Chapter 220 Callum #3
I dropped my back against the door, panting. “You keep grinding on me like that, baby,” I growled, “and I’m going to fuck you right here in this powder room.”
She whimpered—actually whimpered—and the sound was so pretty I nearly got on my knees just to hear it again.
“I’m so in love with you,” she whispered, like it physically hurt to keep it in. “I want you in every way, always, all the time.”
My throat closed. I cupped her face, dragged my thumbs over her cheeks, kissed her like she was the only salvation I’d ever believe in.
“Fuck, mo chridhe, me too. I’d marry you again tomorrow,” I told her, voice rough, “just to prove it.”
She blinked, eyes glassy and heated with want. “I’d let you,” she whispered.
“Fuck,” I breathed. “Don’t say that unless you want me to come in my pants.”
Her laugh broke then—messy and gorgeous and relieved. I palmed her ass, yanked her tighter to me, bit down on her collarbone. I shouldn’t do that, I shouldn’t mark her, but I couldn’t stop, didn’t want to, didn’t even think I could.
She groaned, frustrated and desperate, rocking into me. “You’re going to ruin me.”
“Deal with it, filthy little wife of mine.” I slipped my hand under the back of her dress, fingers brushing bare skin, dragging down her spine.
Then she did the unthinkable.
She stepped back out of my hold and dropped to her knees on the antique wooden floor, resting back on her wedges.
Her hands folded neatly in her lap like she was praying.
The soft, expensive fabric of her dress pooled around her.
Dainty straps slipped from her shoulders, the neckline gaping just enough to show the perfect swell of her breasts.
And she looked up at me.
Wide-eyed, bare-faced, glowing. Like some spoiled, pearl-wearing French aristocrat preparing to be debauched on the bathroom floor of her father’s chateau.
And I fucking lost it.
“Christ,” I rasped, nearly stumbling back into the door behind me. My cock throbbed against my zipper, aching with every heartbeat. “We can’t fuck with your parents just down the hall.”
“I know.”
“But God, I really fucking want to.”
“I know,” she whispered again.
Two full synchronized inhales. Two shaky exhales. We just stared at each other.
And then I stepped forward. Her eyes followed me, her head tipping all the back, exposing the beautiful curve of her throat.
Such a perfect wife.
“You want me to take care of that ache?” I asked, feeling myself shift into her Dom. “Want me to reward you for how good you’ve been?”
She nodded so fast it made my head spin.
Her cheeks flushed, her golden hair catching the warm light like a halo.
Fuck.
I loved seeing her like this—needed it, the way other men needed oxygen. “Beg for it,” I ordered. “And ye better make it fucking good. Or we’re walking out of here and ye’ll be my desperate little mess until we get home.”
Her lashes fluttered, like she was taking a hit of something euphoric, like my command was the only drug she’d ever need.
And fuck if I didn’t feel it too. That rush, that deep, electric pulse of her surrender syncing up with my control. It anchored me. Lit me up from the inside out.
“Cal,” she whimpered. “Please, I’ve been so good, sir. I let them interrogate me, I kept my hands to myself at dinner, I gave the speech of my life, and I didn’t once crawl into your lap like the filthy, submissive little wife I am—”
I hissed.
“—and I need it. I need your fingers, your mouth, your cock, I don’t care, I just need you—I need to feel owned again. Please, please, I’ve earned it—”
“Fuck.” I dragged my hand down my face, pulse pounding.
My hands tangled in her hair and I swore to God, if she put her mouth on me right now, I’d never recover.
“No time,” she hissed. “Just need you.”
I pulled her to her feet, twisting her long strands around my wrist. Her lips were on mine before I could answer.
She kissed me open-mouthed, hungry, messy.
The kiss of a woman who just spent half an hour reliving our wedding day through photos…
while hiding the fact that we’d practically just watched our own porno while trying to sort the pictures.
“We have to be fast,” she gasped, hiking up her dress. “But I want you inside me.”
Jesus Christ.
I flipped her around and shoved her gently forward, hands braced on the vanity counter, bent just enough to give me access.
“You sure?” I growled, already working my zipper down.
“Yes, baby.” Her voice broke on the words. “Please.”
I didn’t need more permission.
I shoved her white panties down until they landed around her ankles. I lined up, dragging my cock through the wet heat of her folds just once before sliding all the way in.
She nearly choked on her own moan.
“You feel that?” I grunted, bottoming out.
She nodded frantically, one hand clapped over her mouth to muffle herself, the other reaching behind to grip my wrist. It gave her leverage to meet me thrust for thrust.
My eyes rolled back. “God, you’re tight. So fucking tight.”
She moaned behind her palm.
I leaned over her back, lips grazing her ear, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “You’re my wife. You belong to me. Every filthy photo on that phone is proof.”
Auri dropped her hand to support herself on the counter, breathing erratically.
“My favorite picture was you with your mouth wide open and my cum on your tongue.”
She moaned.
“Quiet,” I warned, fucking her slow and deep, driving every word in with my hips. “Be. A. Good. Girl.”
She quivered around me.
“Let me put my cum in you and fuck you full of it, baby.” She clenched hard around me, a high whine escaping her mouth like she was about to explode. I fucked her harder, gripping the back of her neck, giving me more control. “Tell me who you belong to.”
“You.”
“Who owns this sweet little cunt?”
“You do. You do, mon dominant.” Her whole body tensed. Her eyes slammed shut. “Callum—fuck—”
“Say it again,” I demanded, thrusting hard. “Say my name like that again.”
“Callum,” she sobbed, covering her mouth again.
“I can’t get enough of you,” I growled.
Her body clenched around me. She was close.
“I know you’re gonna come,” I said through gritted teeth. “You want to. Even if they’re right outside. Isn’t that right, mo chridhe?”
She came like she’d been waiting for it since we left the vineyard. I wasn’t far behind. I slammed into her once, twice, then spilled into her with a groan, forehead pressed to the back of her neck, her breath ragged and shaking.
We stayed like that for one heartbeat. Two. Her forehead dropped to the mirror. My hand slid up her back, not to hold her down—but to keep her steady.
“You okay?” I asked softly.
She nodded. “I just—God. I love you.”
I kissed her shoulder. She bent to pull her underwear back up and turned to face me with an unrepentant smile.
“You’re insane,” she whispered.
“You started it.”
She kissed me again, slower this time, sweeter.
My wife started smoothing her dress like it could unwrinkle the fabric, somehow managing to fix her hair without looking in the mirror, pinching at the flush in her cheeks.
“You good?” I asked quietly, refastening my trousers.
“I’m married and freshly fucked,” she said with a laugh. “Of course I’m good.”
I nearly kissed her again, but there wasn’t time.
We flushed, we washed our hands, and then we walked back out into the sitting room like nothing happened.
Like she didn’t have my cum pooling in her panties. Like I wasn’t still distracted thinking about every picture we didn’t let her family see.
Like this wasn't the same house that once made her feel small.
And now I had the privilege of watching her walk through it like it belonged to her. I followed—because I belonged to her too.