Chapter 19 Aurélie #4
My pussy clamped down around him, desperate and greedy, milking him with relentless pressure, the pleasure sharp enough it bordered on painful. He fucked me through it with long, deep, brutal strokes, dragging every last drop of sensation from my trembling body.
And then—like a fucking miracle—another wave surged.
I clenched hard just as I gushed, soaking his cock with a high-pitched cry.
Arousal poured from me in pulsing spasms, messy and obscene, soaking the bedding, dripping down my thighs.
It splashed loud between us with every thrust, and he groaned as I fluttered around him in overstimulated aftershocks.
It hit him like a drug. He growled, his grip tightening as my body kept squeezing him like I never wanted to let him go.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he choked. “You’re fuckin’ milkin’ me, baby—fuck—can’t hold it—”
Callum came with a hoarse, guttural cry, hips jerking, cock throbbing as he spilled inside me in violent, relentless waves. Not punishing. Consuming. Like something ripped out of him, deep and ragged, as if his soul had clung to mine and refused to let go.
His whole body tensed, then collapsed over mine, chest pressed to my back, his weight grounding me, surrounding me.
His mouth stayed open against my shoulder, panting against my skin, as his hand finally loosened the ribbon at my wrists with trembling fingers.
My arms dropped limp to my sides. He kissed the back of my neck, then my shoulder blade, then the scattered freckles just below like he was trying to memorize me all over again.
And even then, fucked-out and ruined and breathless, he whispered, “My girl. My wife. My world.”
We stayed tangled in dress and ribbon and heat and sweat until the world felt real again and I remembered how to breathe.
Then I remembered we had friends waiting.
“Callum.”
“Color?” he murmured, lips still on my spine, voice hoarse and gentle.
I exhaled contentedly. “Green.”
“And scale, baby?”
“Eleven, Fraser.”
He hummed, dragging his teeth gently along my shoulder, accent softening. “Fucking hell, I wanted you higher than that.”
I giggled, dazed. “Can’t. It rhymes with heaven.”
“Oh, aye,” he muttered, curling his hand around my waist as he rocked gently into me again. I bite my lip, withholding a moan because we absolutely did not have time for more. “Because you were made in Heaven, Mrs. Fraser.”
Made in Heaven.
Just like my tattoo.
He pulled me upright, keeping my chest pinned to his, his breath still hot against my neck.
My tits were out, the silk of my dress shoved up around my ribs, pinned between our bodies like a crumpled flag.
One of his hands slid up to cup my breast, teasing the nipple between his fingers, while the other held me steady as he slowly slipped out of me—his softening cock thick and wet, covered in the mess we’d made.
We stayed like that for one more breath.
Then, with the same casual authority that had beguiled me since the start, Callum stepped back and pressed a palm between my shoulder blades until I pitched forward, placing my hands on the mattress to steady myself. My body obeyed without hesitation, instinctive and open. Bent over for him again.
“Holy fuck.” He groaned behind me as his hand trailed down between my thighs, dragging through the arousal that coated my skin. “Jesus fucking Christ, look at that.” Then I felt his fingers pushing the leaking cum back up inside me with slow, filthy precision.
“Mon Dieu,” I breathed, rocking against his hand like we didn’t have somewhere to be.
“Not wastin’ a fuckin’ drop, Mrs. Fraser,” he growled, voice gone thick with that deep, primal edge.
He grabbed the back of my neck and pulled me upright, flush against his chest again.
He rasped, “Tell me we didn’t just consummate this marriage proper, when you’re nice and full of me now. Like a good little wife.”
My entire body quaked, a choked sound escaping my throat as heat licked through me all over again.
God. I shouldn’t have loved it, but I did. Every. Goddamn. Time.
That possessive tone. That filthy, devoted, dominant streak of his that only came out when it was just us and the door was locked.
It hit me in the chest like worship. Like submission. Like the most obsessed kind of love.
My pussy fluttered at the sheer depravity of it, the way he didn’t just fuck me, didn’t just claim me… but made a home out of me. Out of my body. Made it sound holy. Made it ours.
I whimpered as he knelt, big hands sliding down my thighs before he dragged my white lace thong back up my legs. He eased it into place like he was sealing something sacred. His cum leaked against the delicate fabric the moment it molded snug between my thighs.
Then he reached for my dress and tugged the silk back down gently, letting the skirt fall into place with reverent hands.
“Perfect.” He pressed a kiss to the small of my back. “Could look at you like this all fucking day.”
I smiled, slow and lazy, hips swaying as I sauntered away. “Give me two minutes. Then we can go.”
Then I glanced over my shoulder and nearly moaned again at the sight of him on his knees, looking up at me with stars in his eyes. Lips red and swollen, cheeks flushed, linen shirt still hanging open, pants damp with arousal.
I tipped my head with a smirk. “Perhaps you should be a good little husband and make yourself presentable. As much as I love your willingness to parade around with our cum stains on display, the goal is to not draw a crowd tonight. And to behave.”
He let out a low, amused hum—somewhere between a chuckle and a growl—and pushed to his feet. “Oui, madame.” Then he leaned in and pressed a loud, lingering kiss to my mouth. “Though I make no promises about the behaving part.”
He slapped my ass before vanishing into the walk-in closet. I padded toward the bathroom, pulse still thudding softly between my thighs.
Everything in me felt… quiet. The buzz in my brain was gone, since my husband had made it a personal mission to keep me perfectly blissed-out at all times. My body felt relaxed and my soul hummed to the rhythm of his.
I glanced at my reflection and paused. There were small differences in the way I stood and how I looked at myself. I looked tougher than I had at the start of the season. But somehow, more feminine too. Romantic, flustered, loved and in love.
Glowing, but grounded, like a woman who knew exactly who she was and who she belonged to.
I took my time cleaning up and slipping out of my wedding dress, hanging it on the velvet hanger it had been on this morning. The hem was stained with grass and dirt. It was wrinkled from sex. Droplets of wine and probably a splash of… other things.
It was imperfect now, messy, but no less beautiful. Full of memories, just like today.
My hair was falling loose, the pins half undone. My lip liner smudged. My powder needed touching up. I looked like a woman who’d just had all her needs met—mind, body, and soul.
I quickly ripped the pins out, twisting the front strands back again and finger-combing the rest into lazy waves. Then I reached for a washcloth to gently clean between my legs, wincing just a little from the oversensitivity.
I must’ve taken longer than I thought, because the next time I looked up, I saw him.
Callum was leaning in the doorway, freshly changed into a cream linen button-down with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of perfectly tailored navy trousers.
Loose but low on his hips, effortless and expensive and devastatingly fuckable.
His hair was slightly damp, his mouth stretched into a smoldering grin, that dimple popping out.
Putain de merde.
And I realized I was still just in my white lace thong like some kind of sinful, matrimonial, bridal wet dream.
In other words: his.
“You feeling okay, Mrs. Fraser?” he asked, voice rough with affection.
“Never better,” I said, bare and radiant. “But I might need another round at dinner.” I raked my gaze over him, biting my lip. “You know… as foreplay for all that making love you keep threatening me with.”
His laugh was pure sin. “Threatening sex with more sex? Aye, I knew you were going to be the perfect wife.”
I broke into a fit of giggles, brushing past him to fish out the soft white sundress I’d been waiting to wear. I made a beeline toward the closet. The room smelled like salt and sex and champagne. Basically everything that had occurred here since we’d arrived.
And in it, I still felt it. Us, tied up in this space.
I paused and let myself revel in it.
It wasn’t about sex. It wasn’t even about urgency.
It was need. The kind you feel in your lungs and makes you ache just to be touched. Just to know it’s real.
I married a man with nothing left to prove, and he proved I was worth everything by claiming me like his greatest win.
Callum stepped up behind me, hands curving gently over my hips. “Wear something easy to get you out of tonight. That’s a command.”
I smirked. “Anything for my husband.”
He exhaled like I’d knocked the wind out of him, then dipped me backwards. He kissed me gently and full of gratitude, like I was some kind of miracle.
Maybe I was. Maybe we both were.
As his tongue swept over mine, I realized he didn’t take my name away today. He took my faith, and I never wanted it back. Because I didn’t find God in this room—I found my husband, and that was enough to believe.
And the flesh became covenant.
And the covenant became us.