The early morning light spilled through the curtains, soft and golden, but Damien didn't notice the warmth it cast. He blinked against the haze in his head, the dryness in his throat reminding him of the drinks from last night. Champagne. Aged wine. Something someone handed him at the gala.
But none of that compared to what hit him next.
The second he shifted slightly, his arm still loosely curled around the sleeping figure beside him, everything came rushing back in gut-punching clarity.
Celeste.
She was asleep, face tucked into the pillow, her lashes brushing flushed cheeks, her lips parted slightly as she breathed in soft, rhythmic waves. One arm lay against his chest. Possessive even in slumber.
His body was sore in places, but it was the sharp tug of memory that made his heart pound.
The dancing.
The balcony.
The kiss.
Her whisper—a plea—asking him to kiss her.
The need in her eyes. That raw, desperate kind of trust you only give once.
And then…
Damien slowly sat up, trying not to wake her. The sheets tangled around his legs, the room still faintly smelling of her perfume, of skin, of sweat, of sex.
The bed told its own story.
Ruffled sheets. Their clothes strewn around the room. And… the faintest trace of red on the sheets near where she had lain.
He stilled.
The realization hit him like ice to the chest.
It was her first time.
And he'd been drunk. Not black-out drunk, but… buzzed enough. Emotionally overwhelmed from the gala, jealous, vulnerable. And she—Celeste—had pulled him into a kiss not just for desire, but to keep herself anchored.
Damien exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. His fingers trembled slightly as he reached for the discarded shirt on the edge of the bed.
What the hell had he done?
No.
No, it wasn't that simple.
He hadn't taken advantage of her—God, no. She had been the one who kissed him first. She had looked at him like he was her anchor, had whispered for him to make it all stop. To hold her. To claim her.
But still.
This was Celeste.
The girl who made biting remarks and called him a jerk in front of his staff. The one who rolled her eyes at him when he flirted. Who got flustered when he so much as brushed his fingers across her wrist. Who stood by him when he was drunk and sobbing and ashamed.
He had crossed a line.
They had crossed it together.
And it wasn't just sex. He could still hear her moan his name, still feel how her body trembled with every new touch. She hadn't been afraid. She hadn't held back.
But her inexperience—her vulnerability—was undeniable.
He glanced back at her.
She was still asleep. One leg had kicked off part of the blanket, the rest tangled around her hips. Damien tugged it gently up, covering her again, brushing her hair back from her face.
And God, she looked like heaven in his bed.
The urge to curl back beside her was strong. To kiss her awake. To ask how she was feeling. To joke, maybe—lighten the moment.
But he couldn't.
Not yet.
His chest was tight.
Because last night hadn't just been about passion. It had been about her needing to erase pain. Him needing to feel something after all the guilt and the past that kept haunting him.
Damien stood up, grabbing a pair of pants from the floor. The cold wood floor under his feet grounded him somewhat.
A coffee. He needed a coffee.
Something to slow the spinning thoughts in his head.
As he left the room, he cast one more look over his shoulder.
Celeste shifted slightly, burying herself deeper into his pillow.
Damien's jaw clenched.
She trusted him.
And he just hoped to God he hadn't broken that trust last night in a moment of heat and desperation.
Damien stood in the kitchen, coffee half-filled in his favorite mug, steam rising slowly.
But he didn't drink it.
He couldn't.
His mind wasn't on caffeine. It was still in the bedroom.
Still on her.
Celeste.
His gaze drifted to the hallway, the way the soft morning light barely touched the edge of the doorframe. The entire penthouse was quiet, the kind of silence that echoed things louder in your head. His own heartbeat felt too loud. The memory of her voice, her gasp, her nails against his back—louder.
He should've left her to rest.
Should've let the morning unfold with time and space and careful consideration.
But the truth?
He didn't want space.
He didn't want distance.
It was the weekend.
No meetings, no staff, no gala. Just quiet, solitude, and her. His grip tightened around the mug. She was probably still asleep, curled in that blanket like it was stitched to her. Her hair all over the pillow, her cheeks flushed the way they always were when she was sleeping deeply. Vulnerable and soft and his.
And they'd already crossed it once.
So why not again?
He placed the mug down quietly, the ceramic clink muted. His bare feet padded against the floor as he walked back to the bedroom. Slow. Measured.
But every step was fueled by something hotter, heavier.
When he entered the room again, it was still dim. The curtains kept most of the sun out. Celeste lay where he left her, her body tangled in the blanket, only the bare curve of her shoulder exposed. Her hair was tousled, the ends brushing the side of her neck.
Damien leaned against the doorway for a second, watching.
Maybe he was selfish.
Maybe it was reckless.
But his body moved before his mind could talk him out of it.
He walked to her side of the bed, knelt slightly, and brushed a strand of hair from her face. Her brow twitched at the light touch, but she didn't wake.
"Celeste," he whispered, low and soft.
No response.
"Angel."
That got her.
Her eyes fluttered open, lashes heavy. She blinked up at him, still half-asleep. And then her lips curved—not a smile, not quite—but something content.
"You're staring," she mumbled, voice husky.
"You're beautiful," he replied without hesitation.
A quiet laugh escaped her, short and sleepy. "And you're cheesy."
He leaned down, lips grazing her temple. "Guilty."
She stretched beneath the covers, the blanket falling down just enough to tease. Damien's gaze swept over her bare shoulder, the hickey blooming near her collarbone—a mark he hadn't meant to leave but didn't regret either.
Her gaze met his then, a little more alert now. "You okay?"
"Shouldn't I be asking you that?"
She tilted her head. "I feel like my legs might fall off, and I might never be able to look you in the eye again for… like two hours." She grinned. "But I'm fine."
Damien's laugh was quiet, warm. "You sure?"
Celeste's smile faded into something softer. She reached out, fingertips brushing over the edge of his jaw. "I trusted you."
His breath caught.
And damn her, she always knew exactly what to say to gut him.
He kissed her. Not with urgency. Just… reverence. His lips pressed against hers with a warmth that spread slowly, seeping under her skin. She hummed against him, hand tangling in his hair.
When they pulled back, she was breathless.
"So…" she said slowly, "do we regret it?"
Damien stared at her for a beat too long.
Then, he slipped beneath the blanket.
Celeste's eyes widened slightly. "Damien…"
He kissed her again—deeper this time.
"We already crossed it once," he murmured against her lips. "And it's finally the weekend."
She laughed softly, that half-nervous, half-wicked sound he'd grown addicted to. "You're terrible."
"You love it."
She rolled onto her back, his body sliding above hers. "I do," she whispered, eyes on his, voice honest.
His heart thudded at the confession.
And then there was no more hesitation.
No guilt. No fear. Just heat. Hands finding familiar skin, mouths rediscovering patterns, the softness of the morning stretching into something far slower than the fire of last night.
He kissed down her throat. Her pulse throbbed against his lips.
Celeste's fingers clutched at his back, nails barely grazing.
"You okay?" he asked again, because he had to, because it mattered.
She nodded, breath catching. "Please don't stop."
He didn't.
And the way she looked at him?
Like he wasn't a man with a past, or guilt, or a crumbling marriage.
But just Damien.
Just hers.