“I know, baby. I know you’re so worked up right now,” he murmured, condescending and sweet all at once, like I was some overstimulated little thing he had to soothe through it. “You’ve been wound up since that call. Need me to help you come back down, yeah?”
Oh mon Dieu, he wasliterallytalking me through it.
“My therapist will love that you talk like this now,” I said lightly. “Boundaries king.”
“I’m not a king,” he muttered, curling his fingers again. “I just finally know what I’m willing to walk away from, because there’s something worth running to.”
He meant racing. Contracts. Everything he’d built his life around. The part of me that had spent a decade chasing this sport still flinched every time he implied it. The rest of me—the part that had crawled out of blood and grief and found a home in his hands—knew exactly what he meant.
He’d walk away from all of it before he let it eat me alive again.
His thumb pressed flat against my clit, fingers plunging deeper as he ground his palm up against me just right. Just.Right. And then I shattered. My spine bowed, a cry caught in my throat as the orgasm tore through me, legs shaking, body fluttering around his hand like I was trying to hold him inside even as I came.
He kept going through the aftershocks, coaxing every last ripple out of me like drawing them out was his favorite hobby, watching me fall apart in his grip.
When he finally withdrew, I felt empty and utterly wrung out. I blinked dazedly at him as he brought his fingers to his mouth and licked them clean.
“Putain,” I rasped, vaguely aware that my romper had ridden up. Callum looked devastating. Like a man who had just dragged his woman to heaven and still wasn’t done.
He took one step back and let his gaze rake over me, satisfied. Then, both tender and cocksure, he said, “There’s that bliss I was looking for.”
He reached for a dish towel and gently patted the inside of my thigh where his fingers had left a mess, then hung it back on the oven door, like I wasn’t still wrecked and blinking. Then he smoothed the hem of my romper back into place and kissed my forehead. Just once. Just because.
“Stay put,” he murmured, nodding toward the stove.
“I don’t want you to resent me,” I blurted, eyes on the simmering sauce he was stirring now so I wouldn’t have to see what that admission did to his face.
He set the spatula down and turned to face me. “If I resent anything, it’ll be the years I spent pretending this wasn’t what I wanted. Not you. Never you.”
That split me wide open. It always did when he said things like that without blinking, like it wasn’t scary to want me that much. My fingers curled around the edge of the counter. I wasn’t sure what to do with the way my heart hurt with love for him.
He slid his fingers under my chin and tilted my head enough to meet his gaze. Steady and sure, with that new softness I still hadn’t gotten used to. “Resenting you for a decision I made of my own volition would be childish,” he said plainly. “Besides, do you know how excited I am to watch you become a champion? To actually support you, fully? I’ve done my time. I’ve had my moments. And if I miss the adrenaline, I’ll go do Le Mans. Or rally. Or something stupid and fast that doesn’t make me miserable.”
My throat went suspiciously tight. “You’re very annoying when you’re emotionally mature,” I sniffed.
He tapped my nose before turning back to the stove to stir the sauce again. “You picked this,” he reminded me. “In sickness and in health, in trauma and in therapy.”
“In sexcations and in scandals,” I added, sliding off the counter to sidle up next to him. I adjusted my romper, then wrapped my arm around his waist.
“In spreader bars and in group holidays,” he agreed solemnly, leaning into me. I took the spatula from his hand and set it down, then placed the lid over the pot.
A laugh ripped out of me, louder than it had felt since the call. Okay. Maybe I was more than a six. So I told him that.
“Tu sais toujours ce dont j'ai besoin.”You always know what I need.“I’m a solid eight now. Très chillée.”
He made the most delighted noise. It was somewhere between a scoff and a boyish chuckle, eyes crinkling. “Très chillée,” he teased. “God, I love when you French at me.” Then, after a beat, a little quieter, he whispered, “I love you, full stop.”
He squeezed my hip. “Sauce just needs to simmer now for a wee bit, yeah?”
“Oui.” I planted a kiss on his cheek and twirled away, swatting his ass as I went.
Callum startled like I'd hit him with a live wire. He froze, then slowly turned, brows raised, jaw slack in exaggerated offense.
There was a half-second of stillness before he lunged.
I shrieked, bolting for the hallway toward the extra rooms and bathroom, the hem of my romper flying, laughter bursting out of me so hard I nearly tripped over my own feet.
He chased me like we were teenagers, not two emotionally damaged adults engaged and barefoot in a Grecian villa with pasta on the stove and a full-blown scandal on the way. I rounded the corner with him right behind me, catching my wrist and spinning me back into his arms. His breath hit my neck as we both collapsed in a fit of chaotic, giddy laughter.
