When I clicked submit, she kissed my cheek.
I turned and caught her mouth instead. Held it, deepened it. Reached up to release the clip in her hair, tossing it aside, then rolled her underneath me and kissed her like I owned her.
Her hands clutched at my shoulders, pulling me closer, her legs hooking around my hips. She arched into me with a whimper, and I growled against her lips.
“You keep making those noises, I’m not gonna be able to stop.”
“Then don’t,” she breathed.
I rocked into her slowly through the paper-thin fabric of our clothes, enough for both of us to feel how ready she was. How soaked, how badly she needed it.
“How are you always this wet for me, mon cœur?” I rasped, grinding deeper, letting her feel every thick, deliberate roll of my hips. “You fuckin’ ache for it, don’t you?”
She moaned, helpless beneath me, lips parted and kiss-bitten red.
“I can feel it, baby. Every time. You beg for me without saying a word. My pretty little panini, dripping and needy, just waiting for Daddy to make a mess of her.”
“Callum—fuck?—”
“You think I won’t fuck you right here and with one hand on your throat and the other holding your legs open? Hm?”
Her hips bucked, nails dragging down my back. “Please.”
“Mmm, so sweet using your manners,” I murmured, nipping at her earlobe and rocking into her again. “Christ. You’re shaking already. One touch and I could have you crying. You want that? Want me to make you sob before dinner?”
“God, yes—please?—”
I kissed her hard, devouring the sound, and reached between us to press my palm flat over her center. She gasped. Her whole body arched.
“Fucking hell, you’re gonna make me ruin my briefs, baby.”
She writhed under me. I was two seconds from losing every shred of control.
I shifted up on one elbow, just to look at her. Her crop top bunched high, and I could see the way her nipples peaked against the fabric, practically begging to be touched. Her arms were splayed wide on the rug, fingers clawing at the fur like she was holding on for dear life, legs parted with nothing but a thin slip of lace between her cunt and the way I ached to ruin her.
I groaned as I slid my hand between her thighs, pushing her panties aside. The heat of her made me dizzy. Wet and swollen, and when I pressed the heel of my palm against her clit and dragged two fingers through her, I swore I saw stars.
Her back arched off the floor. “Fuck, Callum?—”
“I know, baby,” I rasped, curling deep inside her and grinding my hand into her. “You feel that? Fuck, you feel like heaven.”
Her hips rolled, fucking herself against my fingers with abandon, and I nearly lost it. The friction against my hand, how my cock flexed into my forearm, the way her body fluttered around my fingers—fuck, I’d never get enough.
“My wife,” I growled. “Mo chridhe. Mine.”
She whimpered, shuddering and grinding. “What—what does that mean?”
I kissed her jaw, then her throat, never stopping my rhythm. “My heart,” I said, voice gone ragged. “But in my language. The one I’d never used for anyone else.”
She choked on a breath, eyes blown wide, fingers scrabbling at the rug as she chased it, desperate and needy, right there on the edge. I felt her tighten, walls fluttering, whole body drawing taut.
And then both of our phones blared to life. I froze. Aurélie made a noise of annoyance. We both turned our heads to look at our phones lying face-up a few feet away.
We sighed simultaneously when we saw Marco’s name on mine and Ivy’s flash across hers. It was emergency protocol—the only instance where they knew it was okay to bother us.
A phone call. And the fact that it was both of us? That was a warning sign.
Aurélie blinked, dazed and breathless. “That’s… probably not good.”
