Chapter 16 Aurelie #2
His hand slid slowly out of my panties, and he brought our slick fingers to his mouth. Twisting my wrist gently, he parted his lips and sucked two fingers into his mouth—mine and his—tasting me like it was communion. Like he was praying too, stubble scraping my skin deliciously.
“Sweetest fucking thing I’ve ever had,” he rasped, and the vibrations had me aching all over again. “Can’t wait to lick it off your thighs tonight.”
I swayed on my feet, dizzy again. I tilted my neck back and forth to release the tension, tugged my panties back into place one-handed, then dropped the dress, smoothing it down with my palm. It was only wrinkled a little.
Damn him.
“These wrinkles better not be visible in pictures, Callum. If I look like I just got bent over a wine barrel, you will become the sub for a whole day.”
There was nothing but amused adoration in my voice.
I wasn’t upset in the slightest. The pictures would be edited, but honestly?
What was more romantic than being so in love you couldn’t keep your hands off each other?
What was hotter than walking into your own ceremony with your body still thrumming from an orgasm he gave you just to calm your nerves?
I’d have it no other way.
Now I wasn’t just floating. I was soaring. Anchored and feral. His, in every sense of the word.
“We’re getting married. I don’t regret a goddamn thing.”
“We’re late to our own wedding.”
“Exactly,” he retorted, without hesitation as he lowered our hands. I shuffled just a tad closer to him. “They wait for us.”
Our fingers found each other again, and I exhaled deeply, instantly steadier. Grounded. Anchored. The tension I didn’t even realize I’d been holding bled out with that single touch.
“I know we have our vows,” Callum said suddenly. “But I want to say this now that it’s just you and me. Let’s make a promise.”
My throat tightened. “Okay.”
“This,” he said, “today, is our victory lap.”
I sighed happily and tipped my head back, letting the breeze caress my heated skin. “After all the wreckage and every close call.”
“We’re about to cross the finish line.”
“We survived every time we got red flagged,” I whispered.
“Held on when the world told us to let go,” he said.
“Loved each other flat out,” I breathed.
“No brakes.”
“No fear.”
“We were forged in our close contact.”
My hand shook in his. “And we started in overdrive.”
I could feel his grin, his joy, in the air, radiating through the stone and into my skin. It made me smile to myself and stand a little taller.
“I kissed you one time,” he admitted softly. “And you ruined me for anything less.”
“You ran to me in Monaco,” I whispered. “And made me feel it everywhere.”
“I have never stopped feeling you.”
“I haven’t either.”
“Racing 101, mo chridhe. I committed to my line, Auri. That’s my promise.”
“And I promise mine is you, Cal,” I said, voice trembling. “It’s always been you.”
“Green?”
Mon Dieu. He was checking in again. Making sure I was one-hundred percent ready, no lingering doubts or fears.
“Ouais, mari. Green,” I said. “Emerald. Forest. Racing light.”
“Good.” He exhaled in relief. “When they say my name, I’ll turn. And that’ll be the last first look I ever want.”
I couldn’t help the giggle that bubbled out of me. “Well, Mr. Fraser, I can say your bride is quite satisfied with how the first touch went,” I teased.
He hummed a deep, satisfied sound. “Ah yes, and I’ve made you a true blushing bride. Yet another tradition honored. Can’t wait for them to guess what gave you the glow that I’m certain is written all over you right now.”
“Pretty sure the tradition isn’t to…” I trailed off, still flustered, then settled on, “Doigter-fucké her before the processional.”
He barked out a laugh that echoed off the stone. “That’s not a fucking word, Auri.”
“It is now.”
“You could just say ‘finger fuck’ next time.”
“Mmm, and miss out on the way you laugh when I make up fake French? Not a chance.”
“Touché.”
There was a beat of warm silence. The breeze rustled the olive branches above, and I knew that this was it.
“Scale?”
“Nine. Eleven once it’s official.”
He lifted our hands again and pressed a gentle kiss to the inside of my wrist. “Are ye ready to marry me now?” he murmured, thumb brushing over my pulse point.
My whole soul wrapped around his voice.
“Yes, sir.” I smiled sweetly, maybe a little bratty, even though he couldn’t see it. “Go before I break the rule.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too, mon amour. I’ll see you at the finish line.”
He squeezed once—firm, anchoring—and then released his hold, footsteps fading rapidly, like he couldn’t wait another moment to marry me.
I stayed pressed against the stone for two beats longer, hands empty, body still buzzing, heart full to the brim.
The summer air curled around me like an embrace.
I rolled my shoulders, straightening my clothing once more, and reached behind me to adjust the veil.
I wasn’t shaking anymore. Everything had clicked into place.
And then I turned and went back down the path I came, toward the bridal nook, in search of Colette, or Ivy, or whoever was waiting to take me to the altar.
To the man I had loved, yearned for, idolized… for the last ten years.
And today, by the grace of fate, divine intervention, and one very ruined lace thong—I would become his wife.
Colette was waiting inside the tasting room, behind the bar, looking every bit the sommelier she was, with a small bottle in hand and a smile that knew too much.
Colette wore a flowing cream jumpsuit with golden embroidery at the hem, barefoot like the rest of us, curls pinned into a soft twist at the nape of her neck.
An olive branch circlet wrapped around her bicep like something out of an ancient myth.
Ivy and Lucy were leaning on the bar, barefoot and wearing identical champagne dresses. My bouquet sat on the bar between them. I padded toward them with a grin I couldn’t wipe off my face.
Colette held a tiny glass and poured a splash of pale gold wine from a hand-labeled bottle that read:
Première Récolte – Beauchamp Estate Cask x Sterna Grove
2025 Vintage | Muscat Blanc à Petits Grains & Assyrtiko
“First sip,” she murmured, offering it to me. “Brides drink from the new season to remember that beginnings are meant to be tasted.”
I must’ve blinked, because she smirked and added, “It’s a tradition from my home in Alsace.
My grandmother believed the best marriages—and the best wines—are built in layers.
Bloom slow, start soft, finish with a little heat.
” She rolled her lips together, eyes twinkling under the warm interior lights.
“Though I’m not sure you and Callum Fraser were slow or soft.
And judging by your face right now, more than a little heat. ”
My grin just widened, heart and stomach flipping with a kind of happiness I’d never felt before.
She swirled the bottle gently, the light catching the pale gold liquid like sunlight in a glass.
“This one’s a blend,” she added, voice lowering with reverence.
“Muscat from my mother’s side. Assyrtiko from the vines I rescued here.
A marriage of two legacies that were never supposed to mix—until I did.
The first cask, from the first harvest, of my first vintage on this land. I bottled it for this season.”
I rested my hand gently over hers on the tasting bar. “Then you should try it with me.”
Colette hesitated, eyes flitting down to our joined hands. “Non, ma chérie. This is your day.”
I nodded once, then pursed my lips in dismay before lifting my glass.
Lemon zest, salt, and wildflower honey aromas flooded my senses.
I held Ivy’s gaze as I took a sip. The notes hit like sunshine on skin—citrusy and light, soft on the front, bold on the finish.
Sweetness first, then a bite of acid that lingered just long enough.
“Mon Dieu,” I breathed. “C’est divin.”
“Merci. Consider me your sommelier for life.” Colette beamed, and this time, the grin softened into something tender. Her eyes glassed over slightly as she hugged the bottle to her chest, like she needed to feel it against her heartbeat. “Truly, I’m honored to receive such praise from a Dubois.”
I squeaked. Full-on, borderline-feral, wedding-day squeaked. “Okay, I’m adding that to the manifest,” I gasped, bouncing on my toes. “My sommelier for life. Are you kidding me? And Colette Beauchamp, no less! La sorcière du soleil, the goddess of grapes, the priestess of pH balance!”
The possibilities were endless. Vineyard collabs. Private label blends. Post-race vintage drops. Dubois-Beauchamp etched into cork. I was about two seconds away from wedding-merchandising our future friendship when I caught the shimmer in her eyes.
The air shifted.
“Aurélie, I never planned to be here,” Colette said suddenly, almost earnestly.
“My arrival in Greece was entirely serendipitous and a complete deviation from my plans. But it was what I needed, because this land, these vines… they gave me a new life. And I hope that’s what you take with you today.
A new name. A new beginning. A new home with your hot-as-sin soon-to-be husband. ”
For some reason, it didn’t feel strange for her to be so vulnerable.
I’d known her for years. We’d crossed paths at expos, exchanged wine recommendations in DMs, debated fermentation methods and bottling blends late into the night from different time zones.
But I’d never seen her like this. Never imagined her voice would tremble when she looked at me.
I melted. Fully collapsed, arms flopped across the tasting bar in mock-despair. “He really is so fucking hot, right?” I sighed dramatically. “Like it’s honestly unfair. The jawline? The hands? The god-tier emotional growth arc?”
All three of them burst out laughing—Colette tossing her head back, Ivy shaking hers, and Lucy flushing a dark pink.
“His neck alone could convert a woman,” Lucy deadpanned.