Page 74 of Close Contact
“Aurélie,” he murmured. His fingers brushed my hair off my shoulder, tucking it behind my ear as if it was something fragile. Then he leaned in and pressed his lips to the bruise just above my collarbone—the damning one he fucking left—before nosing down the curve of my neck as if he belonged there.
“You really should cover that up,” he whispered, voice dark with satisfaction. Then he dragged his thumb under my shirt collar, tugging it aside. His mouth followed, soft and deliberate, kissing each freckle. “Your skin’s like a night sky,” he murmured against my shoulder. “Little constellations. I could spend all night mapping them.”
I stilled, remembering the way he traced each one in Imola. Like he wanted to memorize every single one. A part of me melted under the weight of it—his voice, his touch, his ridiculous sweetness. But another part… cracked. Deep and quiet and not at all fair, butthere.
Because he would be the only thing capable of making today feel even betterandworse at the same time. Maybe it was irrational. Maybe it was nothing. But fuck, it still stung.
Of course he’d know how to talk like that. Of course he’d say things like that—effortlessly, poetically, like it was second nature.
Pain and poetry,they’d said. Kimi and Marco had laughed when they said it, like it was some well-established fact. And maybe they wouldn’t have joked like that if they knew just how deep we were in this… but it was still the truth, wasn’t it?
I was one of many.
Sure, I’d had my fair share of partners, too—but not like that. Not in a way where someone kissed your skin like it was scripture. Not in a way that feltwrittenfor me.
I let him hold me, let him wrap his arms around my waist and press his chin to my shoulder while I did my makeup. I didn’t pull away. I didn’t say a word.
But I sat with it. The weight of it.
Jealousy was a familiar feeling. Santino made sure of that. Being cheated on rewires you. It makes you suspicious of soft things.
And no, this wasn’t the same. Iknewthat.
But it didn’t stop the ache from blooming in my chest and twisting low in my stomach. Didn’t stop the voice in my head whispering,This is who he is. Maybe Callum Fraser wasn’t a hopeless romantic. Maybe he was just used to saying sweet nothings to get his way.
Well, he wouldn’t get away with that anymore. BecauseIwould be the one to change that.
I knew his reputation. I’d seenthe stories online. I’d heard the rumors, but hearing it directly, feeling it—that was different. It shouldn’t have felt like a betrayal, but it did, because I hadn’t been the first girl to feel his mouth on her skin like this. But fuck if I wasn’t going to be thelast.
“Callum,” I said softly, not quite sure if I was warning him or myself.
He looked up at me, gaze heavy. “Yeah?”
I forced a smile and gently nudged him back with my elbow. “I said off. Hair time.”
He sighed again and begrudgingly shuffled out of the room. The whole thing was hysterical, like watching a child throw a temper tantrum. So sad that the man who was used to winning now had to deal with losing.
Victory tasted like wine, justice, and makingCallumFraser—four-time world champion, consummate control freak, and the man I was head-over-heels in love with—absolutely suffer.
He’d learn eventually never to try to outmaneuver a French woman who races for a living. Especially not one who felt a little scorned by a past she wasn’t a part of.
Before I left the room,her dark purple duffel bag caught my eye, half-unzipped on the bed.
I knew I shouldn’t. I really did, but I was a man hanging on by a thread and desperate for anything that reminded me of her. Of earlier. Of always. I moved closer, heart still thudding like I’d taken a jump start to the chest, and gently parted the bag’s opening.
Inside were a few things—makeup, a book, a set of pajamas, a handful of pink underwear that would be the death of me. But nestled at the bottom, tucked just between a silk sleep mask and her passport, were two discreet black bottles.
I picked one up, turning it over. No label, just an ornate golden logo engraved on the side that I didn’t recognize. I uncapped it carefully. One whiff and my knees buckled.
Her.
Lavender, citrus, something soft and warm and dizzying. The scent I’d buried my face into during every kiss, every fuck, every time she curled up against me. I inhaled again, deeper this time, and it hit me like a goddamn freight train. My brain short-circuited. My body went hot all over.
Fuck.
I pressed the bottle to my nose like a man starved, lightheaded from the way it triggered every feral, possessive part of me.
This was her. This wasours.
