Chapter 197 Callum #2
Aurélie blinked once, twice… then turned her head and spotted the mug waiting for her.
A smile bloomed instantly across her face, bright and crooked and devastating.
She sat up and reached for it with both hands and pulled it close to her chest, inhaling dramatically like she was smelling a holy relic.
“You did the cinnamon,” she croaked, voice wrecked from sleep. “Look at you. My little domestic champion.”
I huffed a laugh and dragged a hand down my face. “Don’t start.”
She giggled—a girlish, sleepy little sound that damn near made me melt—and then narrowed her eyes in that bratty way that always meant trouble. “Tu es… mon mari du café. My husband of the coffee.”
I grinned. “That’s not how grammar works, love.”
“Je suis tired,” she muttered. “Shut up and take the compliment.” She sipped and made a pleased little noise that went straight to my dick.
Her eyes fluttered shut again as she leaned back against the pillows, mug balanced in one hand, blanket still tucked under her arms. The love bites on her skin were more prominent against the crisp white bedding.
“You steamed the oat milk,” she added smugly, cracking one eye open to look at me. “You did the real cream. I can taste the pistachio.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Who are you?” she whispered, clutching the mug with both hands like it was her soulmate. “And what have you done with the emotionally constipated feral street rat I fell in love with?”
“I’m still here, and I’ll throw you in the ocean.”
“You won’t. I’m fragile. And you love me.”
She said it so casually, so sleepily, like a fact as obvious as the sun rising. But my chest still squeezed around it.
“I do love you,” I said softly. “And you’re not fragile. Don’t pretend like you are.”
Aurélie cracked a grin, then reached out and curled her fingers around my wrist, tugging me down beside her.
“Then shut up and get back in bed.”
I climbed back in, settling beside her, one hand instinctively finding her thigh beneath the blanket. Before I could say anything, she sipped again, then leaned her head back against the headboard and gave me a cocky little smirk.
“You are now mon petit barista en chaleur.”
I cocked a brow. “Did you just call me your horny little barista?”
She shrugged one shoulder, cozying deeper under the covers, which were annoyingly high, just enough to cover her breasts—taunting me with the memory of how many times I’d kissed, sucked, and bitten my way down her body last night.
Hours of wrecking her while she begged me not to stop and took everything I gave her and then some.
Yet somehow, I still wasn’t fucking satisfied.
My cock twitched, hardening under the blanket like it hadn’t already gotten everything it wanted. Spoiled bastard.
“If the coffee fits,” she purred.
“You’re simply mad, Auri.”
“No, I’m simply lovely. And you, mon amour, are simply slutty.”
“Aye, you woke up spicy this morning.”
She grinned, all teeth and sleepy brat mischief. “I’m spicy, but you’re,” she lifted her mug for emphasis, “my creamy little slut.”
I blinked. “I’m sorry—what the fuck?”
“You heard me,” she said, delighting in herself like it was the most romantic thing in the world instead of, ye know, a full psychological assault at nine in the morning. “You know what helps with spice? Cream. So basically… you’re my sexy milk boy.”
I let out a startled laugh, borderline unhinged. I dragged a hand over my face and moved fast, rolling toward her and straddling her hips in one motion. The sheets pulled tight beneath my knees, cocooning her in place, my hands gripping the carved wooden edge of the bed on either side of her head.
She didn’t flinch. Just stayed exactly where she was—sprawled like royalty, spine relaxed into the pillows. The mug was cradled between her hands, tits unapologetically on display, and a fucking smirk blooming across her face like she’d already won.
“You’re absolutely deranged,” I muttered.
“And you’re oat milk daddy,” she added smugly, arching her back just enough to angle her mouth toward mine and brush a kiss across it. It was soft and barely there, like she wasn’t committing verbal war crimes before breakfast.
Some kind of noise mangled in my throat as she pulled back. “Oat milk daddy?”
She nodded serenely. “Mhmm. Horny little barista fiancé. Sexy milk boy. Oat milk daddy. Don’t lie. You love them all.”
I stared down at her like she’d grown horns. “I love fucking you, not being called oat milk daddy.”
She laughed, and something in it lodged itself under my ribs like it had always belonged there. Like maybe that was my favorite sound in the world. Not the sound of her coming—though that was now a very close second.
I catalogued that detail for later, like it was gospel.
“Didn’t hear any complaints the last time I called you Daddy.”
Her voice had that husky and playful edge now, the kind of low tease that never failed to go straight to my nervous system.
She licked a tiny ring of foam from the mug’s rim, then dragged her tongue over her bottom lip.
I wanted to taste it. All of it. The pistachio cream, the smugness, the way she always made me lose my goddamn mind.
The taste of her against my mouth while she begged like it was her destiny.
Desire surged through me like an electric current rerouting everything I thought I needed to function.
Fuck.
She knew exactly what she was doing.
“Aurélie.”
She giggled sweetly, then ducked under my arm to set the mug on the side table. Before I could react, she pounced, tackling me back onto the mattress, pinning me beneath her with alarming swiftness.
“Oof—Christ, lass—”
“Sorry,” she purred, now straddling me, gloriously naked, the morning sun kissing every inch of her golden skin. Her ring flashed as she braced her hands on my chest. “My English is broken after you fucked me seven ways to the, uh, hallway? No. Balcony? Hall…uhhh…”
I blinked up at her. My feral, filthy, French little wife-to-be. “Sorry, love. But what the fuck were you trying to say?” I grabbed her hips and rolled her bare cunt over the length of my cock, still thick and twitching beneath the fabric of my briefs.
She gasped, breath catching hard in her throat, then let out a guttural little noise, all exhale and faux frustration.
“Putain de merde,” she muttered, blinking down at me and pointing to the doors leading into the living area.
“That’s where you bent me over. There. Right fucking there—against the kitchen counter, like a caveman. ”
“Excuse me?” I asked, hips flexing up into her.
She moaned dramatically and collapsed forward, hair spilling into my face.
“C’est toujours les écossais.” It’s always the Scots.
“With your ridiculous accents and muscular thighs and corruption kinks—mon Dieu.” She lifted her head just enough to pout at me, voice syrupy and obscene.
“That accent should be illegal. And that damn dimple. It’s unfair.
You’re a walking hazard to the female species.
You open your mouth and my brain turns to marshmallow goo. ”
Marshmallow goo.
Bloody fucking hell.
Only she would say something like that—like it was the most logical, devastating truth in the world. And somehow, it undid me worse than any filthy thing she’d ever moaned beneath me. It was so her. Whimsical and wicked. Silly and sharp. Romantic in the most catastrophic fucking way.
God, I loved her.
I stared up at her like she was sent from hell. And maybe she was. But she was mine.
A slow smile tugged at my lips. “What did I tell you the last time you insulted my Scottish bloodline?” I pushed up on my elbows. “You pay the price.”
She just smiled innocently, then rolled her hips slowly over my cock again, dragging her slick cunt across the shape of me with deliberate, sinful rhythm. I hissed, head falling back.
“I said thank you for my coffee, mon amour.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“You can’t punish me if I’m on top.”
“Want to test that theory?” I slid one hand beneath her ass and let my fingers graze between her cheeks, featherlight at first. Then I pressed a little harder, not breaching, but enough so she’d feel it for what it was—a threat and a promise all in one.
She reared back, all wide eyes and dramatics in a way that made me throb. “Tu es diabolique.”
I laughed, begrudgingly shifting my hands away—because I couldn’t fucking think straight, and I did have plans for the day. Sort of. “Baby, did you flirt like this before me?”
Aurélie gasped, full theatrical scandal, lips forming the perfect O.
I nearly lost the goddamn plot. “Excuse me? Did I need to?” Then she grabbed a handful of her tits, and the last shreds of my sanity evaporated as she gave me a show so obscene I nearly blacked out.
“Have you seen these? I’ve had friends ask if they could bring me to their surgeon as inspiration.
C’est, ” she wiggled her shoulders so they bounced, “perfect teardrop shape.”
I groaned, hips bucking under her. Of course I’d seen them. I’d memorized them. Their perfect weight, their soft curve. Larger than her hands and bouncier than should be legal. Rosy fucking nipples that hardened the second I so much as glanced at them.
“Fuckin’ hell.”
“Also, is there something wrong with my flirting, Fraser?” She let go of her breasts, and I caught sight of all the bite marks on her flesh.
She needed more.
“No,” I muttered, squeezing her hips. “It’s just incredibly effective and absolutely fucking deranged.”
She crushed her mouth to mine, triumphant and lazy and maddeningly salacious.
Her arms wound around my neck, tongue brushing mine in a slow, indulgent sweep, like she was thanking me.
I let her taste linger on my lips as she pulled back, eyes half-lidded, her smile the stuff of sweet, slutty nightmares.
“We have plans today,” I managed through the haze of lust clouding my mind.
She shushed me with one finger to my mouth. “The plans can wait.”