Chapter 172 Aurélie #2
His tongue dragged through me again, this time flatter, rougher. He circled my clit, slow, teasing, deliberate.
“You feel that?” he rasped, nose nudging against me. “That’s devotion.” He nipped at one of my lips, and I jolted in response. “Christ, I love when you twitch like that. Your pussy clenches every time I use my teeth.”
“Please,” I panted. “Please, don’t stop.”
“I’m not fucking stopping until I feel you fall apart on my tongue one more time.” He growled, then sucked my clit into his mouth, hard enough to make my legs shake, and I screamed.
“Mine,” he grunted, sounding feral and out of control. “My perfect little submissive. Look at you. You’re fucking ruined for me, aren’t you?”
Callum gripped my ass and spread me wider, dove in deeper, licking and sucking like a man possessed. I was soaking the bedding, pulsing, clenching, on the very edge of coming—
“Cal—”
“No,” he interrupted to land a palm across my ass. “Mon dominant. You know how much I fucking love when you speak in French.”
“Mon dominant,” I gasped.
I felt him grin against me as he fucked me with his mouth. Every lick, every flick, every suck dragged me closer to the edge. Tears streamed down my cheeks. Not from pain, but from the weight of being wanted this way.
“You’re gonna come again,” he said. “And you’re going to thank me for it. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I sobbed. “Yes, my Dom.”
“Good fucking girl.”
He didn’t stop. Two fingers pushed into me, thick and deep.
He curled them just right, just once, and my vision went white.
My back arched, my bound arms pulled tight behind me, and my scream tore from my throat like it had claws.
My whole body spasmed. The pressure snapped, and liquid heat spilled out of me in a sudden rush, soaking his hand, the carpet, the sheets, my thighs.
Mon Dieu, I gushed for him. Shattered. Soaked. Undone.
“That’s it,” he rasped. “That’s my girl. Let it out. Show me what I do to you.” He kissed me between my legs, slow and soft, like he was sealing a blessing over my most vulnerable place and claiming the aftermath as much as the act.
I was his, and I always would be.
The world tilted. I couldn’t tell where I ended and the mattress began.
My breath stuttered out in uneven gasps, every inhale rasping like I’d run a marathon I barely survived.
My heart thundered in my chest, my ears, between my thighs.
The blood rushing through me sounded like waves crashing against my skull.
I couldn’t move, didn’t even want to, but I felt everything.
The wet stickiness running down my legs.
The tremble in my arms. The pull on my shoulders.
The leather of his belt biting into my wrists.
The delicious ache between my legs where his fingers had just coaxed me into that mind-melting release.
“Thank you,” I whispered, my voice barely more than a breath. “Thank you for my orgasm, Sir.”
He growled softly, satisfied and possessive. “There she is.” His breath hit my thighs, and it made me shiver. “You followed every command. Trusted me with all of it. You obeyed. That’s my girl.” His voice was guttural. “I’m so fucking proud of you.”
Then, his fingers dipped between my legs, sliding through the mess I’d made.
A quiet groan came from behind me. He dragged his hand up, slow and indulgent, before smoothing the moisture over the backs and outside of my thighs, marking me with it.
Like he wanted me to wear my wreckage as proof of his devotion.
I shivered.
“Stay just like that,” he whispered. I didn’t dare move.
Not with the way my body buzzed, every nerve ending singing, every heartbeat echoing in my pussy like a drumbeat made for him to follow.
The Vicodin still curled in my blood like honey, making everything feel slower, deeper, like I was submerged in some secret, sacred place.
But mostly, it was because he’d commanded me to stay still, and my role in this moment was to obey.
I didn’t ask you to speak, mon c?ur. I asked you to obey.
His words from Austria echoed in my mind as I recovered.
Then I felt Callum’s hands grip my hips.
He dragged me up slowly, but with purpose.
He wasn’t being gentle out of hesitation or mercy.
He was being gentle because I belonged to him—because I was his—and that meant he needed me whole.
He needed me right. Ready. Open. Devoured.
He wasn’t holding back; he was holding me.
My knees landed on the mattress, thighs wide, body folding forward again until I was back in that position of complete exposure. Arms still bound, face turned to the side, cheek pressed to the sheets.
There was the sound of a zipper, then the shuffle of denim. I felt him move behind me, the mattress dipping under his weight. His thighs bracketed mine, and the heat radiating off him made my breath stutter.
“Just like that, love,” he rasped. One palm flattened between my shoulder blades while the other gripped the belt still cinched tight around my wrists. The leather tugged taut, forcing my spine to curve as he adjusted me like a doll, something easily controllable.
“You want to be filled, mon c?ur?” he murmured, voice frayed and low.
“Yes, s’il te pla?t,” I begged.
The head of his cock pressed against my entrance, and I nearly wept.
I was still dripping down my thighs, aching and desperate for him to be inside me.
He teased me at first, rubbing his pierced tip against me, nudging at my clit, my entrance, not giving me what I craved.
My hips rocked, eager for more. And then he thrust in all at once, hard enough to knock the breath out of me when he hit my cervix.
My scream was muffled by the bedspread, teeth uselessly clamping a mouthful of fabric as he fucked me from behind like a man undoing something holy. He didn’t give me a rhythm. Just need. Just claiming. Just devotion through destruction.
He gripped the belt between my wrists and used it, pulling back to drive himself deeper, groaning every time he bottomed out.
“Look at you,” he ground out, voice full of awe and violence. “So fucking perfect. So wet for me I could drown in you.”
I writhed beneath him, the pressure building unbearably, needing more of him everywhere, deeper, rougher. I tugged at my restraints without meaning to, instinctively trying to reach for him, trying to ground myself. The leather bit into my wrists. My muscles strained.
He felt it, but instead of mercy, he gave me more. With a savage grunt, he yanked the belt tighter, forcing my arms higher and my back to bow brutally. His thrusts turned punishing, hips slamming into my ass with devastating precision, each one a brand of possession.
He bent over me, chest against my back, mouth at my ear. “You feel that? That stretch? That ache? That’s me, mon ange. That’s your Dom claiming every part of you.”
“Yes,” I sobbed. “Yes, please, don’t stop—”
“I’m not fucking stopping,” he growled, one hand sliding up to my throat, pinning me in place while he rutted into me like he couldn’t breathe without it. “I could fuck you forever and still not get enough.”
I whimpered, wrecked and unraveling, and that sound—that sound—had him faltering, burying himself deeper as a raw groan ripped from his throat.
“You want to be fucked like you’re mine, Aurélie?”
“I am yours,” I whispered. “You could propose to me tomorrow and I’d say yes with your bruises on every sensitive part of my body and your name still on my tongue.”
He groaned like the words physically hurt. “Say it again.”
“I’m yours, Cal,” I repeated, breath ragged. “Je prendrai ta bague, ta punition, ta dévotion, ton nom—tout ce que tu me donnes. Je serai ta bonne fille, ta soumise, ta femme. Rien qu’à toi. Pour toujours, mon amour.”
I’ll take your ring, your punishment, your devotion, your name—everything you give me. I’ll be your good girl, your submissive, your wife. Only yours. Forever, my love.
He faltered, just for a second. A catch in his movements, a ragged breath escaping him in a whispered curse. I shifted on my knees, silently pleading for more. Maybe I whimpered, maybe I said his name, maybe even cried out something raw and wrecked.
The belt slipped from my wrists with a hiss, and before I could even register the flood of relief in my shoulders, he flipped me over, manhandling me into place as if I was the most precious, breakable thing he’d ever touched.
I landed on my back, breathless, but he didn’t give me time to think or recover.
He shoved two pillows beneath my hips, my shoulders pressing into the mattress, thighs spread, his cock at the entrance of my pussy again.
Then I looked up and saw him—the real him. Callum. My Callum. He looked wild. A flush bloomed across his cheeks, sweat coating his tanned skin, hair tousled and damp with sweat, eyes like obsidian. Lips parted and chest heaving with the weight of whatever this was between us.
Callum Fraser didn’t look like a man in this moment.
He looked like need incarnate. Like every primal urge made flesh and bone.
He was sex and savagery, carnal desire wrapped in godlike masculinity.
He looked wild and yet as though he’d stepped into who he was meant to be all along. All. Fucking. Mine.
Our eyes locked for the first time since he’d whipped me, made me kneel and then consumed me with nothing but a voice full of fire and a crop in his hand. But it wasn’t just the sight of him that destroyed me.
It was his eyes. They were wrecked, dark and glassy with some unknowable emotion, but wide with something that looked a lot like forever.
Something clicked between us that was loud and sacred as he reached for my thighs. It was a claim or a demand, but a primitive knowing. Me. Him. This. Us. Ours.
My heart pounded, but my soul suddenly felt at complete peace. Whatever happened between us, whatever blessings and miracles or tragedies and heartbreaks, we would be okay, because we had each other.
And I knew he felt it too, because the second we exhaled at the same time, eyes never leaving each other’s, he moved.
Callum surged forward with a groan so guttural it made my clit pulse, like it had been buried inside him for years and I’d unearthed something ancient and feral. His hands gripped my thighs and pulled me to the edge of the pillows like he needed to be inside me or he’d lose his fucking mind.
My ankles locked around his back, and then he thrust into me again, hard. He grabbed my hips and fucked me deeper, rougher, the new angle making me see stars. Every inch of him hit something devastating.
His voice cracked when he said, “This isn’t just fucking, Aurélie. This is our covenant.”
I cried out, body arching, toes curling, everything clenching around him.
“You want to come?” he asked. “Want to soak my cock while I ruin you from the inside?”
“Yes,” I gasped, hands flying to grab his veiny forearms where they held me tight enough to bruise. I dug my nails in and planted my feet on the bed to meet him thrust for thrust. “God, yes, please—”
“Then you thank me for it,” he snarled, fucking me so hard I couldn’t even think. “You come for me and you thank me with every fucking breath.”
I let out a ragged, defiant moan that barely counted as a sentence. “Thank you for your cock, Daddy Dom.”
That broke him.
His eyes rolled back for half a second before slamming forward again, devastatingly violent. He thrust once more, deep enough to make my spine curve, and my body did the rest.
I suctioned around him so tight I could feel every ridge, every vein, every desperate swell of him inside me.
The noise was filthy. Slick and wet and loud between us, layered over our gasps and animalistic moans.
And then we both looked down simultaneously and stared at where we were joined, we watched my pussy pulse around him, dragging him back in over and over like I was made to keep him.
His hand came to my jaw, tilting my face to his as I rode the edge. “You’re close,” he rasped. “I feel it. Come on, baby. Let go for me.”
And that was it.
I broke with a scream. My orgasm hit like a thunderclap, ripping through me in a series of violent, full-body spasms that made my vision go white. Hot and all-consuming, wave after wave, my breath ripping from my lungs, a garbled mess of English and French spewing from my lips.
Then a second wave burst free, sudden and hot and uncontrollable. I squirted—gushing around him, soaking him, soaking us, soaking the sheets and his lap and everything in between. A sob burst from my chest.
And he lost his fucking mind.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Callum snarled, his head snapping back like he was about to beg God for mercy. “Oh my—fuck, baby—what the fuck was that?”
His hands gripped my hips like he didn’t know whether to worship me or hold me down and chase it again. “You’ve never—” His breath choked out of him, eyes wide, voice hoarse. “You’ve never done that before. Not like that. Not—fuck, not on me.”
I trembled against him, crying, laughing, drenched, still pulsing in the aftermath—and he just stared. Wrecked. Reverent. Devastated.
“I felt it,” he whispered like he was in shock. “I fucking felt it. You—Christ, Auri, you gushed around me. While I was inside you.”
He looked like he’d just glimpsed heaven and hell at the same time.
Like he’d never recover and didn’t want to.
His hands traced down my thighs, slow and reverent, then pressed over my soaked skin like he couldn’t believe it was real.
“That’s mine,” he growled, low and stunned and a little desperate.
“Every drop. All of it. Fuck, I’ve never—” He broke off, shaking his head and pulling me flush against him, his breath hot at my ear. “You ruin me, Aurélie.”
Then he came with a roar, falling forward and bracing his hands on either side of me, crushing me with a kiss that stole the rest of my sanity. I milked his cock, over and over, as we rode out his orgasm together.
And still he moved. Still he worshipped. Still he whispered, “Mine. Mine. Mine,” into my mouth like a vow.