11

Celeste

Every inch of my body was glowing with heat and the shimmering haze of giddy, endorphin-soaked satisfaction. I felt as though my bones had liquified and every muscle turned to jelly; there wasn’t an ounce of tension anywhere. I drifted in the bliss of it, content.

“Celly.”

The sound of my name broke through my post-coital fog. Something cold and terrible slipped in with it, coiling around my heart. For a moment, I didn’t move, just sucked in a breath and tried to right my head.

I was wrapped around Nathan’s hard-muscled body, my back

against the wall, his softening cock still inside me. My body burned with the after-shocks of a hard climax, and I felt raw and sticky all over as the sweat on my skin began to cool.

A ball of ice began to form in my stomach as realization set in. I’d had sex with Nathan. Incredible, mind-blowing sex that I absolutely should not have had. Panic welled up inside me, humiliation and fury hot on its heels. This couldn’t be happening. I’d promised—he’d promised.

“Get out.”

Nathan rubbed his cheek against my jaw, clearly half-dazed himself. “Hmm?”

“Get out!” I pushed at him, shoving with arms and legs, suddenly desperate to get away.

“Celly?” He fumbled as he slipped out of me and tried to release his hold without outright dropping me.

The instant my feet touched the cold wood of the floor, I scrambled away on rubbery legs. Damn it. My clothes were everywhere. I shook off my bra, which was hanging by a single strap off one arm, and grabbed for my shirt.

“We weren’t going to do this!” I yelled, fighting back a fresh wave of infuriating tears.

I dragged my shirt over my head and snatched up my jeans. I

choked on self-loathing as I pulled my panties on. I’d been explicitly clear that this was professional only. We’d both agreed—and then Nathan had touched me. One stupid, simple touch, and I’d let him blow right through

every one of my carefully drawn boundaries. Five years. Five years I’d kept my distance and protected my heart, and one kiss had destroyed all the

walls I’d worked so hard to build.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“Celly.” Nathan’s fingers were clumsy on his jeans, and I refused to look at his perfectly toned abs and the muscled expanse of his chest. It didn’t matter that his arms had felt safe, or that having him inside me was the first time in years that I didn’t feel like a piece of me was missing. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

“No!” I cut off whatever he was about to say and yanked up my own jeans as if being clothed could distance or protect me from the mess I’d made. “Get out.”

“Baby.” He hovered by the wall where I’d left him, his hands out to the sides like he wanted to reach for me but didn’t dare.

The utterly lost and devastated look on his face was like a blade twisting in my heart, but I didn’t back down. Fury and shame were the only things keeping me on my feet, and I clutched at them desperately.

“I’m not doing this with you again,” I hissed through gritted teeth. “This was a mistake, and it’s never happening again. I don’t want you here. Not now, not ever. Get out of my house and leave me alone!”

For a few long heartbeats, he stared at me, unmoving. All the color drained from his face, and he looked like I’d bludgeoned him. Then, very

slowly, he righted the rest of his clothing. Raising his hands back out to the sides slightly, he circled around me, keeping his distance as he moved toward the door, as though I were rabid and likely to attack if he stepped too close. His eyes never left mine, their green depths wells of misery.

His hand on the doorknob, he tried one more time. “Celeste.” “Get. Out.” It came out as a growling snap.

His eyes broke from mine, and then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him. I leaped for it, slamming the deadbolt into place. Then I slid to the ground and sobbed.

Eventually, there were no more tears. Exhausted and hollow, I made myself get up. Moving made me realize how disgusting I felt. The dried

sweat on my skin made me feel cold, and my thighs were tacky against my jeans where Nathan’s spend had dripped out of me. Trudging upstairs, I

stripped off all my clothing and threw everything in the hamper.

Twisting the knob in the shower, I set the water to nearly scalding and set about scrubbing the memory of Nathan’s touch off my skin. The terrible irony of it made me want to laugh. When Nathan disappeared, I’d

bought the same brand of soap he always used, desperate to have some little piece of him to hold onto while I worried and tried to find out what was going on without giving myself away. I’d used it every day for the first

week, still clinging to hope that there’d been some kind of misunderstanding. That he’d come back.

I threw it out the day his postcard arrived.

Shoving my face under the showerhead, I refused to start crying again. Erratic hormones or not, I would not waste another minute being distraught over Nathan Sloan.

You made a mistake, I told myself, shutting off the water and reaching for a towel. So did he. It doesn’t change anything.

Padding into my bedroom, I gathered my damp hair up on top of my head and secured it with a clip. Then I rummaged in the closet for yoga pants, a slouchy sweatshirt, and thick, fuzzy socks. My body ached pleasantly as I pulled them on, and I huffed in silent irritation. However much I had not intended to have sex with Nathan, there was no denying that it had been amazing. He’d made it his mission from the first day we were together to learn how to touch me. Clearly, he hadn’t forgotten a single trick.

My mind shied away from the eagerness with which he’d applied his tongue to making me come. I knew from pack gossip that wasn’t treatment many women got, but Nathan had never been shy about having

his mouth on me. Heat started to build in my belly at the memories, but I shoved them away, resolutely heading downstairs.

I stopped in the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water. I spared a longing glance at the coffee maker, but I hadn’t had a chance to pick up decaf yet, and high-test was off the table for the next nine months. Turning off all the lights in the house, I tucked myself into my sewing studio, determined to take my mind off things with some work. Double-checking that the studio’s exterior entrance was also locked, I shut all the blinds and fished through my music selection for something calming and tranquilizing.

Finally, I retrieved Katie’s wedding dress from the mannequin I was using to store it and carried it to the sewing machine. Fitting the fabric under the needle, I fell into the rhythm with the ease of years of practice.

Unfortunately, my hands knew the work well enough that I didn’t have to think about it much. When my thoughts began to wander, they ran smack into Nathan.

I’d believed him when he said he was willing to keep things between us professional, to put the past behind us. I was equally sure he’d meant it when he’d pinned me to the wall and whispered how much he’d missed me while he thrust inside me like he belonged there. I’d missed him, too.

But the man whose baby I now carried wasn’t the same boy I’d lost.

That Nathan—the one I’d trusted with my life, my heart—had vanished.

Disappeared like a ghost in the middle of a perfectly ordinary week without so much as a word. Part of me had been lost with him.

The man who’d come back was a good Alpha, and he’d be a great father. But he couldn’t be my mate. I couldn’t risk my heart again. I still didn’t know how I’d survived the first time. If I let myself love him again only to lose him a second time, I knew I’d never recover.

Pulling the fabric free of the machine, I carried the gown to the over-sized ironing board to press the seams. Steam hissed as I moved the

iron steadily over the fabric, mentally cataloging everything I’d lost the day he’d left.

I’d lost my dreams of the home we were going to build together and the pups we’d have. My faith in other people to take care of me, to have my back when I needed them. My confidence in myself as a desirable mate had been shattered. Though it had never been his intent, Nathan had shaped me into who I was today when he’d slammed the door on our life together and taken off to the far reaches of the globe.

Returning to the sewing machine, I thought of the paperwork Dr.

Carlton had given me. The highlighted number for the agency’s counseling department.

You should call, I told myself, pressing the foot pedal down to start the sewing machine again. What happened with Nathan couldn’t happen

again, but neither could I cut him out of my life as I had before. He was going to raise our child. For the baby’s sake, if nothing else, I needed to put this behind me—properly, this time.

Tomorrow, I promised myself. Tomorrow I’d call. I’d talk to

someone as many times as it took to convince myself that I did not love

Nathan Sloan and that we were completely and unequivocally just friends.