17. Jules
Jules
The London show goes perfectly.
No glitches. No possession attempts. No demonic voices borrowing my mouth to say deeply unsettling things about collective emotional output.
Just music, swords, smoke, and fifty thousand people screaming our names.
By the time we reach Barcelona, I have decided everything is fine.
Was being possessed in a stalled elevator one of the worst experiences of my life? Yes. Absolutely. Zero stars. Would not recommend.
But I survived. Camille dragged me back, the bond held, and Mr. Bane reinforced every ward he could find before we left London. All I have to do now is stay close to wifey.
It’s could be more tragic.
Barcelona is warm even after dark. Our hotel rises above the city with pale stone walls, arched windows, and a rooftop terrace overlooking a sea of tiled roofs and glowing balconies. Somewhere nearby, music drifts through the open windows of a bar.
The room-service menu offers pa amb tomàquet, patatas bravas, and crema catalana.
I am getting all three.
The door opens.
Camille steps in first and stops.
“No,” she says.
Flat. Controlled. Immediate.
I lean against the doorframe behind her, taking my time entering and letting the moment breathe long enough to become funny.
Because it is.
One bed.
Large, centered, and absolutely unavoidable.
I bite back a grin. Camille does not.
“This is incorrect.” She pulls out her phone. “This was not the confirmed arrangement.”
I drop my bag and walk inside as though nothing is wrong. “Tragic.”
“They have mishandled the booking. I’ll have it corrected.”
“It’s late.”
“That is not relevant,” she says.
“It is if they don’t have another room.”
“They will.”
“They might not.”
She looks at me as though I personally sabotaged the Barcelona hospitality industry.
I widen my eyes. “What?”
“This was confirmed. Two beds.”
“Mm.”
“I have the documentation.”
“That sounds like you,” I agree.
Her eyes narrow. “You’re not concerned.”
“Should I be?”
“Yes.”
I drop onto the edge of the bed. “Well, what can you do?”
Her mouth tightens. She returns to her phone and continues typing.
Fixing it.
Of course she is.
I watch her, and not the way I used to, half distracted and half performing. This is intentional.
She is still wearing the cream button-down from the flight, sleeves rolled to her elbows. Her hair has loosened during the journey, and her glasses remain on.
Which honestly feels illegal in an entirely different context now.
She paces once, stops, and types again. Her jaw tightens as she attempts to fix something she cannot control.
I rise from the bed and move closer. “You’re not going to get another room.”
“I will.”
“They’re booked. It’s a tour stop.”
She exhales sharply. “That is not acceptable.”
“No,” I agree. “It really isn’t.”
She looks at me, suspicion flickering across her face.
I smile brightly. Harmlessly.
“You can take the bed,” she says.
“I wasn’t going to argue about that.”
“I’ll take the chair,” she says.
I laugh. “Absolutely not.”
“It’s functional.”
“It’s a chair.”
“It will suffice.”
“Camille. We literally shared a bed last night.”
“I am not sharing a bed with you again.”
I tilt my head. “Why not?”
“Because it introduces unnecessary variables.”
“Everything introduces variables,” I say. “You love variables.”
“I manage variables.”
“Then manage me.”
Silence.
It’s almost cute that I’ve stunned her into silence.
The bond tightens, subtle and immediate, as though it is listening.
“You said proximity helps,” I add, quieter now. “It stabilizes things.”
“That was situational.”
“It’s still true.”
She does not answer, which is answer enough.
I take another step towards her. She does not retreat or correct the distance.
“Or,” I say lightly, “we could admit you’re avoiding this.”
“I am not avoiding anything.”
“You are.”
“I am being practical.”
“You’re scared.”
Her eyes snap to mine. “Incorrect.”
“Mm. Maybe I liked sharing a bed with my wife.”
I stop directly in front of her, close enough to see the tension in her jaw and feel the bond humming between us.
She says nothing, so I continue, “Maybe I liked feeling my wife sleeping beside me.”
“You are worse than a man,” she says quietly.
I grin. Slow. Dangerous.
“Oh, Camille,” I murmur, leaning closer, “a man could never do what I can do with my tongue.”
Her breath catches.
There.
That.
The shift happens quickly.
I close the distance before she can rebuild the wall, but stop just before our mouths touch. Close enough to feel the hitch in her breath. Close enough that she only has to move an inch.
“Let me show you how skilled I really am,” I whisper.
The words come out rougher than I expect, stripped of the teasing performance I usually hide behind.
Because I realized it last night.
Yes, Spreadsheet Barbie is offensively hot.
I have functioning eyes. But lying beside her, feeling her body pressed against mine while her arm held me steady, changed something.
I wanted to turn in her arms. Kiss her. Touch her.
Find out whether she tasted as controlled as she looked or whether all that restraint would finally break beneath my mouth.
I haven’t stopped thinking about it.
Camille’s gaze drops to my lips.
That is all the permission I need.
I kiss her.
Our first kiss is softer than anything between us has a right to be. My mouth brushes hers once, barely there, giving her space to change her mind. She goes completely still beneath the contact, her breath hitching in her throat.
For one terrifying second, I think I misread everything.
Then her lips part against mine, a silent invitation.
The bond flares. Heat rushes through it, sharp and immediate, carrying the shock she refuses to show anywhere else. I kiss her again, harder this time, my tongue tracing the seam of her lips. She tastes faintly of coffee and the mint she keeps in her bag, familiar things made suddenly intimate.
Her hands rise, and for a moment I expect her to stop me. Control the situation. Restore the distance.
She does neither.
One hand closes around my waist, pulling me flush against her, while the other settles at the back of my neck. Her grip is precise, fingers digging into my skin, holding me exactly where she wants me.
Everything sharpens. The wet slide of our tongues meeting, the friction of her lips molding to mine, and the quiet, needy sound she makes when I deepen the kiss.
I push my tongue further into her mouth, exploring the heat and the softness, tasting her desperation.
The space between us disappears until there is nowhere left for either of us to hide.
Her control slips. Her fingers tighten against my neck, pulling my head back to expose my throat, and suddenly she is kissing me with all the intensity she usually buries beneath schedules and clinical language.
She sucks on my lower lip, pulling it between her teeth with a sharp tug that sends a jolt of electricity straight to between my legs.
Then she moves, and I am the one losing ground.
Her hands settle on me with deliberate, possessive intent, sliding down from my neck to grip my shoulders, urging me back.
“Oh,” I breathe against her mouth, the sound muffled by her lips.
I did not expect that.
Camille kisses me again and walks me backwards until my knees hit the mattress. I let myself fall, the air leaving my lungs as she follows me down, bracing her body above mine without breaking the kiss for a single second.
I let go.
Not of control. Not of awareness.
Of the act.
The version of me that is always performing, always winning, always a step ahead.
This is not about winning.
It is about something that started in the elevator when she held my face and told the thing inside me that I belonged to her.
Her control is different like this. Less cold. More focused.
When she pulls away from the kiss to stand beside the bed, I laugh. “Wow. So this is how it’s going to be?”
Camille looks down at me. Her expression is composed, but her breathing is not.
“Still certain?” she asks me.
“Completely.”
Something decisive moves through the bond.
“Then focus,” she says.
“I promise you: I’m very focused.”
“Then show me how much better than a man you are with your tongue.”
My entire brain goes pleasantly blank.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Camille holds my gaze as she undresses, each movement controlled despite the heat moving through the bond. She slides her clothes off, exposing her breasts and the damp heat between her legs, before she climbs onto the bed and positions herself above me.
Oh.
She is serious.
My hands settle on her thighs, squeezing the soft flesh as she lowers herself, guiding her pussy—and God, what a pretty pussy it is—directly onto my mouth.
And I do exactly what she asked.
Everything narrows to Camille: the weight of her hips pressing down on my face, her fingers tangling in my hair to hold me tight against her, and the taste of her juices coating my tongue.
I bury my face in her, licking her clit with long, firm strokes and sucking the sensitive nub into my mouth.
I can feel her pulsing against my lips, every change in her breathing signaling that I’ve found the rhythm she wants.
She tries to remain silent at first, her muscles twitching as she fights to keep her composure, as if even this is something she can control.
It does not last.
There is no performance left in me. No joke, no audience, no version of myself arranging every movement for maximum effect.
Only her.
The way her restraint frays when I refuse to let up, my tongue flicking faster and harder against her clit, swirling around the opening of her pussy.
The bond fills with sharp heat and overwhelming sensation until she loses the precise rhythm of her breathing, her hips bucking wildly against my mouth as she comes apart above me, her wetness coating my tongue and lips.
She barely gives herself time to recover.
Instead of moving away, Camille looks down at me, flushed and breathing hard, her pussy still twitching from the orgasm.
“Again,” she says.
It sounds like an order. The bond carries the plea beneath it.