Page 47 of Flat Out
The lift chimed. Penthouse. He bent down to scoop up the flowers, then he laced his fingers with mine and stepped back, smoothing his shirt like he wasn’t still soaked in the aftermath of our orgasms.
“You decide, mon amour,” he said, pulling me into the hall. “Do you want mercy or destruction when we get inside?”
I gulped but stumbled after him, waiting in a daze for him to unlock the door with the keycard I hadn't realized he'd taken from me until now.
The suite was obnoxiously perfect. Floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the quiet sprawl of Spielberg’s twinkling skyline, a private terrace, plush rugs, a bottle of champagne already chilling in a silver bucket. Both of our bags were set neatly at the foot of the bed. The room was lit by a lone lamp on the desk in the corner, the rest of the room cloaked in darkness and glowing in moonlight.
I barely stepped over the threshold before Callum shut the door and tossed the keycard and bouquet onto the entry table. So casual, as if it wasn’t the ticket to my fucking undoing.
I turned to him, still processing. “You really booked the penthouse without asking me?”
He was already stalking toward me. "No. I just changed your reservation."
"D'accord, petit malin, and while you were at it, did you happen to book yourownroom?"
“You ran across the world for me,” he said by way of answering, as though it was nothing. As if I hadn’t been slowly losing myself since the second I saw his car crumple against the barrier in Montreal. “I think thissmart ass, as you put it, is allowed a few indulgences.”
I stared at him and that stupid, arrogant, beautiful grin on his face. The one that only appeared when he knew he’d won.
"Indulgences? Like everything tonight wasn't anindulgencefor you?"
"It was fucking torture for me, too, love."
I wrapped my arms around his neck, trying to eliminate as much distance between us as possible. "I'm sorry for everything." It was barely a coherent sentence with the way each word broke. "I panicked and I'm sorry. I don't know how to get out of my own mind sometimes?—"
"You don't have to know yet. You just have to stay. Let me love you while you learn."
AndGod, something shattered inside me. Not painfully like a fracture, but likerelease.A long-awaited lifetime of walls crumbling for the final time.
My whole body shook violently as sobs wracked me, tears falling before I could stop them. I didn’t know how to tell him just how deep my issues ran, but that I wastrying.
All I've been doing lately is try, only to feel like a failure.
“Auri,” Callum rasped, and the vulnerability hanging in that single syllable had my heart splintering apart. I squeezed my eyes shut, and he grabbed my wrists gently before pressing me back against the wall.
“Cal.” I sounded as weak and broken as I felt.
“Listen to me,” he whispered, brushing a gentle kiss to my lips. "You saved me in more than one way, Auri. And I will save you—time and time and time again. There is nothing in this world that could stop me." He kissed the corner of my mouth. "Not a fucking car crash." My cheek. "Not the FIA.” My jaw. "Not a media storm, or a board vote, or every goddamn sponsor on the planet pulling out." My throat. "Not a team principal screaming at me. Not broken bones. Not death threats.Nothing."
He pulled back just enough to look at me. I felt the weight of it—every word, every vow, every unrelenting inch of his devotion pressing into me like it was carved into his bones.
“Callum…” I whispered, throat tight.
He gripped my hips suddenly—hard—halting my words as his body pinned mine to the wall. His eyes locked on mine, burning the bluest flame.
“I watched that interview,” he said, voice breaking like glass. “The one from the night you said I didn’t come back.”
I unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt. My fingers traced the edges of the bruises on his chest as if to prove he very much didnotcome back to me in Montreal.
“I was at my fucking lowest,” he continued. “Hiding. Hurting. Feeling like the biggest goddamn coward in the world because I let Dom usher me onto my jet without seeing you first. And when you said I didn’t come back—” his throat bobbed, voice cracking, “—I cried, Aurélie. I fucking cried. Because Itried. I wanted to after I went to the FIA, but I wasn’t strong enough. I could barely stand.” He brushed his thumb under my eye, catching a stray tear. Breathed me in like I was oxygen.
“You’d been in my bed just hours before that interview, talking to me in French until I fell asleep. I could still smell you on my pillow, in my flat. I saw what you did for me in just a couple hours. I held the notes you wrote like they could fill thevoid you left behind. Becauseyou, mon amour, came back. You picked my fucking locks. You forced me to face you at my worst—just like I’ve done to you.”
His hands slid up my back, over my ribs, anchoring me to him.
“I should never have done that to you. I should have responded, but I didn't andI'm sorry.I fucked up. I was mad that you felt like you couldn't involve me sooner. I was mad that you barely fucking paused before sprinting across a live track to get to me. What if something had happened toyoubecause another driver didn't slow down enough?"
Hearing his side of it sliced straight through my heart. When I met his gaze, I saw every unspoken word laid bare. Not the cocky champion, not the ruthless driver, not even the man who could make me unravel with a single touch. I saw Callum—raw, unarmored, bleeding truth from the blue of his eyes. His regret was there, sharp and ugly, but so was something else. Fear. Love. A devotion so consuming it looked like it might tear him in half if I didn’t take it from him and make it mine.
