Novels by Celine

Jasper didn't feelanythingto the new promise—the promise the pair would be back in the courtroom soon, speaking of a man half the girl's flesh. He had thought he'd feel at least a twinge of angst to the idea... but suddenly, he felt it would be nothing close to even an effort if the girl was in it with him.

"Youbìtch," The man spat the words as she tore her arm from his grip, fingertips tightening threateningly. "Just wait and you'll see me there—in fact, you'll see me far sooner than you think. You're still mine,"

Ambiguous. It was something ambiguous.The act of holding someone's eyes, connecting Irises shattered and bottomless. The act of eye contact. The act of something so v

Genevieve sighed the words, her hands clutching his, nails delicately biting the skin of his knuckles. She raised her hips from the mattress to meet his. He lowered his lips to the skin of her neck as his lengths became steady, her legs holding the man against her.He groaned against her skin as he moved between her thighs, finally lifting his lips to her own once more. Her thin moans failed to slow - lips moving against his with an unusual chorus of gasps and pleasured whimpers.

There was something oddly subtle about the way sunlight of a youth fell against the ivory skin of a familiar girl. Her frame had become kin of the sheets, Jasper's hand kin of her skin. She writhed and gasped in the light of morning, lips parted by a wide girth of breath, eyebrows knitted and fingers clasping on the dishevelled, crumpled linen of the bedding beneath her.The man lay above her, watching gasping breaths tumble from between her collarbones and through her lips as he offered her sweet, small smiles.

The man smiled with her words, hands lifting affectionately to the frame of Genevieve's face, marked by her ears. Their eyes remained fixed on one another's comfortably, breaths warm together. "You're somehow hexing, kitten,"Her heart stammered in her chest as if it were to be fumbling, stuttering at a loss of words; a loss of breath and inner balance, tipped by a shy affection as his words played with the spoiling of her heart. "I like that one,"

Staring out at the living room floor, Blue saw a sight she never thought she would live to see: Marian playing with her grandson on the floor. It was unsettling, in an uncanny-valley way. Something so close to resembling human but just short of enough. She spun her engagement ring back and forth on her finger. He slid his arm around her waist. “’You okay?” She glanced up to the man stood at her side. His dark hair gathered into a short, thick ponytail. Eyes as bright as ever. Smile as devilish. Would it be so wrong to fuck like animals with her mother in the room next to them? After all, to a married couple, sex was the most natural thing. Or so she'd heard. “Yeah,” Blue sighed. Hugged her arms around herself. “I think so,” “How long is she staying?” “Until she can get the settlement money from Bradley,” “I didn’t think he had any left,” “It’s all

It could have been hours by the time Blue came to. Usually, the state of her coffee would be a good indicator, but it had been stone cold for god knows how long. The sun was still up, if that counted for anything. She had left her phone at the house. Vincent was with the baby. She had stolen herself away for some quiet at the very café she had shared with both Vincent and Richard. Sat staring at her right hand where the engagement ring of the latter sat without a band. What was he doing? A thought that crossed her mind often. She hadn’t heard from him after the verdict, though still awaiting the sentencing. She had the thought that he was arrested for assaulting a police officer after his fiasco of escaping custody in the courtroom. Christopher wouldn’t have set any bail, would he? Not after he pretended to have been oblivious to his son’s sins. It would be hard to act surprised if he was actively helping his son as someone ought to. Vincent

Blue stared at the city; Vincent stood at the counter behind her. The windowsill seemed to share her most pivotal moments more than even the universe shared them with her. Though her grief was one of the poorer-kept secrets of the world she felt marginally better whispering her thoughts to the brittle pane. Just as she felt gratitude Vincent had kept the apartment they’d outgrown with the baby for nostalgia’s sake. Or to bolster his net worth. Either one.She was muttering the same three words over and over. Repeated hoping that enough times would unencumber her or the rage that swelled with each inhale to expel them. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. I hate… The world?“I should write him a very strongly worded letter.” She glanced to her husband, the man fiddling with a steaming tea as though debating which moment would be safest to present it to his wife. “But

“It is found,” Blue glanced up at her husband, her arse feeling rather sore from the wooden bench. They had been sat in court for what ought to have been five hours at that point. The room smelt of wood varnish and stale air, having the look about it of a church with generous natural light and the buzz of Catholic choir. Only the silence rattled through much the same way any prayer would. “That the Commonwealth has proven beyond a reasonable doubt,” She had stared at the back of Richard’s head the whole time, if only hoping he would meet her eyes for just a second. She feared he thought no one in the room was on his side, a feeling she had become well-acquainted with over the years. Nothing seemed more dreadful than being carted off to prison with that same feeling. How strange it was to think that the man she was so sure she would murder given the chance had sat on the living room floor playing with her son just a day or two before. Staring into her husband’s deep green eyes, she w

“So, I have a question,” Blue reached for her coffee, eyeing her maid. Well, she wasn’t her maid anymore. She was her mother-in-law. It was complicated. Pregnancy had somehow made her even fonder of coffee, maybe because she hadn’t had it. “Why did you tell me not to stay with Vincent when I told you I was pregnant if he was your son this whole time?” She couldn’t help but smile at her own sentence, taking a long gulp of the latte that had since gone flat. Vincent stared between the two silently. It was news to him.“I thought he was going to prison,” She simply shrugged. It was a good enough answer. Blue wasn’t sure whether Anya—Alfonza, as she had come to know—liked her all that much. “I thought I was doing what was best for everyone,”“So, you tell my wife to leave me?” Then came her husband’s booming voice, deep and accented. Ho

Blue stared at the deep purple wrap dress in the mirror, sleeves to her elbows. Loosened the strings around her waist and tightened the knot again as though it would magically make her thinner. She was yet to properly mourn her pre-baby figure. She looked like a rectangle. A bloated, lumpy rectangle. Or so she thought quietly to herself. She tore the dress over her head.“I think we’ve found a winner,” Vincent entered the wardrobe quietly. Tried his best not to gawk at the woman in her underwear as though he’d never seen her half-naked before. Failed miserably. Wrapped his arms around her middle instead and pressed his mouth to hers. But she shoved him away. Turned back to the clothes instead.“We can’t do this, we’ll be late,” though she spoke as firmly as she could, she couldn’t help but smile softly to herself and blush as she leafed through her clothes without looking. The idea of let

“Ah…” It’s the only sound I can make, half-hidden by a gasp, hands through his hair. And he pulls back. I’m just soaking. I can feel it. “That—that little sigh you do and your fingers in my hair.” And his lips are trailing from my sex down to my knee. Until he draws back. And sucks my big toe between his lips. Mouth hot. Tongue soft. I just want him to have me already. He draws back again. Lips drawing a line from my knee, dangerously northbound. I can’t take it. “I just love it when you come. I can’t get enough of it.” I can’t help it. Another “Ah…” escapes me as his mouth clamps down on me and his fingertips brush my clitoris. It seems to embolden him, encouraging him needlessly to rip me to shreds on the bathroom counter like he should have that first night. And I hate the fact he’s memorised everything that drives me to the edge, if only to bombard me with until I feel my heart could give way. “That shower is still running.” I’m talking

March 1st, 1997 Morning Chloe God is testing me. Shamelessly, at that. Chris moved-in across the street. Replaced the same-sex couple I can’t say I liked all that much. They droned on about installing art pieces village-wide in the town meetings. The young children on the street don’t need to be perverted by their sins. The air already feels clearer without them. I can throw back my curtains without worrying my attractive husband will be gawked at on their morning speed-walks. All was right in the world. Until that moving truck showed up. It's almost like he followed me here. I couldn’t blame him if he did. I suppose he transferred, Damon mentioned working alongside his old boss now. I had to feign ignorance. Lest Chris know I’ve noticed. I would rather have had a little more time to build intrigue—I’m no longer that mousey-brown city seductress he knew back in London. I’ve changed. I’m the fun r

February 28th, 1997 Evening Chloe Todmorden isn’t half as awful as I thought it would be. Part of me is sure I’m just in the honeymoon stage. As long as I’m undressed and ready by the time he gets home, Damon is especially pleasant. I haven’t had to spend a moment with his dreadful mother. Though, at times, I do feel a bit like a caged bird. Existing only to look pretty and sing a nice song when spoken to. The kind of bird that gets its wings trimmed should it try to fly too far. The town does know how to have its dinner parties. More than they do in London. A bunch of hippies, apparently. Damon never liked the parties. Especially not three glasses of wine in when the ladies start to get a little loud. Though, he didn’t seem to mind when I was making out on top of the table with one of the women from Todmorden Unitarian Church. I don’t think she ever told me her name. If she did, I certainly don

January 25th, 1997 Midday Chloe I hadn’t even seen the house until now. Crazy, I know. It’s an old Victorian, I would assume. I’ve never cared much for architecture. A little boxy and castle-like, overgrown with ivy. Two-storeyed, he’s probably hoping to get some babies out of me. All paid for with my money, I presume. The sold sign is still up. The whole village has got this medieval look about it, completely surrounded by this lush, sweeping countryside. Far enough from London to lose the smell of the city. I’m sure every house has a vegetable patch in their yard. They’ve probably got a committee for everything. I’m sure a “homeowners committee” will come knocking down the door with a list of injunctions for the city folk set up shop across the road. Lawn too long. Car too loud. Moving truck too much of an eyesore. Ivy too modest—should cover the whole house! God, it ought to be the first thing to go. Just

January 25th, 1997 Morning Chloe Want to test your marriage? Move back home. Rather, your husband’s home. On your first wedding anniversary, no less. Practically to the minute. I know, I should be sympathetic. His mother has cancer. Still, I thought I had married a man who despised small towns as much as I do. At least, that’s what he told me. He hadn’t lived until he’d seen London. Got amongst its busyness and decrepit charm. Yet we’re northbound, and rather quickly. Sat in a rental truck that feels it will topple over if we round a corner too suddenly. The provincial furniture rocking in its rump so blissfully. It has no idea it’s headed straight to its grave, never to be looked at by anyone of note again. He promises we’ll be back to the city when she’s better. Healthy as a horse, he thinks. Loins of steel. Built like a machine. She acts like one. Has never cared all that much

January 6th, 2013 Evening “If you can’t even move that couch, I don’t think you’ve got much chance with your hands.” I dig in my heels a little harder. I’m determined. Besides, it can’t be that heavy. “I’m not getting a gun—I don’t ever want to fire one.” “Pepper spray?” Begrudgingly, he joins in—with a small huff and the roll of his eyes. His shoulder brushes mine. I’ve pretended not to see his eyes. Or to have heard the huff. I suck in a breath. Put my weight into it. “No weapons. I don’t want to have to count on anything.” “Okay. I get it.” I think he does all the work. The couch slides towards the dining table like it’s on wheels. Moves, nonetheless. That’s all I wanted. “This should be enough room.” I step into the centre. The rug is nice and plush. I don’t think it will hurt too much if incoordination victimises me. It will. I just know it. “What do I do?” I’m not too