Chapter 11: Sacred Things
The click of the hotel suite lock was a period at the end of a chaotic sentence. Silence, thick and heavy, rushed in to fill the space the city had vacated. It was just the low hum of the climate control and the ragged sound of their breathing.
Callum didn’t move to turn on a light. The skyline bled neon and sodium vapor through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting everything in washes of blue and amber. He stood facing her, his back to the city’s glow, his features in shadow.
Aurora’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic counter-rhythm to the quiet. The boldness she’d felt on the pitch, the demanding ache he’d ignited against the fence, now twisted into a coil of nervous energy in her stomach. She watched as he slowly pulled his hoodie over his head, the fabric catching on his hair before he tossed it aside. The city light sketched the hard planes of his chest, the defined ridges of his abdomen.
“You’re shaking,” he observed, his voice a low rasp.
“It’s cold,” she lied.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “It’s not.”
He closed the distance, but not to kiss her. His hands came up to her shoulders, his thumbs brushing the base of her throat. He slowly, deliberately, pushed the oversized sweater off her shoulders. It pooled at her feet with a soft sigh of wool. She stood before him in just her jeans and a simple cotton tank top, feeling more exposed than if she were naked.
“My turn to look,” he said, and the command in his voice, softened by a thread of awe, unspooled something tight within her.
His gaze was a physical thing. It travelled from the frantic pulse in her neck, down over the swell of her breasts barely contained by the thin fabric, the narrow dip of her waist, the curve of her hips in her jeans. He looked like a man seeing something precious for the first time.
“Fuck, Aurora,” he breathed out.
Then his hands were on her, no longer looking, but learning. They slid up her ribcage, his thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts through the cotton, making her gasp. He leaned in, burying his face in the column of her neck, inhaling deeply. “You smell like grass and night air and you.”
His mouth found hers again, but the frenzy from the pitch was gone. This was a slow, deep exploration. His tongue traced the seam of her lips until she opened for him, a surrender that felt like victory. She let her hands come up to his chest, her fingers skating over warm skin, tracing the network of scars—a pale knot on his shoulder from a surgery, a thin line along a rib, the stories of his life written on his body.
She felt the powerful leap of a muscle under her palm, the way his breath hitched when her thumb grazed his nipple. Emboldened, she leaned forward and pressed her mouth to the same spot, tasting salt and clean sweat. He groaned, a rough, helpless sound, and his hands fisted in her hair, not to guide, but to hold on.
She kissed her way across the broad expanse of his chest, down the taut line of his stomach, her tongue dipping into the groove of his hip. His abdominal muscles jumped under her lips. She felt drunk on him, on the right to touch what millions fantasized about.
His patience shattered. With a swift, fluid motion born of athletic grace, he pivoted them. Her back met the cool, polished wood of a support column near the window. The city sprawled behind her, a dizzying backdrop.
“My turn,” he growled, echoing her earlier claim but making it a vow.
His hands went to the button of her jeans. He popped it open, dragged the zipper down, the sound obscenely loud. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her jeans and panties and pushed them down in one firm motion. She stepped out of them, kicking the crumpled fabric aside. The night air kissed her skin, raising goosebumps.
He knelt.
Before her brain could process it, his mouth was on the inside of her thigh, a hot, open-mouthed kiss that made her legs tremble. He worked his way inward with a torturous patience, his stubble scraping sensitively, his breath warming her skin. He reached the apex of her thighs and paused, his nose nudging through the soft blonde curls, inhaling.
“So wet already,” he murmured, the words vibrating against her. “All for me.”
Then his tongue found her.
It was a flat, broad stroke that licked through her folds, a deliberate, intimate caress that had her head thudding back against the column. A sharp cry tore from her throat. He didn’t just taste her; he consumed her. His hands gripped the backs of her thighs, holding her open as his mouth settled on her clit.
He sucked, gently at first, then with increasing pressure, his tongue flicking relentlessly. Every nerve ending she possessed gathered and pulsed under that expert, devastating attention. Her hands scrabbled for purchase on his shoulders, her fingers gripping the hard muscle there.
“Callum… God…”
He hummed against her, the vibration shooting straight to her core. He slid one hand from her thigh, his fingers stroking through her slickness before he slowly, carefully, pushed two fingers inside her.
She was tight, clenching around the intrusion, but he worked them in deep, crooking them just so. His mouth never left her, sucking and licking in time with the slow thrust of his fingers. The dual sensation was too much, a coil winding impossibly tight within her. The world narrowed to the point where his mouth and hand met her body. The glittering city vanished. There was only this building pressure, this exquisite friction.
“Come on,” he urged, his voice thick, muffled against her. “Let go. I want to taste you come.”
It was the filthy command in his tone that broke her. A white-hot wave of pleasure detonated, crashing through her in relentless pulses. She cried out, her body bowing, her thighs clamping around his head as she shuddered uncontrollably. He worked her through it, his movements gentler now, drawing out every last spasm until she was limp, boneless against the column, held up only by his arms.
He rose, his mouth glistening. He kissed her, letting her taste herself on his lips and tongue. The raw intimacy of it stole the last of her breath.
Without a word, he picked her up, one arm under her knees, the other behind her back. He carried her to the vast, unmade bed, the sheets still smelling faintly of his earlier shower—citrus and clean linen. He laid her down and stood at the edge, stripping off his own jeans and boxers. He was fully, magnificently erect, his cock thick and curving up toward his stomach. The sight of him, starkly outlined against the window, sent a fresh, deep throb of desire through her spent body.
He joined her on the bed, covering her body with his, the heat and weight of him a comfort. He kissed her slowly, deeply, as his hand found her breast, his thumb rubbing her nipple to a hard peak through the cotton of her tank top. He pulled the fabric up and over her head, tossing it away. Then he was skin to skin, the drag of his chest against her sensitive nipples making her gasp into his mouth.
He reached between them, positioning himself. The broad head of his cock nudged against her, still slick from her orgasm and his mouth. He pushed forward, a slow, relentless invasion that stretched her beautifully, filled her completely.
“Fuck,” he choked out, his forehead dropping to hers, his eyes squeezed shut. “Aurora… you feel… Dios mío.”
He began to move. There was no hurried pace, no frantic race. Each withdrawal was agonizingly slow, each thrust back in was deep and deliberate, a claiming that went beyond physical. He watched her face, his green eyes dark with an emotion she couldn’t name. He whispered to her in a broken mix of English and Spanish, endearments and obscenities tumbling together.
“Tan perfecta… you take me so deep… Mi cielo… clench around me like that again… fuck…”
His thrusts grew deeper, more urgent, driven by a need that mirrored her own. She wrapped her legs high around his waist, angling him even deeper, meeting each drive of his hips with one of her own. The friction was exquisite, building a new, sharper tension inside her. One of his hands slid between their bodies, his thumb finding her clit again, rubbing tight, desperate circles.
It was too soon, and yet it was perfect. The second climax ripped through her without warning, a sharp, stunning convulsion that squeezed him tight. Her scream was muffled against his shoulder.
The feel of her pulsing around him was his undoing. He gave three more ragged, powerful thrusts, then stilled, buried to the hilt inside her. A raw, guttural sound tore from his throat as he came, his body shuddering, his hips jerking against hers. She felt the hot spill of his release, a final, intimate connection.
He collapsed onto her, his full weight a welcome anchor. They lay tangled, slick with sweat, the only sounds their struggling breaths and the distant murmur of Madrid. The faint scent of sex and skin hung in the air.
After a long while, he rolled to the side, pulling her with him, keeping her tucked into the curve of his body. His arm was a heavy band across her waist. His lips brushed her temple.
“Aurora,” he said, just her name, but it felt like a whole sentence.
She didn’t trust her voice. She traced the line of his arm with her fingers, feeling the slow, steady beat of his heart under her palm. The trophies on the shelf across the room gleamed dully in the city’s light, silent sentinels to a world that, for this suspended moment, no longer existed.
In the quiet dark, the bubble felt absolute. And for the first time, wrapped in the aftermath of him, the thought of it popping felt less like a relief and more like a threat.
The thought lingered, a cold filament in the warm haze of her satisfaction. She traced the scars on his arm, each ridge a story she didn’t know. His breathing had evened out into something slow and deep. She almost believed he was asleep.
But his voice, rough with exhaustion, cut the silence. “What’s happening in that head of yours?”
“I was thinking about bubbles,” she whispered. “And how quiet it is.”
He shifted, rolling onto his back, taking her with him so her head rested on his chest. The steady thud of his heart was louder here. “Too quiet?”
“It makes the thinking louder.”
His hand stroked down the length of her spine, a slow, soothing pass. “Tell me one thought. Just one.”
She propped herself up on an elbow to look at him. His face was half in shadow, the city’s light glinting in his open eyes. The raw hunger from before was banked, replaced by a weary calm. Her own boldness from the pitch, the way she’d commanded the ball and the game, flickered back to life inside her chest. It mixed with a new, thrilling impulse born from knowing what his body felt like against hers, inside hers.
“I was thinking,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, deliberate murmur, “that I didn’t get to be on top.”
A slow smile spread across his face, lazy and knowing. “Is that right?”
“Yeah. You were very… instructive. ‘My turn to look.’ ‘My turn.’” She mimicked his low growl, not perfectly, but enough to make his eyes crinkle at the corners. “I feel a bit cheated.”
“Cheated?” He chuckled, the sound vibrating through her. “You came twice. I felt you. I tasted you.”
Heat flooded her cheeks, but she held his gaze. “And it was fantastic. Now I want a turn to drive.”
She saw the surprise flicker, then be replaced by a dark, eager interest. He liked this. “Oh, you want to drive?”
In one fluid motion, she pushed herself up and swung a leg over his hips, straddling him. The sheets were cool against her knees. She settled her weight on him, feeling the hard, renewed interest of his body beneath her. She looked down at him, her platinum curls a messy curtain around her shoulders. “I do. Any objections?”
He raised his hands, palms up, in a gesture of surrender. His smile was pure challenge. “Not a single one. Show me what you’ve got, Bellweather.”
She leaned forward, bracing her hands on his chest, and kissed him. It was slow and deep, all possession and promise. She could feel the rigid length of him pressing against her stomach. She rocked against him, a slow, deliberate grind that made him hiss and his hands fly to her hips.
“Teasing me,” he muttered against her mouth.
“Commanding you,” she corrected, biting his lower lip gently. She sat back up, taking him in. The defined lines of his torso, the way his stomach muscles clenched as she moved. She reached between them, wrapping her fingers around his cock. He was thick and hot in her hand, already slick at the tip. She stroked him once, twice, watching his eyes flutter closed.
“Look at me,” she said.
His eyes snapped open, blazing with green fire. She positioned herself above him, guiding him to her entrance. She was still wet, swollen from his mouth and his fucking, and the feel of him nudging against her made her gasp. She sank down onto him, inch by agonizing inch, taking him deep inside her until she was fully seated, her thighs pressed against his hips.
A low, guttural groan tore from his throat. His hands gripped her hips hard enough to bruise. “Christ, Aurora.”
“You feel even better from here,” she breathed, rotating her hips in a slow, circular grind, milking him deep inside her. She set a rhythm that was all her own—not the driving pace he’d set, but a rolling, undulating wave. She rode him with a focused intensity, her head tipped back, her breasts swaying with the motion. She was in charge of the angle, the depth, the friction.
One of his hands slid from her hip, his thumb finding her clit. She batted it away.“No. This is mine.” She took his wrist and pinned it to the mattress beside his head. “You just take it. You just feel.”
A strangled laugh escaped him, mixed with a moan. “Fucking hell. You’re a menace.”
“You have no idea.” She leaned forward, changing the angle, and his cock hit a spot that made her see stars. A sharp cry punched out of her. She quickened her pace, bouncing on him now, the slapping sound of skin on skin filling the room. Her own pleasure was a tight coil, winding and winding with each rough, perfect stroke.
“You like this?” she panted, watching his face contort. “You like me using you? Fucking you?”
“Yes,” he choked out, his free hand gripping the sheets. “God, yes. Don’t stop.”
“I won’t.” Her words were coming in gasps. “You’re mine right now. All of you. This famous cock. It’s just for me. To make me come.”
Her own dirty talk, the sheer power of her position, the exquisite friction of him filling her—it all crashed together. The orgasm tore through her with violent, stunning force. Her body clamped down on him, rhythmic and vise-tight, her cries loud and unchecked.
The sensation of her pulsing around him triggered his own release. He shouted, a raw, broken sound, as he thrust up into her, his hips lifting off the bed. He emptied himself deep inside her with a series of shuddering jerks, his gaze locked on hers, completely unmasked, utterly wrecked.
She collapsed onto his chest, spent, their sweat-slick skin sticking together. His arms came around her, holding her close as their hearts hammered a frantic, discordant rhythm against each other.
After long minutes, his hand came up to cup the back of her head. “Okay,” he breathed into her hair, his voice wrecked. “You can drive anytime.”