Chapter 162 Callum （His Ending） #2
With that, I slammed into her—hard, deliberate, worshipful.
The world narrowed to the slick heat between us and the wet press of her body that matched me move for move.
She was so tight, so goddamn wet, so warm around my dick that I felt the coolness of my piercing in contrast. The sensation had a shiver crawling up my spine.
She laughed, breathless and fierce, and met me thrust for thrust, eyes glittering with mischief.
“Look at how enraptured you are by me.” Her teeth nipped at my earlobe before her lips scraped over my stubble.
I moaned, letting her take what she needed.
After yesterday, when her choice was taken from her, she needed this moment of power, of reclamation, of making me hers again in every way the world had tried to take.
“All you have to do is make me yours, Fraser. Make me yours right now. Marry me with your mouth first.”
I couldn’t decide if I should laugh or swear; instead I did both.
“Fine,” I agreed between bruising kisses.
I slid my hands up under her ribs, feeling the small warm valleys of her back as I spoke.
“I vow to you, here and now, over and over, to carve a life out of whatever mess this world throws at us—kids or not, chaos, whatever. I promise to protect you, to be the man who holds the door when you need it open, and the one who gets on his knees when you need to be worshipped. You’re mine, Aurélie. All of you. Always.”
I rolled us quick so she was on her back, knees bracketing my hips as her ankles locked around my waist. I gripped under one of her knees, pulling until her leg was draped over my shoulder.
We both moaned at the deeper angle. My balls slapped against the cleft of her ass with every thrust, and her cunt leaked around us, soaking our thighs and the bedding beneath us.
Leaning in until my mouth was at her throat, I sucked at the supple skin over her pulse point like the addict I was. My hand slid between us until my thumb found her clit, circling until her legs started shaking. I licked the salt of her skin, then bit her collarbone hard enough to make her gasp.
I was a man possessed, ducking my head to pull her nipple between my teeth and tongue, getting off on the sharp cry I coaxed out of her. My balls slapped against her, sweat beading along my spine and on the lines of her abs, our breaths ragged.
When she exhaled, I inhaled, breathing her intoxicating scent in. Heady, loud, messy, holy.
Aurélie Dubois was fucking ethereal.
She whimpered a thin, hot sound that stabbed straight to the part of me that kept her safe.
Her lashes fluttered as dizzy pleasure swept her face; she arched her back into me, muscles flexing and releasing around the rhythm I set.
Her breath skittered, little staccato gasps, toes curling.
Her nails dragged down my shoulders, leaving pale crescents that felt like a claim.
The walls of her pussy quivered around my cock.
“Cal,” she urged, and I met her eyes. “I plan on making you kneel in every possible way.”
I grinned against her mouth. “Aurélie Camille Dubois,” I murmured, breath thick with need and something fiercer than desire, “you are mine in life and in mischief. I’ll vow it a million times if I have to.” The taste of her name on my tongue was holy and filthy all at once.
She answered me with a girlish giggle, then tipped her head and pleaded, dangerously sweet, “Say it again, baby. Promise me again.”
I bent my head to worship the hollow of her throat with my mouth—kissing, biting .
Her pulse hammered under my lips; the taste of her skin, of salt and shampoo, sent a new kind of heat through me.
This whole moment wasn’t rough so much as reverent—each thrust an exclamation, each kiss a benediction.
I loved to break her open and hold her together all at once.
“I promise,” I breathed into her hair, voice cracked with feeling. “I promise you. I’ll make you mine in front of God, in front of every deity, in front of the world. In the quiet between races, in the craziness in between, wherever you want. I’ll make you want for nothing but this.”
She matched me, hard and hungry, words slipping between gasps: “I love you.”
I grasped onto that confession the way a man starved would—reverently—and let it drive me.
Everything narrowed to the friction and the sound of her.
Her body tightened around me. I kept circling her clit with my thumb, working in the rhythm that always made her lose the argument with her muscles, mouth devouring the words she left scattered across my skin.
“Cal—” she breathed, breaking off into an erotic moan that had my cock swelling inside her.
Bloody fucking hell. “My. Favorite. Fucking. Noise,” I managed between thrusts, crushing my mouth to hers. Teeth collided, and when I shoved my tongue into her possessively, she suckled, just enough to remind me how it felt to fuck her throat.
Her nails dug crescent moons into my shoulders, hard enough to make me wince, but not enough to make her stop. “Oui—now—please—”
I gave her everything. I drove into her with the slow, full strokes that had our hearts beating as one, and then the faster, sharper ones that made her eyes roll white.
Her hips bucked, meeting mine. Her leg stayed locked over my shoulder and pulled me deeper until the world was just the two of us colliding.
It left her trembling and clinging as she fell apart around me.
She broke first, a keening, glorious unraveling that shook her whole frame.
Her pussy clenched around me like a vice and squeezed.
I followed, rocketing over the edge as she held me there inside her, our breaths a single ragged sound.
I came hard, the world tilting with the force of it, sweat slick between us, her name tearing from my throat.
I spilled inside her, warm and full, so much it leaked around me and dampened the bedsheet .
There was something devastatingly sweet in the sticky weight of it.
It was like an agreement, like two halves finally syncing into one melody.
Finishing there felt less like an ending and more like a quiet, fierce promise that we were on the same page, that our bodies and choices had answered each other.
We rode the aftershocks together, man and woman. When the tremors subsided, I rolled us slow, cradling her as she folded into me, mouth finding the sensitive spot behind her ear, kissing it gently.
“Together. Always,” I said. “Every day. In every room. In every language you need me to say it.”
“The only language that matters, mon amour, is ours. The one we only speak in bed, tangled and breathless. The one that sounds like submission to your dominance, where I give you all of me and you take it without mercy. The one where we talk to each other through the dark, only to step into the light together.”
I pressed my lips to the tip of her nose. “Home,” I breathed. “You’re my home, Auri.”
She smiled into my skin, and for the first time since the wreck and the shouting and the fear, the knot that had lived between my ribs for weeks finally loosened.
We crashed through whatever fragile hold of yesterday remained, until there was nothing left but the staggering afterglow of being known and chosen.
The room smelled of us—sweat and fresh coffee and something messy and sacred—and for a moment I thought maybe we could just stay here forever. Wrapped up in sheets and promises and each other.
And then… I could feel it. The shift, the way her energy changed as her mind picked up speed again, processing, calculating, planning something.
My girl never stayed quiet for long unless she was scheming.
I glanced down at her, brushing a knuckle along her cheekbone. “What’s going on in that brilliant brain of yours?”
She didn’t answer right away.
Instead, she sat up and reached for her coffee. She took a long, thoughtful sip as she pulled the sheet around her naked body and padded toward the window, bathed in soft English morning light like some kind of angel in disguise.
Then her phone buzzed with a reminder—the one she’d set for my meds.
She walked back over, handed me two pills and the glass of water from the nightstand. I took them without question. She didn’t get back in the bed; just stood there in only that sheet, twisting the fabric between her fingers, teeth digging into her lower lip as if she was weighing a decision.
I sat up. "Talk to me, love."
She drank her coffee, slow and thoughtful. “I think I have a plan,” she said at last. "But it's… crazy."
I smiled. “You know I love it when you’re crazy.”
“No, Callum.” She met my eyes, and I saw her furious, fiery resolve. “I mean really crazy.”
"Those are my favorite kinds of plans."
Aurélie turned, grabbed her phone, and scrolled until she found the contact she wanted.
I tilted my head, heart picking up speed as I watched her, wondering what the hell she was about to do.
And I swear, when she hit call and a man answered in sharp, Parisian-accented French, my entire body tensed like I was watching the start of a championship race.
“Aurélie Dubois. Never expected to hear from you outside of the family business. What can I do for you?”
She hesitated only a second before she straightened her spine and lifted her chin. “I want to sue the FIA,” she said in her native tongue.
Silence settled in the room. I stopped breathing. She didn’t flinch, didn't so much as waver.
That was the thing about Aurélie. She could be trembling from my touch one minute and ready to take down an empire the next. Soft in my arms, steel in the world. My equal. My undoing. My whole fucking future.
I watched her, this beautiful, feral, impossible woman, and I felt it, down to my bones, that I would follow her into the flames. I would tear down every wall. I would set every bridge ablaze. For her, for us, for a life.
She wasn’t just fire. She was the whole goddamn inferno.
I fucking grinned, because they didn’t realize yet that they weren’t just dealing with a naive rookie anymore. They were dealing with Aurélie Dubois, the woman who was about to burn the whole fucking system to the ground, with me at home right beside her.
She was perfect in whatever future we would create together. Flat out wasn’t just how I drove. It was how I loved her.
No brakes. No fear. No end.
TO BE CONTINUED…