Celeste's words echoed in Damien's ears long after she'd left his office. "I couldn't even move after that night." It should've stroked his ego, and maybe part of it did—but deeper than that, something twisted inside him. He closed his eyes, the memory crawling back in.
She'd been wrapped in his arms, utterly still—her limbs limp, skin flushed, breath shallow. He remembered brushing his fingers along her spine, how she trembled, how her body barely responded. For a moment, he'd panicked. Had he gone too far? Pushed her past her limit?
He had never meant to break her.
It had been intense, sure—months of tension erupting in one night—but he'd let himself lose control. Celeste hadn't complained. In fact, she had clung to him, kissed him breathless, asked for more.
But seeing her like that afterward—so quiet, so dazed—it gnawed at the part of him that still knew guilt.
Now, days later, her voice brought him back. She didn't regret it. She teased him. Reassured him.
But Damien still remembered the way her body had gone numb in his hold—and the ache in his chest that whispered: Be careful. She's not just yours to consume.
He swallowed hard, guilt and pride fighting for space in his chest. "I was… rough with you."
"You were passionate," she corrected. "You were everything I wanted. Don't confuse my gasps with pain."
His hands rose slowly, as if unsure if he should touch her, but Celeste took them in hers, locking their fingers. "What we did wasn't just sex. It was years of my own loneliness, unsaid words, tension. I needed you in every cell of my body. You think that can be replaced by a smirk and a half-assed pickup line from some boy?"
"Celeste…"
"I knew what I was doing when I came to you that night. And after? I wasn't laying there thinking of Ethan Fairchild. I was thinking of how you made me feel like the only woman in the world."
Her words cracked something in him.
He leaned forward, resting his head against her collarbone, pulling her gently into his lap. She didn't resist. She wrapped her arms around him, resting her chin on his head.
"I don't want to lose you," he admitted, voice muffled. "But I don't know how to keep you without holding too tight."
Celeste kissed the crown of his head.
"Then stop holding tight, Damien. Just hold me."
He looked up at her, eyes raw and open. And she smiled, slow and real.
"I'm not going anywhere," she said. "Even if you forget, even if you try to push me away, I'll remind you."
She nudged his nose with hers, her smile tilting into a grin. "And if Ethan tries anything again, I'll remind him too."
That got a laugh from Damien—low, hoarse, but it was a laugh.
"I'll kill him."
"You'll scowl him into hiding," she teased, tracing his bottom lip with her thumb. "But you won't need to. Because he's not even a contender."
Damien looked at her like she'd just lifted a hundred pounds off his chest.
"Thank you," he murmured.
Celeste leaned in again, her lips brushing his ear. "If you still have doubts, we can always go for round two. For clarity."
He groaned, burying his face in her neck.
"You're a menace," he whispered.
"And you're mine," she replied simply.
And for once, Damien let himself believe it.
The evening sun dipped low over the city skyline, casting a golden hue over the penthouse windows. The soft lighting in Damien's living room highlighted the calm atmosphere that had settled between him and Celeste since they returned from work. The earlier tension from the meeting—Ethan's sly remarks, his provocative smirk, and the silent storm inside Damien—had gradually faded, thanks to Celeste's calming presence.
She sat beside him on the velvet couch, one leg tucked under the other, sipping on a glass of wine. Damien was quiet, eyes fixed on the view outside, but his mind played loops of the boardroom encounter. Celeste could sense it, the subtle clench of his jaw, the way he hadn't spoken much since they left the office.
Celeste leaned in, her voice soft and teasing, "You're still thinking about what he said, aren't you?"
Damien didn't respond immediately. His gaze remained distant.
She set her glass down, turned toward him fully, and gently placed a hand on his knee. "I told you… Ethan doesn't matter."
Damien let out a breath, half-laugh, half-sigh. "He said things. Made it sound like… like I'm too old to keep up with you. That maybe you'd be better with someone who's younger."
Celeste tilted her head, eyes sparkling with mischief. "You remember that night, don't you? The one after the gala? When I couldn't even walk straight the next morning?"
Damien turned to her, eyes narrowing just slightly. Her playful tone stirred something in him.
She leaned in closer, her lips brushing his ear. "If you're doubting yourself again, Damien, maybe you should remind me just how wrong he was."
His breath caught. The fire he tried to suppress flared back to life. The room grew hotter, the wine abandoned as he reached for her, pulling her into his lap with one swift motion.
"You sure about this, Celeste?" he murmured, his voice low, edged with warning.
She smiled against his lips, her eyes holding a challenge. "Prove it. Prove to me you're still the only one who can leave me breathless."
He didn't need a second invitation. Their mouths met in a fierce kiss, one that stole the air from her lungs and flooded her with heat. His hands mapped her body with reverence and hunger, lifting her blouse over her head, exposing her flushed skin to the cool air. She gasped, fingers clutching his shirt before yanking it over his head, revealing the lean strength she adored.
As their bodies met, Damien took his time—each touch purposeful, each kiss deliberate. Celeste arched under him, her breath growing ragged. He whispered her name like a prayer, pressing kisses along her neck, down her collarbone, marking every inch of her with memory.
She responded with equal fervor, fingers digging into his shoulders, hips meeting his with urgency. Damien watched her, mesmerized. The way her head fell back, the sounds she made, the way she clung to him—all of it confirmed what he had begun to forget.
Time slipped between them like silk. The rhythm they created together was intimate and unhurried, drawn out by every shared glance, every whispered word. Damien poured himself into every movement, every moment, needing her to feel—not just pleasure—but his certainty.
Celeste's fingers tangled in his hair as she whispered, breathless, "You're mine, Damien. No one makes me feel like this. No one ever will."
He kissed her harder, deeper, answering without words. His hands trembled slightly from how tightly he was holding on—not just to her, but to this feeling. Of being wanted. Needed. Desired.
The night stretched, shadows dancing on the walls. Celeste had lost count of how many times he made her fall apart in his arms. Her limbs felt boneless, her body tender, yet she never once wanted him to stop. She welcomed it, relished in how he worshipped her like she was the only thing that mattered.
Damien slowed down eventually, hands stroking her sides gently. "Still think I'm old and slow?" he teased, though there was vulnerability in the question.
Celeste smiled through the haze of pleasure. "Old? Maybe. But damn, if this is what experience feels like… I'm never letting you go."
He chuckled softly, brushing damp hair from her forehead, pulling her into his chest as they lay tangled on the couch, limbs intertwined.
"Ethan can talk all he wants," she whispered against his skin. "But only you have ever made me feel this way."
Damien held her tighter.
In that moment, there was no jealousy, no insecurity. Just the two of them—sweaty, breathless, and hopelessly tangled in a connection neither of them fully understood yet, but both were unwilling to let go of.
Damien's fingers brushed over her skin like it was sacred—like she'd shatter if he wasn't gentle enough. And maybe she would. Not because she was fragile, but because she trusted him to hold all the pieces together.
She was lying beneath him, soft breaths brushing his face as her eyes fluttered open just slightly, glassy and warm. That look—half dazed, half certain—nearly wrecked him.
Celeste.
His Celeste.
He wasn't a man who believed in many things. But he believed in the way she felt under his touch. He believed in the way her hands gripped his arms, not to pull him closer, but to anchor herself—like she'd drift without him.
And maybe that was what love really was. That quiet, desperate need to stay grounded in someone else's presence.
He kissed her slowly. Not rushed. Not demanding. Just… there. Deep and consuming, like he wanted to carve her into his memory all over again.
She made a sound, one that was equal parts ache and surrender, and it shook something loose in him.
He remembered her best friend's teasing once—about how Celeste had no experience. And now, here she was, giving all of herself to him, trusting him with her firsts and her fears.
God.
It humbled him. Grounded him. Made him feel like more than just the man who signed contracts and sat in corner offices.
She whimpered his name, and his heart clenched.
Not because of the pleasure. But because there was no space between them anymore. Not physically. Not emotionally.
Damien slowed down, studying her face. Her parted lips, the way her lashes trembled, how her fingers curled against his back like she was holding on for dear life. She was still learning him. Still adjusting. But not once did she pull away.
Her body, even in exhaustion, responded to his every move. And it scared him—how much she gave. How deeply she felt. He felt her trembling, her breath catching, her thighs shaking under his hands.
He leaned his forehead against hers, eyes shut, trying to breathe through the emotion clawing its way up his chest.
"Are you okay?" his voice was hoarse.
She nodded, whispered something that sounded like his name, and pressed a kiss to the edge of his jaw. "Don't stop," she murmured.
His heart twisted.
This wasn't just about desire anymore.
It was about feeling needed, wanted, chosen. It was about healing old wounds. About proving—maybe to both of them—that they were allowed to want something good and messy and real.
She gasped again, softer this time, almost lost in the haze. He held her tighter. Slowed down again. Not to tease—but because he wanted to remember this.
All of it.
The way she arched into him. The way her skin burned under his mouth. The way she whispered his name like it was a prayer she finally believed in.
And when her body went boneless beneath him—just like last time—he wrapped her in his arms and kissed her temple. She barely had the strength to keep her eyes open, her chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.
Damien swallowed hard.
She was exhausted. Spent. But not broken.
There was something achingly beautiful about seeing someone so strong fall apart in your arms—not from pain, but from trust.
He tucked a strand of hair away from her face and whispered against her hairline, "I've got you, Celeste."
Because he did. And maybe… maybe he always would.