Every time love Ch 17

Celene’s POV…

There’s a kind of silence that doesn’t feel peaceful. It feels like I’m drowning. I hadn’t changed out of my blouse, my heels were kicked somewhere near the door, and I was curled up on the edge of the couch like someone had punched a hole through my chest. The wine I poured hours ago sat on the table, untouched. My lipstick had cracked. My hands still smelled like stress and too many paper handouts from a meeting I didn’t remember surviving.

My phone hadn’t buzzed all night. Not even spam wanted me. And the worst part? I understood. The article was still open on my laptop, mocking me in harsh font. PR Puppet. Strategic Placement. Fernand’s Safety Net. Not “leader.” Not “visionary.” Just a placeholder in red lipstick.

And suddenly, I wasn’t CEO anymore. I was that girl again. The girl people whispered about behind glass doors. The one they let sit at the table just long enough to look diverse, then quietly nudged out when she spoke too loud. Too opinionated. Too much. My hands were shaking, and I hated that they were. Because I was Celene Monroe. Wasn’t I?

I barely registered the knock. It started soft. Barely there. Then louder. A pause. Then another knock. Firmer. I thought about ignoring it. Whoever it was could go to hell with the rest of the headlines. But I stood up anyway. And when I opened the door, I forgot how to breathe.

Damon Ashcroft stood there, hair a mess, sleeves rolled, coat half-off his shoulder like he hadn’t stopped moving since he read the same headlines that broke me. He didn’t say anything at first. Just lifted the bottle of wine I liked and gave a quiet, steady look that didn’t ask if he could come in. It told me he was already here.

“You looked like you needed backup,” he said, his voice lower than usual. Not sharp. Not sarcastic. Real. I stepped aside without a word, too tired to pretend I didn’t want him there.

He moved like he’d done this before. Kicked off his shoes by the door, uncorked the wine without asking, poured two glasses like it was the most natural thing in the world. He handed me one. I didn’t take it. I just sat back down, legs folded under me, arms wrapped around my middle like I was trying to keep something from spilling out.

Damon set his glass on the coffee table and sat next to me. Close. Too close. But I didn’t pull away. The silence that sat between us wasn’t comfortable. But it wasn’t cold either. It was thick. Heavy. Unspoken things pressed against my chest. I stared ahead, eyes burning, jaw clenched.

Then finally, voice small, I said, “Why did you defend me today?”

He looked over. “You’re really asking me that?”

I swallowed hard. “You could’ve let me sink.”

His jaw flexed. “You think I’d do that?”

“You think anyone else in that room wouldn’t have?” His answer came fast, but not loud.

“I don’t care what they think. I care what you do.”

I blinked, throat tightening again. “They think I’m just a symbol. A placeholder. They look at me like I’m… borrowed time in designer heels.” He didn’t try to soften it. Didn’t contradict the words. He let them sit.

Then he said, “You’ve been through worse.” I flinched.

He leaned in. “You’ve survived worse.”

“Then why does this feel like breaking?”

“Because it always does when you get back up,” he said quietly. “That’s what makes it different. You don’t need them to believe in you. You never did.” His voice dropped lower, closer.

“You built this with hands they don’t understand. You bled for this in ways they’ll never see.” I turned toward him, face warm, tears dangerously close. And for once, he didn’t look away.

He reached out, slow, measured, and brushed a strand of hair behind my ear like he wasn’t sure if I’d let him. I did. I didn’t speak. Couldn’t. But I leaned into that touch. And when my fingers found his wrist, I felt him tense. Not from rejection. From restraint.

“Celene,” he murmured. My name didn’t sound like a warning. It sounded like a promise. I leaned in. Barely. But he closed the distance. His lips brushed mine, slow, steady, and full of everything we’d swallowed for weeks. Tension. Rage. Want.

I opened for him, and he exhaled like he hadn’t breathed until now. My fingers curled into the front of his shirt. His hand slid into my hair. The kiss deepened fast. Desperate. Hot.

His tongue pushed into my mouth, claiming, tasting, like he needed to devour every inch of me. His hand moved fast, fisting my blouse, pulling it open until buttons scattered on the floor. His palm cupped my breast, squeezing hard through my bra until I whimpered.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he growled into my neck, dragging his mouth down, sucking hard enough to mark. “Wanted you. Like this. My hips rolled up against him and he groaned, grinding back, his cock already hard and pressing against me through our clothes.

He didn’t undress me gently. He yanked my skirt up, shoved my panties aside, fingers sliding through my pussy like he was testing how wet I already was “Fuck,” he muttered. “You’re soaked for me.”

I gasped as two fingers pushed inside, pumping rough and steady, his thumb rubbing my clit with just enough pressure to make my thighs twitch. “Want me to stop?” he said, voice dark, teasing. I grabbed his belt, yanking it open with shaking hands.

“Shut up and fuck me.”

He didn’t make me say it twice. He stood just long enough to strip, then came back down on top of me, cock thick and flushed and already leaking at the tip. He dragged it against my pussy, teasing the entrance, then pushed inside in one deep, hungry thrust.

“Jesus- fuck-” he hissed, slamming in deeper. “You feel too fucking good. Tight little pussy just swallowing me. I cried out, back arching, nails clawing down his back as he started to move. Hard. Deep. Each thrust brutal and perfect, his body pinning me down like he was claiming me.

“You wanted this,” he growled in my ear. “Wanted me to pound this pussy, didn’t you?” I moaned shamelessly, wrapping my legs around him, taking every brutal thrust like I needed it to stay sane.

“I’m gonna fuck you so hard you forget all their names,” he snarled, slamming into me again and again. “The only name you’ll remember is mine.”

And it was. Over and over. I said his name like it was the only thing keeping me breathing. And when we came, shaking, sweating, gasping, it felt like something cracked open and spilled between us. Not love. Not yet. But something real. Something we weren’t going to take back.