“I think I don’t know the fucking difference,” I groan. “And I hate you.”
She chuckles. “The Bordeaux it is then.”
“Please, Celeste. Just ask me.”
“Why would I? I’m having so much fun making you suffer.”
This is why I don’t like her,I remind myself.And why the stupid butterflies in my stomach can piss off.At least Casey deceived me into thinking she wasn't so selfish – and look how well that went. How could you be in a relationship with someone who can’t even manage that?
“Because,” I moan. “It would make me really happy. It feels nice to be considered, you know.”
With a sigh, she sets down the wine bottle and unties me.
Did that really work?
She pulls me back into the kitchen by my hair and lifts me on the counter, trailing kisses over my stomach until her head is between my thighs again.
“I do consider you,” she mumbles before running her tongue over my clit, making me shiver with pleasure. “That’s why I asked which wine you want.”
“I don’t even drink wine!” I groan before hiding my face beneath my forearms, trying to hold back the sounds of my delight.
She digs her nails into my thighs as she continues to circle my clit with her tongue in an organized symphony with the vibrator. This time, she doesn't pull back and I have to bite the knuckle of my index finger to stop myself from crying out as she finally pushes me over the edge, my orgasm so powerful I see stars dancing behind my eyelids.
Leaving me breathless and panting on the counter, she comes up with a smile, her lips slick with my pleasure. “Kitten?”
“Hmm?” I say, still recovering.
“Be a good girl and have dinner with me.”
I give out a mix of a groan and a chuckle. “Seriously?”
“Well?” She pokes at the container. “Keep in mind that it’s gone a little cold, though.”
I let out a defeated sigh, rolling my eyes. “Fine. You win. I’ll have dinner with you.”
14. THE DRUGS DON’T WORK
Despite the lingering ache in my body, the days I spend waiting for my bruises to fade are somewhat blissful. Alastor still lingers in the back of my mind and I flinch at every sound but every time Celeste tells me that I’m her girl and she’ll make sure everyone knows never to touch me again, I feel a little warmer. Only when she’s not there do I find myself suddenly startling at the outline of coats on their hangers or drawing all the curtains because it feels like someone is watching.
I’ve been afraid that as my body returns to normal, Celeste will return to her cold and distant self, something that seems unbearable now that I’ve seen another side of her. The few days following our dinner, my worries seem to be unfounded and I almost let myself believe that this could be… something.
That is until one night, she returns late from ‘business’ that she has refused to elaborate further on.
“Hi,” she says as she sees me standing in the kitchen through the open door, flinging her keys onto the secretaire by the entryway.
I jump at the sound.Dammit, Deni.“Hey.”
Celeste looks weary. Her expression is, as usual, carefully neutral but also strangely vacant. Her eyes quickly scan the room, over the kitchen benches and my body, to a cabinet door above the fridge. It’s the kind of very fancy fridge that makes icecubes for you, a function I definitely haven’t been excessively abusing just because I can.
“How are you feeling?” She asks, bypassing me to open the cabinet. Her shaking fingers rummage around between mixing bowls and other unwieldily large kitchenware, taking out stacks of each at a time.
I hug myself to suppress the urge to be held. “Well, I’m feeling more alive. Or… less dead, I guess.”
“Good.”
I watch as she fails to find what she’s looking for in the cabinet and, shoving its contents aside on the bench, squats down and begins to dig through the cupboard beneath the counter. Her movements are quick and unusually unrestrained, almost angry. Not sure what’s going on, I stand there for a few moments, holding my teapot and watching her search through the kitchen.
