Page 81 of Flat Out
By the time he grabbed my hand to help me step into the tub, I was shivering. Not from being cold, but from being cherished this much. The water lapped over my sore muscles, hot enough to sting at first, but soon the ache began to dull. I sank lower with a sigh I couldn’t hold back.
He knelt at the edge of the tub, brushing damp strands of hair from my face, and I thought I might actually drown in him.
“Let me take care of you tonight,” he said, voice husky, eyes burning. “Let me love you the way you deserve.”
I hummed, my eyes falling shut and my head lulling back against the porcelain edge of the massive garden tub. His touchfell away from my skin, and I let myself bask in the way my muscles slowly relaxed, the pain gradually lessening as the minutes passed.
When I opened my eyes, Callum was moving around. He set a glass of wine on the edge of the tub, giving me a small smile before he disappeared. Seconds later he returned, unfolding a robe across the counter, smoothing it like he wanted it perfect for me. He bent to scoop my clothes from the floor—folding them neatly, of course, because how could he get more perfect?—before coming back to kneel at the tub again.
This time, his fingers skimmed the wet strands of my hair floating in the water, gathering them gently and pulling them over my shoulder to keep them from trailing. Then his hands slid higher, massaging into my scalp with slow, grounding circles that made me groan. I tilted my head toward him, searching for his mouth, but he kissed my forehead instead. It was gentle and romantic and goddamnmaddening.
“You should be in here with me,” I murmured, tugging at his wrist. “You’re the one who needs this.”
The corner of his mouth curved, a low chuckle vibrating through him. “No, mon cœur. Tonight isn’t about me.” His lips brushed my damp temple, his breath warm against my ear. “Your body is the temple. I’ll worship it before I bury myself inside you. Before I take every last piece you’ve kept hidden.”
My whole body went molten. My nipples tightened, the hot water making them hyper-sensitive, and goosebumps prickled across my arms. My pussy clenched under the water so hard I nearly gasped. This was all so stupidly poetic. Stupidly romantic. Stupidly him.
Thiswas what it meant to be loved completely by someone who saw every need I couldn’t put into words, who tended to more than my body. He cared for my mind, my bruised spirit, the parts of me no one else had touched. Just like I’d caredfor him through this recovery, prepping his meals, cleaning his place, coaxing him to rest, reminding him he wasn’t alone.
Fuck.
I blinked fast, trying not to cry all over again. He’d been through hell, his body still broken, and he wanted to spend tonight worshipingme?
He kissed the corner of my eye where a tear had slipped free, catching the salt before it could fall. “Shh, love. Don’t break on me yet. Not until I’ve kissed every inch of you back together.”
His thumbs dug into the pressure points at the nape of my neck, the circles turning rougher and hungrier, until I was moaning under his touch. He brushed his lips over my temple, then trailed lower until his stubble scraped my neck.
“Christ, Aurélie,” he rasped against my skin, his voice frayed. “Do you have any idea what you do to me? I want you so fucking bad I can barely think straight. But you…” His hand slid down, under the water, cupping my breast. His thumb rubbed over my nipple, slow, deliberate, until I was arching up helplessly, water spilling over the sides, gasping for air like the pathetic plaything he’d trained me into. “…you’re the one climbing into that death trap tomorrow. Not me. You need this more than I do.”
“Cal…” My moan broke in my throat, a plea disguised as his name.
He kissed me then—hard, filthy, urgent—his tongue sweeping over mine like he wanted to devour me whole. For a moment, I thought he might. My body bowed toward him, craving more and clinging to him like I’d drown if I let go.
But then he tore himself away, leaving me gasping, whimpering, nipples pert peaks against the cool air as I reached for him.
“Relax,” he said hoarsely, thumb swiping the water off my lips before brushing them with his own. “Take your minute. Drink your wine. Let me take care of you. And then…” His eyesbore into mine, feral and promising all at once. The blue in them was dark, sultry, and dangerous as he growled, “…then you’re mine again. My perfect little fuck toy.”
The callback hit like a lightning bolt to my nervous system. My whole body clenched, pussy spasming under the water, the words dragging me right back to the night he’d said it to me in the paddock in Barcelona. My breath stuttered out of me, my thighs trembling, but he only grinned wickedly, pulling away like he hadn’t just wrecked me with a handful of words.
Then he left the room, leaving the door cracked open only a few inches.
Leaning my head against the porcelain, I swirled the bathwater with my fingertips, the ripples distorting the candlelight into fractured gold across the tiles. Callum moved about the room on the other side of the door, the quiet rustle of fabric and the occasional soft clink of glass carrying through the opening of the door.
My body floated in that perfect middle space of weightless, loose, not so stiff and aching after the brutality of practice. Between the ice bath earlier and this heat now, the sharp edges of the pain had blurred into something tolerable.
When the wineglass was empty, I set it aside, braced my palms against the porcelain and eased myself upright. Moving to drain the water, I stepped out of the tub onto the bath mat, water sliding down my skin in glistening rivulets. My muscles protested, but softer than before. It was pliant, manageable.
I wrapped myself in a plush hotel towel, sighing as it swallowed me, then patted down each sore limb with slow, careful strokes. My hair dripped steadily onto the tile, so I twisted it between my hands, wringing it out until the strands clung damp and heavy against my back.
I glanced up and caught my reflection in the mirror.
Candlelight flickered across my flushed skin, shadows dancing over sharp cheekbones, collarbones slick and gleaming. My body looked different than it had a year ago. It was leaner, stronger, carved by the relentless demand of Formula 1. More muscle in my shoulders, more definition in my thighs, a hardness to my core. Physical proof that I was fighting to be here.
And yet, there was a flush in my cheeks now, a gentleness in my eyes I didn’t recognize. Tired and worn, yes, but not hollow.Loved.
The robe he’d laid out was plushier than anything I’d touched in months. I slipped my arms through the sleeves and cinched it closed at the waist, the fabric cocooning me, then pulled the bathroom door open.
The suite had transformed while I bathed. Every lamp was off, the only illumination coming from the dozens of candles Callum had lit, their glow casting long shadows across the walls.
