Chapter 20 - Callum
Lightning cracked overhead, illuminating Aurélie’s hair like a halo of gold fire.
I caught up to her at the edge of the lookout, gravel crunching underfoot as I reached for her arm, only for her to whirl on me.
The wind whipped around us, slicing between every breath, and for a second, neither of us spoke.
We stood there, drenched and staring each other down like we’d both been pushed to the brink.
We were both cast in the halos of the headlights, like some fucked up apocalyptic scene at the end of the world.
She stood in the beam, soaked and furious and goddamn divine, her black dress molded to every curve.
Hair clung to her face in wet strands, eyes glinting like lightning itself had taken shelter in them.
Rain streaked over her collarbones and down her chest, gathering between her tits.
I wanted to lick it up, drink the rainwater from her skin like it was holy water off a martyr’s body; proof that I could still be saved if I just got on my knees and begged.
I could barely think past the visual. She looked like vengeance and power.
Like she’d been created out of stormclouds and sex and rage.
And I wanted to worship every inch of her until I passed out from sheer reverence.
From hunger. From the overwhelming need to prove I was worthy of her sanctity.
“You didn’t fall in love with me because I was easy, Callum.
I will never be easy,” she bit out, like it tasted bitter to admit.
Her lower lip quivered. Her eyes shone—furious, wet, blazing with betrayal, black mascara bleeding like confessions she never meant for me to see.
She looked like she was about to either kiss me or kill me, and I was pretty sure I’d thank her for either.
I swallowed, hard. My hands yearned to touch her, but I could tell she needed to get this out. We were so fucking close to the edge. Of the fight, of the breaking point, of the part where we either said what needed saying or shattered for good.
“If you want easy,” she spat, “go find a pit chaser who’ll kiss your ego and shut her mouth.”
The bone-chilling wind ripped around us, screaming louder than either of us could.
“But this woman?” She stabbed a finger into her own chest. “This woman doesn’t do third chances. She doesn’t reward recklessness. If you fuck up, you learn from it. You bleed for it. You prove that you’re ready to be better.”
She stepped forward and grabbed the front of my soaked shirt with both fists and yanked me toward her, until our noses almost touched.
Relief crashed into me when her body pressed against mine.
I didn’t deserve it, but fuck, I needed it.
Even if she was dragging me to hell with her, I’d go willingly just to feel her this close.
Her voice dropped to a purr—sweet, venomous, dominant.
“You want to be the Dom?” she whispered.
“Fine. You can have the title.” Her grip tightened on my shirt.
My fingers dug into her waist. “But don’t forget how this works.
I might kneel for you—might—but I’m the one who decides when, how, and if you earn it. ”
I shuddered. Her breath was hot against my jaw. I could feel her legs pressed against mine, the soft drag of her hips swaying into me. She already knew I’d cave. It was just a matter of how long I’d refrain.
“You think you’ve got the power?” she breathed.
“You don’t get it, do you? I’m the sub, Cal,” she whispered.
The nickname sounded so soft and intimate, her French accent curling around it like silk, all dangerous and precious in ways that undid me.
It was her surrender and her warning, her power play and her plea.
And fuck me, it gutted me. Because when she said my name like that?
I would’ve handed her every key to my kingdom.
“And that means I own the game.” She leaned closer, her lips brushing mine without kissing. “Because if you’re not a good boy?” she purred. “You lose privileges.”
Fuck. I whimpered. Audibly. She smiled, wicked and devastating, because she knew exactly what she was doing. Weaponizing every inch of her body, every note of her voice, every piece of me that belonged to her and only her.
“No worshipping my pussy. No kissing my thighs until I’m shaking. No tying me up and watching me beg. Les mauvais garcons doivent apprendre à attendre.”
Bad boys have to learn to wait.
My cock throbbed. My blood burned with desire and restraint.
“No telling me I’m your good girl,” she added, her voice slipping into something syrup-slick and cruel. “No burying your face between my legs until you’re dripping with it. No tasting me until I scream your name so loud the neighbors complain.”
My knees buckled.
“And you love when I scream for you, don’t you, mon amour?”
I groaned. “Auri—”
“You want those privileges back?” she asked, tilting her head. “Then start acting like the man who earned me. Considère ca ta punition.” Consider this your punishment.
Her French was so sharp, so final. It was the cruelest kind of mercy—denial delivered in the language she used when she unraveled. When she moaned. When she prayed to me in bed. And now, she was using it to punish me.
Rain lashed down harder, soaking us through until even my bones felt cold. I was shivering, but not from the wind. It was her. Her voice. Her body. Her rage. Her love.
And then she kissed me. It was hard and brutal and possessive and everything we were at our core.
A clap of thunder cracked overhead like a war drum, echoing off the mountain as her teeth scraped my bottom lip.
It felt symbolic, like she was branding me with her fury, marking my mouth with the same fire I’d ignited in her and failed to contain.
Aurélie pulled back just barely, our lips still brushing. I exhaled when she inhaled. We were the same broken storm breathing in sync.
“I hate that I love you so goddamn much,” she whispered, a sob catching in her throat. “Because I would do anything for you.”
Her voice cracked, and God, it tore my heartstrings straight out of my chest. Her lashes clumped together, eyes soaked, makeup smudged all over her cheeks.
The wild, furious goddess in front of me was shattered, mascara-stained and shaking, fists still tangled in my shirt like I was the only thing keeping her upright.
“I let you wreck me,” she choked out, “and I still come back for more.” Her eyes squeezed shut, and fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. Her shoulders trembled as the sob escaped. It was raw, helpless, the kind of sound that left a scar.
“And I need to know,” she pleaded, louder now, more broken, “that you mean it. That you meant every word you said in that car. Because if you didn’t…” Her voice dropped to a whisper so quiet I could barely hear her over the sound of the rain. “I can’t handle it if you didn’t.”
That was it. That fucking ripped me open.
I cupped her face—both hands, firm and shaking and reverent—because she was still trembling, crying, trying to stay standing when all I wanted was to fall to my knees and beg.
“I’ve never meant anything more,” I rasped. “Aurélie. Camille. Dubois.”
Her eyes fluttered shut. My thumbs swiped under her lashes, collecting every tear like they were sacred.
“I’m going to fuck up,” I breathed. “Because that’s what I am. One big fuck up in a nice suit with a fast car.”
She gave a short, tear-wet laugh that made me want to die.
“But I need you to stay,” I said, forehead pressed to hers, desperate now. “Stay by my side when I do. I’ll always make up for it. I’ll learn. I’ll listen. I’ll bleed for you, mon amour.”
Her fingers gripped my wrists.
“I promise,” I whispered into the night, into the space between us, into every mistake I hadn’t yet made. “I promise. I promise. I’m so sorry.”
She didn’t say anything right away. We swayed together, shivering in the downpour, illuminated only by the car’s headlights and random flashes of lightning. We breathed each other in for a minute, gazes locking.
And then Aurélie kissed me again. Harder. Faster. Messier. We collapsed into it like we were drowning and this was our last breath.
But I couldn’t melt into it. Not yet.
Because everything she’d said still echoed in my skull—loud and ugly and fucking true.
I ripped my mouth from hers, breathing hard, gripping her wrists as I held her away just enough to see her. To make sure she saw me, too.
“You’re not the only one with scars, Aurélie,” I murmured. “You’re not the only one who’s been left, or broken, or made to feel like they’re hard to love.”
She went still. My lungs couldn’t draw in enough air.
“I didn’t fall for you because you were easy. I fell because you were real. Because you don’t let anyone touch you unless they earn it. And somehow—somehow—you still let me in.”
My hands dropped from her wrists, then ran through my hair as I stepped back, my voice lowering into something raw.
“And I fucked it up,” I said quietly. “I know that. I didn’t tell you something I should’ve said weeks ago.”
She folded her arms across her chest and dipped her chin, indicating I should continue.
“I was scared,” I admitted. “Of retiring. Of losing this sport. But most of all, I was scared of losing you.”
She flinched. Her breath hitched audibly, and she turned away from me, one arm still crossed over her chest, the other dragging through her hair as she began to pace.
Toward the car. Then back toward me. Then toward the edge of the overlook again, like she couldn’t figure out which direction hurt less.
But that was the truth. The whole fucking truth.
“Aurélie,” I called out to her until she turned to look at me.
“This? What we have?” I gestured between us, my voice rough.
“It’s more than I ever thought I’d get. I’m fucking terrified that one day you’ll finally see that I’m not good enough for you.
And I keep waiting for the moment when you realize you deserve better. ”