Page 62 of Close Contact
“She fucks like apornstarif you give her what she wants.”
Callumsnarled, his eyes blazing as he dug his knuckles intoSantino’sjaw, holding him in place like a coiled spring ready to snap. “Say another word,” he warned, “and I promise you’ll regret it.”
“I can take a hit, Fraser. The only difference is, I didn’t have to work my way up from the bottom like you did.”
Callumswung once, twice, three more times, blood spraying andSantinogrunting in pain beforeCallumlet him go.Santinoslumped over, coughing. Callum’s eyes darted to me for half a second, and then he did a double take. I didn’t understand why at first, not until I felt a warm trickle sliding down my neck. His nostrils flared as he brushed his fingers lightly over the side of my jaw. When they came away stained red, I startled, flinching away from him.
“You’re bleeding,” he said, more to himself than me. “Right where he grabbed you.”
I blinked, disoriented as I tried to process seeing my blood on his fingers. The skin throbbed now that I noticed it—right where Santino’s ring had cut me. “What?”
“Fucking bastard,” he muttered, then turned and hit Santino again, harder this time. “You stay away from her. You stay away from me. And if I see you again, I’ll expose you in far less graceful ways thanAuréliewould. I’m not as forgiving as she is.”
His threat hung in the air, and I couldn’t help but feel a thrill race through my veins.
Santinoglared at the both of us before straightening. Blood dripped out of his nose and the corners of his mouth, which he opened to say something, but I stepped forward as my own rage ignited.Callumhad already done the damage, butSantino? He needed to remember.
My rage wasn’t gone. Not even close. I wanted him to hurt the way I had. So I got all up in his space, put my hand on his shoulders, and kneed him right in the balls.Hard. He let out a choked sound of pain, collapsing to his knees, curling in on himself.
“That,” I said calmly, shaking out my fingers like I could get rid of the fact that I’d touched him, “was for me.”
He wisely kept his mouth shut as he climbed to his feet, flipped us the finger, and limped away.
I let out a shaky breath, my legs threatening to give out beneath me. My hands wouldn’t stop trembling, as if my body couldn’t decide whether to collapse or run.
The world felt muffled like I was underwater. Everything around me had dulled, the edges too soft, my hearing too distant. My vision tunneled.
Callum’shand on my shoulder brought me back. He was real. And right now, I needed real.
He turned to me, and for the first time since we met, I saw something in his eyes I couldn’t name. Not just rage. Not just protectiveness. Something deeper.
“You okay?” he asked, voice rough with restraint.
“I’m fine,” I lied, even as I stared at the blood on his knuckles. My teeth started to chatter and my shoulders shook. “Are you?” My eyes flicked to the blood spatter on his neck, the tension still coiled through every muscle in his body.
His eyes dropped to my trembling hands. “Aurélie…”
“I’m fine,” I said again, but softer this time. I wasn’t convincing either of us. “I just… wasn’t expecting that.”
He exhaled sharply, dragging his bloodied hand through his hair. “I swear to God,Aurélie,” he said, jaw tight. “If he ever touches you again, I won’t stop.”
And I believed him. He didn’t finish the job. Even though I saw it in his eyes—that primal, vicious part of him that wanted to breakSantino’sface in two.
But he didn’t.
He chose me.
Not revenge.
And somehow, that made it both hotter and more romantic.
He hesitated, then reached for me again, his hand sliding from my shoulder down to the curve of my back, slow and tentative. I moved toward him without thinking, my body desperate for something solid, and wrapped my arms around his waist.
He didn’t say anything. Just held me until the shaking stopped, not even slightly worried that we were in a paddock lit by floodlights. Right here, just the two of us, we were someplace softer, safer. Some place that only existed when we were together.
I closed my eyes against his chest, breathing him in—champagne, sweat, high-octane fuel. Him.
“Thank you,” I whispered. “I was too tired to fight back.”
