Chapter 32: Dining with the Devil
The limousine interior was a capsule of quiet, all dark leather and the faint, expensive smell of Callum’s cologne. It was a stark contrast to the roaring energy of the stadium, the camaraderie of the locker room. Here, there was only the sound of the engine and the city lights sliding past the tinted windows like streaked gold.
Aurora’s body still hummed from the kiss, from the possessiveness of his hands. She watched him. He’d shed his team jacket, rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt. The casual elegance of him was a language she was still learning.
“You’re quiet,” he said, his voice a low vibration in the stillness.
“Processing,” she admitted, pushing her glasses up. “Your friends are… intense.”
“They’re not my friends. They’re my brothers. Big difference.” He stretched an arm along the back of the seat, his fingers just brushing her shoulder. “And they liked you. Actually, they’re terrified of you. Which is better.”
She gave a weak laugh. “Terrified?”
“You eviscerated our second-half strategy in thirty seconds. Mateo’s probably still having nightmares.” He grinned, but his eyes were serious. “You held your own, Aurora. In the lion’s den. Not many people can.”
The car slowed, pulling under the sleek, illuminated porte-cochère of La Perle. It was the kind of place she’d only read about in novels. Glass walls, shimmering light, a silent doorman in white gloves. Callum had warned her. A mandated club appearance, a “quiet dinner” with sponsors that would be anything but quiet.The first real test.
“Remember,” he said, taking her hand as the driver opened the door. The flash of cameras was instantaneous, a blinding stutter of white. Callum’s face shifted, his easy smile snapping into place like a visor. “Just follow my lead.”
Inside, the air was cool and scented with orchid and sea salt. Every surface was polished to a liquid shine. They were led to a table in the center of the room, a deliberate placement. A glass cage. A single, perfect champagne flute sat waiting at Callum’s setting, condensation beading on the crystal.
He held her chair out for her, his courtesy a public performance. As she sat, the starched white linen of the tablecloth pooled in her lap. His hand, under its cover, found her knee the moment he took his own seat.
Her breath hitched.
His thumb began a slow, idle sweep along the inside seam of her jeans. He was listening to the sommelier describe the bouquet of a burgundy, nodding politely, his expression one of casual interest. No one could see. The fabric was a fortress.
“The scouts from Berlin were impressed,” Callum said to the older man across from them, a club director named Klaus. His voice was calm, engaged. Meanwhile, his hand slid higher, palm warm and heavy on her thigh. “Their high press is aggressive, but it leaves channels we can exploit if we’re disciplined.”
His fingers reached the hem of her sweater, dipping beneath to trace the sensitive skin of her hip. Aurora gripped the edge of the table. She took a sip of water, the glass cool against her suddenly feverish lips.
Klaus droned on about marketability. Callum’s thumb hooked into the waistband of her jeans, rubbing a deliberate, torturous circle.
“Absolutely,” Callum agreed, his smile easy. He leaned slightly towards Aurora, as if to include her in the conversation. His lips brushed her earlobe, his voice a hot, private whisper that dissolved her bones. “Every time you blush for them, I’m adding another hour to how long I’ll make you scream tonight.”
A soft, helpless sound escaped her. She felt the flush crawl up her neck, burn her cheeks. She was certain the entire restaurant could see it.
The waiter approached to pour the wine. Callum’s hand stilled, a brand against her skin, but didn’t retreat. He smiled up at the young man. “Thank you.”
As the rich, red liquid filled her glass, Callum leaned in again, his public affection a perfect mask for his filthy, quiet words. “I can feel your heart racing. Is it for them? Or for me?”
She couldn’t answer. Language had evaporated. All that existed was the point of contact under the table, the promise in his whisper, the dizzying contrast between the stifling formality of the room and the raw, pulsing need he was stoking in her dark.
She reached for her wineglass, her fingers trembling. The stem felt impossibly slender, fragile. For a terrifying second, she thought she might snap it.
“Easy,” he murmured, so low only she could hear. His other hand, the one above the table, reached over and gently steadied hers, his fingers wrapping around her own. To the room, it was a sweet, protective gesture. A romance. The cameras outside, their long lenses pressed against the glass, ate it up.
She met his eyes. The green was dark, dilated, the practiced charm gone from his expression for a split second. In its place was a hunger so absolute it stole the air from her lungs. This was the real game. Not the dinner.This.
“You’re playing with fire,” she breathed, the first words she’d managed.
The corner of his mouth lifted. “I know. I’m planning to burn.”
The dinner progressed in a surreal dreamscape of delicate food she couldn’t taste and conversations that flowed around her like a distant river. Callum was brilliant, charming the sponsors, deflecting probing questions about his “mysterious companion” with a practised wit that gave nothing away. All the while, his hand was her anchor and her undoing. It mapped her thigh, learned the shape of her knee, traced patterns that made her shift in her seat, desperate for friction.
During a lull, while Klaus was engrossed in his seared scallops, Callum turned to her. His public smile was in place, but his words were a secret passed from mouth to ear. “Tell me what you want. Right now. In this car on the way home. Tell me, and it’s yours.”
She was drowning in him. The scent, the low timbre of his voice, the sheer audacity. She turned her head, her lips a hair’s breadth from his jaw. “I want you to stop talking. And start.”
A sharp, surprised breath left him. His eyes flickered with something feral. The hand under the table clenched on her leg, possessive and promising.
It was then that the carefully managed world cracked.
A man, not from their party, sleek and smiling with the predatory grace of a journalist, appeared at the table’s edge. “Callum! Huge win today. Got a sec for a quick comment?”
Callum’s body went rigid. His hand retreated from under the linen, coming to rest on the table, knuckles white. “Not during dinner, Mark. You know the rules.”
“Just one question,” the man pressed, his eyes darting to Aurora. “Is this the inspiration behind your new focus? The reason for your, shall we say, quieter social calendar?”
The air at the table froze. Klaus looked uncomfortable. Aurora felt her insides turn to ice.This was it. The thing he’d warned her about. The extraction.
But Callum didn’t deflect with a joke. He didn’t summon a manager. He looked directly at the reporter, his voice losing all its practiced charm, becoming cold and flat. “My private life is not a topic for discussion. You’re intruding. Leave.”
The finality of it was a shock. The reporter blinked, smile faltering. He muttered an apology and slunk away.
Silence hung over the table. Callum’s jaw was tight. He looked at Aurora, the storm in his eyes not fully receded. He threw his napkin on the table.
“We’re leaving,” he said, to no one in particular. He stood, pulling Aurora’s chair back.
“Callum, the dessert—” Klaus began.
“Is yours,” Callum finished. He took Aurora’s hand, his grip firm and sure, and led her through the silent, staring restaurant. The cameras exploded anew as they hit the entrance, the flashes a chaotic lightning storm. He didn’t smile. He didn’t wave. He shielded her with his body, tucking her into the waiting limousine with a fierceness that felt like armor.
The door thudded shut, muffling the chaos. The car pulled away.
He didn’t speak for a full minute, just stared out the window, his chest rising and falling with a controlled rhythm. Then he turned to her. The performance was gone. The cocky star was gone. In his place was just a man, coiled tight with a tension that had nothing to do with desire.
“I’m sorry,” he said, the words rough.
“For what?”
“For that. For him. For all of it.” He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it in the chaotic, perfect mess she loved. “I bring you into the lion’s den and then I’m surprised when the vultures show up.”
She reached for him then, crossing the space between them. She took his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. “You told him no,” she said quietly. “You didn’t spin it. You didn’t sell a piece of us. You just said no.”
He searched her face, his eyes wary, as if expecting her to fracture. “It’s going to get worse.”
“I know.”
“They’ll find out where you live.”
“I know that, too. It won’t be hard. It’s next door to you.”
He leaned forward, his forehead resting against hers. The tension began to bleed from his shoulders, replaced by a different kind of intensity. The hunger returned, deeper now, stripped of its game. “The things I said to you at that table…” he murmured.
“I remember every word.”
“Good.” He kissed her then, and it was nothing like the kiss in the locker room. This was not a statement. It was a surrender, and a claiming, and a question all at once. When he pulled back, his voice was raw. “The plan’s changed. No more steps. No more waiting. I’m done hiding you.”
He spoke to the driver through the intercom. “Change of destination. Take us home. My house.”
He looked back at her, his hand finding hers, threading their fingers together. “You’re not spending another night over there. Not when they’re this close. You’re staying with me.”
The limousine turned, heading away from the bright lights of the city, toward the quiet, tree-lined streets of their neighborhood. Toward the two houses sitting side-by-side. But tonight, only one would have its lights on.