Page 84 of Close Contact
“Let me watch. Let me see what I’ve done to you.”
My fingers moved between my legs, wet and aching and desperate. I pressed on my clit and shivered, lashes fluttering. He groaned, low and raw, holding me there, one hand on my stomach, the other tracing lazy circles around my nipple through the dress.
“That’s it,” he whispered. “You’re so fucking perfect. I’m so proud of you.”
I sighed.
“Proud of everything you’ve done. The race. The press. The way you looked at me on that podium. You made history today.”
My thighs trembled.
“I’m proud you stood up for yourself. You proved them all wrong.” He pinched my nipple at the same time I circled my clit, and pressure rose deep in my core. “Proud of how well you wear my marks. And now,” he added, voice molten, “you’re mine.”
My orgasm hit hard and fast, spiraling through me as I moaned into the air, legs shaking. The ache that had lived in me all night softened under his hands. With every whisper, every touch, he stitched something back together. Not because he needed to fix me, but because he couldn’t bear to let me forget my own worth. It was never about proving I was strong. It was about remembering I was loved, too—without expectations or stipulations.
But he wasn’t done.
He turned me, kissed me deep, and laid me out on the floor in front of the mirror.
The dress stayed on.
The panties were gone with one pull.
He slid into me with a curse, slow and deep and endless, still clothed and too impatient to wait.
And when I wrapped my legs around his hips and pulled him closer, he whispered it again.
“Tell me you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” I promised.
He drove into me, breath ragged. “Say it again.”
I came again, the waves strong and never-ending. “I’m yours. I’vealwaysbeen yours. Je t’aime, Callum.Je t’aime.Je t’aime putain.”
He kissed me through it. Fucked me through it.Loved methrough it.
And when I came for a third time, he held me as if I might disappear.
We stayed there, tangled and wrecked, the mirror catching all the pieces of us that didn’t know how to be apart anymore.
One week had changedeverything.
He smoothed the hair from my face. “I’ll remember this forever,” he whispered.
He said that, but what I’d remember was the way it felt to be completely undone without fear. To be loved loudly and held softly in the same breath. That, after everything, I could still feel whole.
“So will I.”
There were mornings before her.I knew there were—obviously. I just… didn’t remember a single fucking one. And there were never, ever,evermornings with other women.
The world outside was quiet, but inside me, everything was chaos, because she was here, in my bed, in my life. I was completely wrecked by her.
Aurélie lay tangled in the bedding, her golden hair a mess across my pillow, her body exposed just enough to see the top swell of her breast, the imprint of my teeth far from faded. I carefully pulled the covers away so I could look at her body. I would never get enough of it. She was on her back, and her thighs were parted slightly, one leg cocked just enough for me to see where I’d slid into her last night—where I’d lost my fucking mind inside her.
I was rock fucking hard as I stared at her like I was trying to memorize the way her pretty pink pussy looking in the morninglight. I think the sight of her would anchor me when the world spun too fast. I hadn’t touched her yet, but my body ached like I had. Every nerve, every muscle, every thought washers—heart, mind, body, and soul.
I shifted onto my side, unable to stop myself. I pressed my nose to her neck andbreathed her in, slow and deep. My lips brushed the shell of her ear. “Wake up, mon amour.”
