After Skyla showered and went to bed, I grabbed a bottle of Johnnie that the resort keeps in stock to purchase and took it out onto the terrace with me before Quinn could start in on her interrogation. My thoughts couldn’t escape what Celeste and I did—what she said afterward. Over the years, I’ve had my fair share of one-night stands. I’ve even been in a couple short-term relationships. But not once have I ever went in raw. No glove, no love. Every man knows that rule. Sure, when we were together before, she was on birth control, but I don’t know her situation now, and I definitely don’t know who she’s been with.
Yet, I didn’t even think twice about going in without a rubber—just like all those years ago. From the moment I laid my eyes on Celeste at that party, it’s as if she somehow bewitched me. I don’t think logically or rationally when she’s near me. My dick and my heart seem to be the only two organs that function when she’s around.
The longer I drink, the more my mind replays the events from tonight. The way Celeste felt with her legs wrapped around me. The way she tugged on my hair, and the way her tight cunt clenched around my cock as I fucked her. I couldn’t even tell you who initiated it—probably me—but I can tell you that, even though it’s been eleven damn years since I’ve been with her, it felt as if no time had passed.
While her body is less girl and more woman, her soft, pouty lips haven’t changed a bit. The way she kissed me, it was as if everything of mine was hers for the taking. She owned my body, heart, and soul all those years ago, and tonight, I realized she could easily take it all again. But the question is, could I let her? Would I even have a choice? First things first, I needed to find out why she left me all those years ago without even so much as a goodbye. The way she’s acted every time I’ve run into her, it’s as if I’m in the wrong, which makes no sense. She’s the one who lied about her age, and where she went to school, and about her damn modeling gig in New York. Hell, she’s the one who got on a plane and left me.
I should be the one that’s pissed—and I am. But at the same time, all those damn feelings I had are coming back in full swing. No woman has ever affected me the way Celeste does. With a single look, a simple touch, she knocks me off my game. Over the years, I thought Skyla being so into modeling was God’s way of laughing at me, mocking me. Of all the things my daughter could be into, of course she has to be into fashion—sketching, drawing, designing, modeling. She loves it all. And for most kids, that would mean observing the latest trends from afar. But for Skyla, because her grandparents are ridiculously wealthy, it means she’s able to enjoy the luxuries of name brand clothes up close and personal. Some days, my daughter puts on outfits that cost more than the monthly payment on the mortgage for the townhouse we live in, which is something I try not to think about. Because, despite me not wanting my child to wear shit like Burberry and Ralph Lauren, Amaya’s parents, Monica and Phil, asked that I accept the gifts they send her every month. It was one of their stipulations when I told them I wanted to move to New York. Most grandparents would ask to visit every so often, or to receive phone calls, but not them. Their way of showing love is through materialistic possessions. While I didn’t agree with it—still don’t—it meant getting to leave with my daughter without them putting up a fight. I’ve learned over the years to pick my battles with them.
Their other stipulation was for Skyla to attend private school. Since there was no way I could ever afford to send her to one myself, and I’m man enough to admit that, I agreed. Being a father comes first, and if that means allowing her grandparents to pay for her schooling, then so be it. Skyla loves her school, and I love that she’s getting a top-notch education. There’s even an art club she’s part of there. Several days after school she also attends a STEM program for kids, which allows her to learn technology through fashion design. My daughter has a bright future ahead of her.
“You drunk yet?” Quinn asks, stepping out onto the terrace.
“Not enough,” I murmur, taking another swig.
“I saw Celeste storm out of the bathroom…” When I don’t acknowledge her words, she adds, “And you storm out right afterward.”