Chapter 19 Aurélie #3
He rose again, trailing his hand up between my legs. His fingers found the soaked fabric of my panties and pressed—just once—then again, lower this time, slower, until I was grinding helplessly into his palm, hips rocking forward without permission.
“Good girl,” he murmured, thumb circling through the damp lace. “My perfect wife.”
My breath turned erratic. My thighs trembled. Heat pulsed through me in slow, overwhelming waves as my body answered him without hesitation—arching, opening, chasing. Every nerve felt tuned to him, every sensation amplified by the certainty that this pleasure was mine now. Ours. Forever.
I let myself sink into it, into him, into the knowledge that I belonged here—tied, open, loved like this. That I would give him everything, gladly. That I trusted him with every soft, exposed part of me.
“Fuck, baby,” he whispered, voice rough with awe. “Soaked through already.”
My head dropped forward with a gasp, forehead pressing into the sheets as I melted under his touch. “For you,” I mumbled, barely coherent. “Always for you, husband.”
Callum chuckled darkly, pressing his forehead to the small of my back. “Say that again.”
“My husband.”
“Again.”
“Mon champion.” My voice cracked as his fingers pushed the lace aside and found my slick heat. “Sir. Mon amour. S’il te pla?t—”
“You want me to take you like this?” he growled, fucking me with two thick fingers, slow and deep and so smug. “Still in your wedding dress, wrists tied with the ribbon that sealed our vows?”
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak. The only sound I could manage was a helpless moan, high and broken, my hips tilting back into his touch as if begging.
“Oh, I know, my love,” he rasped. “I feel it. Feel how desperate you are. How tight you’re already squeezing my fingers like the slutty little bride you are for me.”
And as if my body loved being called that—loved the condescension, the claim, the shame and the worship wrapped up in one—my walls pulsed around him. Tightened. Welcomed him deeper.
“You want to be fucked by your husband, yeah?”
His fingers curled into that sweet spot deep inside me, dragging along my walls in a rhythm so perfect my toes curled against the tile floor. My hands spasmed against the bedding, useless and twitching. The orgasm started to crest, high and helpless, rising in my throat like a plea.
“Yes—oh God, yes, please—”
He leaned closer, his voice dropping like gravel on silk.
“I promise I’ll make love to you later, Auri.
I’ll worship you like you deserve. But right now?
” He thrust his fingers deeper, and I choked on a sob.
“Right now, I need to know I can take you rough. I need to feel you come apart around my cock. I need to claim what’s mine. ”
I dropped my head to the mattress, hips arching, thighs trembling, the heat building so violently it hurt. I whimpered, soft and broken, lost in it, drunk on him. He hadn’t even fucked me yet, and I was already unraveling.
He pulled his fingers free and dragged them down my thigh, slick and shining, as he reached for the tartan ribbon still beside us on the bed.
“Say it,” he ordered, voice low, guttural, ruined.
“Use it,” I sobbed. “Use the ribbon. Use me to take care of your needs. I want to be your relief. Your release. Your wife.”
That was all he needed. He hauled my wrists behind my back and knotted them tightly. The fabric bit into my skin, not cruel, but certain. Binding. Like him.
“Mine,” he growled. “Still mine. Always mine.”
The knot sealed tight. A promise made. A promise kept. And in that moment—bound, trembling, unraveling—I knew I was lost to Callum Fraser in the most beautiful way possible.
He shoved my panties down to mid-thigh with one hand, just far enough to bare me completely. The other curled tight around my hip as he lined himself up, no teasing, no warning. Just pure, unfiltered need.
Then Callum paused. I whimpered, rocking my hips back, desperate for friction. For him. But his voice dropped, low and painfully tender. “Color, baby?”
“Green,” I breathed without hesitation. “Always green.”
“And scale?” he asked, his tone curling into a grin I couldn’t see but felt deep in my bones. “Where are we at, Mrs. Fraser?”
I moaned. “Nine.”
He chuckled darkly. “Let’s see how high I can take you.”
And then he thrust. One hard, hungry, unrelenting stroke.
I broke, and I was gone, climbing straight to the edge, teetering on the precipice as he filled me in one blinding surge.
His piercing dragged against the tight, aching walls of my pussy until he was buried deep, so deep I felt the cool pressure of metal kiss my cervix.
The stretch burned, the pressure overwhelmed, and yet, I wanted more.
I cried out, face pressed to the sheets, eyes rolling back, tears already stinging as my body convulsed around him. My wrists twitched helplessly behind me. My legs shook. I gasped his name into the mattress like a prayer ripped from my chest.
“Fucking hell,” he bit out behind me, voice thick with thinly-veiled restraint, both hands gripping my hips now like handles. Like he could drag me closer, deeper, into the bone. “You feel like sin and salvation, baby.”
I whimpered as my body clenched around him, thighs trembling violently. The front of the dress dipped low enough that my nipples scraped raw against the silk and the sheets with every brutal thrust—no bra, no mercy, no barrier between me and the way he was ruining me.
He leaned over me, one hand fisting in my hair, forcing my spine to arch, the other tightening the ribbon between my bound wrists to change the angle. Deeper, fuller, devastating.
I melted instantly, body obeying before my mind could catch up, arching into his control like it was instinct. Like he was conducting me, my every movement, every sound, and I was the instrument built to sing only for him.
“You said your vows,” he whispered in my ear. “You called me your husband. You took my last name.”
“Je suis à toi,” I gasped, words spilling broken and desperate. “I’m yours—fuck—I’m yours.”
He was gone.
He fucked me like he was chasing eternity, like he needed to brand it into my body. Each thrust harder, deeper, more devastating than the last. His grip on the ribbon let him control the angle, dragging me into him, keeping me open, making me his.
The tartan rubbed against my skin with every snap of his hips, a constant reminder of what bound me to him now.
The dress bunched between our bodies, silk ruined and perfect.
His wedding ring bit into the nape of my neck as he held me like a lifeline, like I was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.
“Cal,” I panted. “Fuck.”
His rhythm turned filthy, desperate, unforgiving.
Every thrust jarred my body forward, every pull on the ribbon forcing my arms tighter, shoulders aching from the strain.
He was so deep I could barely breathe, the pressure cresting past pleasure into something that bordered on pain, but I wanted it, craved it, because this was what it had always been.
Frenzied. Possessive. Fated.
Just like the first time. And even then, I’d known—he would ruin me for all other men.
“You feel that?” he growled. “That’s how deep I am. How full I make you. Fucking wedded to me now.”
I moaned, my legs quaking beneath me.
“You gonna take it for me, baby? Gonna be a good little wife and let me fuck you how I need?”
He called me baby the most when he was inside me. Sometimes in the public eye, sure. But here, like this—when I submitted to him—it hit different. It always had. And paired with that thickened Scottish accent, fraying at the edges with how wrecked he was, the whole thing undid me.
Because even in this state—feral and filthy and buried inside me to the hilt—he read my body like a map. Knew when to check in, when to push, when to pull back. He never took too much. Never asked for more than I could give.
I was safe with him.
He was safe with me.
And it was so fucking sexy.
“Oui, mon mari.”
“That’s it,” he rasped, his tone turning darker, filthier, reverent and vile in the same breath. “Pretty wee thing, bent over in your wedding dress like you were made for it. Mine to tie. Mine to wreck. Mine to fucking keep.”
I whimpered, lost to it, lost to him, lost to the consummation of our marriage. I’d take it no other way than just like this. This dynamic, this depraved, reverent, Dom/sub surrender was so us.
“Gonna keep you like this,” he snarled, one hand fisting in my hair, the other yanking the ribbon tighter, dragging my arms back as his hips slammed into mine. “Dress all wrinkled, legs fuckin’ shakin’, drippin’ down m’cock like a holy altar come to life. My own wee shrine of sin.”
My whole body seized at that, the tartan biting into my wrists, the heat drowning me, the filth and praise colliding in my bloodstream like lightning to bone.
“You love it, don’t you?” he breathed, filthier now, the Scottish climbing in his throat to where it belonged. “Love when I talk dirty to you, yeah? When I worship ye on my knees one hour and then use ye like a proper fucktoy the next. My perfect wee wife.”
“I do,” I sobbed.
“Goddamn fuckin’ right, ye do.” His hips snapped hard enough to make me see stars. “You’re my perfect—”
Thrust.
“Wee—”
Thrust.
“Fuckin’—”
Thrust.
“Wife.”
A sound tore from my throat—half gasp, half broken plea—his name scraped from my lungs like it had been branded on the inside. My arms twitched behind my back. My legs buckled, helpless and wrecked.
Callum’s voice dropped an octave, hot against my ear. “Tell me, my submissive little fucktoy of a wife.”
“I love it,” I cried. “I love you. I—”
“My legacy,” he panted. “You’re my fuckin’ legacy, Aurélie.”
The orgasm hit like divine punishment, a raw, unrestrained sob bursting from my chest as my body tore itself apart around him. My vision blurred, ears ringing, my entire soul unraveling in a freefall of devastation and matrimonial surrender.