Chapter 202 Aurélie
aurélie
I put her in that romper so I could pull her out of it. Slowly. Or fast, depending on how rude our guests decided to be. –Callum
The steam from the shower still clung to my skin when I padded out of the bathroom, towel twisted around my body, hair dripping down my back. I made it as far as the open wardrobe before a warm hand closed around my wrist.
“I’m picking what you wear,” Callum said, eyes sparking with that infuriating, smug certainty. “Punishment for whipping me with that towel.”
I narrowed my eyes at him skeptically. “Absolutely not.”
He got his way, of course. Which was how I ended up standing at the stove in a flowy black romper he’d claimed was “practical,” and I was starting to suspect he meant “designed to make it hard for both of us to think.” It cinched at my waist, skimmed my thighs, and did something to his self-control every time I reached up to the cupboard.
The real kicker, though, was that he’d made me go commando. Which meant every small movement made the fabric brush against my nipples and my pussy.
Bastard.
He moved around the kitchen behind me in soft lounge pants and a worn t-shirt, barefoot and deadly.
Every time he passed, his hand brushed my hip, or the small of my back, or the curve of my ass like he couldn’t help himself.
He set out plates, opened a bottle of wine, lit a candle he claimed was “for ambience, not romance” like there was even a difference with him.
Every few minutes he checked his phone, looking for any indication that our friends were on their way.
The villa smelled like garlic, tomatoes and simmering herbs. My hands moved on autopilot as I measured ingredients to feed ten—since these fucking men ate so much.
Outside, the sea had gone from bright blue to deepening cobalt, the horizon bleeding pink and gold. For a little while, with the sizzle of the pan and the clink of dishes, it almost felt normal again.
Like we were just two people making dinner. Not a scandal waiting to happen.
“Stop hovering,” I said, stirring the sauce. “You’re making me nervous. Go… decant something.”
“Can’t decant this one, love,” he murmured. “But I did pick us a Naxos red that tastes like cherries and trouble. And I bought that olive oil from the old man at the market—the one who kissed your hand and called you his second wife. We’ll do it with balsamic and bread when they get here.”
My mouth actually watered. “You’re using my emotional support carbs against me,” I accused. “That’s low, even for you.”
“You’re the one who wanted pasta,” he pointed out.
“I said light pasta,” I argued. “This is light. It has tomatoes. That’s practically a salad. I was talking about the wine. Oh—” An idea lit up, bright and fizzy. “Can we do that while we’re here? Check out a local vineyard? I want to drink something from old vines and ancient dirt.”
He huffed a laugh, stepping in behind me, one hand braced on the counter next to my hip. “We can do whatever you want, baby,” he said, kissing the back of my head. “Holymoon rules.” He leaned in to smell the pan over my shoulder. “Sauce looks good.”
“Sauce is perfect,” I corrected. “I made it.”
“Obviously,” he said. His lips brushed the back of my neck, barely there. “I meant you.”
My shoulders sank a millimeter, tension leaking out the way it always did when he said things like that. Stupid, soft man. Stupid, soft heart. Stupid, soft me for giving it back to him and then letting him put a ring on my finger like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Flattery will not distract me from the fact that you put me in an outfit specifically designed to make you feral in front of company,” I said.
“In my defense, you do that in sweatpants,” he retorted, nipping at my earlobe. I sighed. “I just chose the option that’ll make them not want to stick around as long.”
Oh, this brilliant man of mine.
“That is an excellent defense,” I admitted, a slow smile creeping across my face. “So this is your plan? Keep us so hot and bothered we kick them out early and keep the sex going?”
“No,” he said, mouth brushing my temple, voice dropping.
“My plan is to keep our honeyday intact, mo chridhe.” The way his lips wrapped around the unfamiliar word—khree-yeh, all rough consonant and soft center—made desire unfurl low and slow in my belly.
The spatula slipped right out of my hand and clattered into the pan as I melted back against him with a faint, involuntary sound.
“They don’t get to take this from us. So when we want that time, they’ve got to go. I’m not dialing down the PDA just because they’re here.”
I turned my face until our noses brushed. “I’m not fucking you right in front of them.”
“Of course not,” he said mildly. “We’ll be discreet.” His fingers flexed, then curled just under the hem of my romper, a promise in the touch. “Go on, challenge me on that, a ghrà.”
My breath caught. My hands gripped the counter. “Tell me,” I whispered. “Tell me what it means. Teach me your language so I can get lost in all the ones that bind us together.”
His hand inched lower, fingertips brushing my slit, heat blooming everywhere at once. “Mo chridhe is ‘my heart,’” he murmured against my skin. “A ghrà is ‘my love.’” His fingers pressed against my clit just enough to make my knees wobble. “Both of them are you.”
A helpless little sound slipped out of my throat. I curled my toes against the tile floors, my balance tipping into him. The pan hissed indignantly behind us, sauce threatening to boil, but all I could feel was him—his hand, his breath, the way his body caged mine against the counter.
He hummed his approval. “Still a fucked-out mess and I’ve barely touched you.” One finger slipped inside, slow and firm, curving exactly where I needed the pressure. His thumb dragged upward, grazing my clit with a featherlight pass that had me gasping.
“Callum…” It came out more like a plea than a warning.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Every time I get near you, you just give.” His hand flexed again, slow, possessive. He ground his hips into me from behind. “You feel what you’re doing to me, Auri? This is from the shower. From you. God, I can’t fucking resist you.”
My fingers spasmed around the edge of the counter. “We are never going to be ready for company at this rate,” I managed.
“Good,” he said, then dropped his voice to a murmur that skittered down my spine deliciously.
“Because I love when you’re full of me.” It was filthy and tender all at once, his mouth brushing the shell of my ear, and fuck if that wasn’t the most Callum-coded combination I’d ever heard in my life.
“Love knowing it’s mine. That your cunt stays soft for me and ready for more. ”
I melted. Sagged into his chest, feet shuffling apart instinctively, my grip on the counter possibly the only thing tethering me to gravity.
Then in one smooth motion, he spun me, hands firm at my waist, and lifted me onto the counter beside the stove.
The cool stone met the backs of my thighs; the hem of the romper rode up indecently, the seam pulling taut over my pussy.
He stepped between my legs, spreading them with an easy, practiced pressure, dragging me to the very edge until there was nowhere to go but into him.
My hands shot out, clutching fistfuls of his t-shirt.
“There,” he said, blue eyes dark as they dragged over me. “Now you’re right where I want you.”
I leaned back just slightly, taking him in like a fever dream I never wanted to wake from.
That maddening, artfully disheveled hair that looked like sex and saltwater and my fingers had all taken a turn.
The scruff he refused to shave since we got here, leaving red streaks on my thighs and my chest. His lounge clothes hung loose but low, fabric soft over a body that made me want to climb him like a goddamn tree.
But it was his eyes that undid me. The way they burned when they looked at me, framed by lashes that cast dangerous shadows down the sharp cut of his cheekbones.
I let go of his shirt, cupped his jaw in both hands, and kissed him like the lovedrunk, ring-wearing fool I was—quick and crushing and irrevocably his.
“See?” I breathed, half-laugh, half-gasp. “We can’t keep our hands off each other, mon fiancé. You really think they’re just going to leave us alone?”
He chuckled darkly, thumb stroking slow circles on the inside of my knee like he had all the time in the world to ruin me.
“Then we’ll lay the ground rules when they get here.
” He grabbed my hips and rolled them against his rigid cock.
“Starting with no barging in without knocking, because I might have you bent over right here.”
My giggle tapered into a whimper. “You like torturing me too much,” I whined, but then he did it again, and the early sparks of an orgasm flared to life. “Jesus Christ, Callum, I swear you’ve broken me, Pavlov’d me into coming for you from practically nothing.”
Callum grinned wolfishly, that fucking dimple popping.
One hand reached up, slow and firm, to wrap around my throat with the perfect amount of possessive pressure.
He tipped my head back, baring my neck like a gift, and his mouth followed, stubble scraping, tongue tasting, lips sealing over my pulse like he needed to remind me who I belonged to.
“I have ye in a perfect state of bliss,” he murmured.
“And I’m determined to keep ye here. This is our bubble, ye hear me, baby?
The outside can come crashing back in, but here?
When it’s just us?” His mouth dragged up the column of my throat, facial hair feeling like a prayer against my skin. “The guard stays down.”
“So do my panties when you talk like that,” I muttered breathlessly, swooning when his accent thickened.