Celes Wedding Secret

The sky over the vineyard was painted in strokes of tangerine and rose, the kind of sunset that made people believe in forever. Laughter echoed across the lawn, blending with the clink of glasses and the distant rhythm of a jazz trio tucked beneath a canopy of lights. It was a dream wedding. Carefully choreographed, delicately curated.

And Celes didn’t belong.

She stood by the edge of a marble fountain, her blush-pink dress catching hints of gold as the light faded. The dress hugged her in ways she wasn’t used to—elegant, graceful, demure. She looked the part of a picture-perfect guest. But beneath the silk, her skin buzzed.

She was unraveling.

The ceremony had been flawless. The couple radiant. The toasts sweet and safe. But with each hour that passed, Celes felt herself peeling away from the illusion, like a sticker too stubborn to stay flat. She'd smiled and mingled and said all the right things. She'd posed for photos, danced with a few strangers, accepted compliments with a tilt of the head.

But now…

Now her thighs pressed together beneath the tablecloth, her pulse a steady beat against her ribs. Her glass of champagne had remained half full for the last hour—not because she didn’t want to drink, but because the fire in her veins came from somewhere else entirely.

She needed release.

Not affection. Not romance. Craving. The deep, gnawing ache she lived with like a second heartbeat—only tonight it pulsed harder. There was something about being surrounded by so much control, so much beauty, that made her want to ruin it. Or at least escape it.

She didn’t look around when she stood. Didn’t excuse herself. She just moved—gracefully, deliberately, like she was simply heading to the powder room. But her path was memorized.

The manor house loomed ahead, ivy draping its old stone like lace. She slipped inside through a side door left ajar for ventilation. The hallway beyond was cooler, quieter. Tempting.

The study.

It welcomed her with a creak of old hinges, the scent of aged paper and cedar wrapping around her like a whisper. The door clicked shut behind her, and the outside world fell away.

Alone. Finally.

She leaned against the edge of the desk, the wood cool through the thin fabric. Her fingers found the underside of her dress and lifted, slowly, teasing herself as if she were her own voyeur. She pulled it high enough to free her thighs, the air brushing against skin already fever-warm with need.

Celes closed her eyes. Breathed deep. Let the tension coil tighter.

One hand on the desk. The other trailing slowly inward.

She didn’t rush. No—she savored. The thrill was in the secrecy, the silence, the risk. Anyone could walk in. One of the groomsmen. A tipsy bridesmaid. Someone looking for a charger or a moment alone.

But this moment was hers.

Her fingers found heat. Wet. Ready.

A sharp breath caught in her throat.

Her touch was practiced but urgent, drawn from muscle memory and the particular thrill of denial stretched thin. She pressed harder, circled slower, hips rocking in subtle rhythm against the edge of the desk. A soft gasp escaped her lips.

She bit it back. But not all the way.

She imagined hands not her own. Mouths whispering against her skin. Someone behind her, holding her still, telling her she couldn’t be this loud, not here. She imagined the pressure of being seen—of being taken in a place meant for quiet cigars and grandfather clocks.

The fantasy tightened.

A soft whimper broke free as she dipped deeper. The need building, cresting, drowning out thought. Her thighs trembled. Her breath came faster, short and shallow. The silk of her dress slid against her stomach, cool and damp with sweat.

She opened her eyes and stared at the window—at the faint glow of lanterns beyond the glass.

Still connected to the world. But entirely apart.

She was close. Every nerve alight, every breath a warning.

And then it hit—a quiet, shattering quake of sensation, rolling through her with hot, sweet violence. Her knees buckled. She gripped the desk to keep from falling, her head tipping back, mouth open in a silent cry.

It was perfect. Because it was hers.

No audience. No performance. Just need, answered.

She stood there for a long moment, letting the aftershocks fade, smoothing her dress with shaking hands. A strand of hair had come loose, clinging to the sweat at her neck. She tucked it back with a quiet laugh.

When she finally stepped out of the study, her heart had steadied.

Her eyes gleamed with something no one would name. Her lips, when they smiled at a passing guest, curved with quiet victory.

And somewhere in the blur of champagne and sparklers, the night started.

But Celes? She was complete.