Goal

Chapter 39: Primal Devotion

The air in his bedroom was still, heavy with the scent of him and the faint, acrid tang of adrenaline. He laid her down on the vast expanse of his bed with a reverence that felt stolen from another man. The sheets were cool, black, and smelled of clean cotton and his soap. The neon glow from a framed, signed jersey cast the room in an ethereal red light, painting stripes across his serious face.

For a long moment, he just looked at her, his gaze tracing the lines of her body in the dimness—the rumpled silk of her dress pushed up around her waist, the pale skin of her thighs, the shadow between them. His green eyes were unreadable, the earlier fury dissipated into something focused and quiet.

“Hi,” he said, his voice rough.

A faint, hysterical laugh bubbled in her throat. “Hi.”

He reached for her glasses, folded them carefully, and placed them on the nightstand with a soft click. The world softened at the edges. Then his hands were on her, not with hunger, but with a slow, deliberate curiosity. He traced the line of her collarbone, the swell of her breast over the silk, the curve of her hip. His touch was featherlight, a contrast to the bruising grip of before.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured.

“I’m not,” she lied, her voice a breath.

He bent his head, and his lips followed the path his fingers had taken. A kiss on the pulse at her throat. Another on the tender skin just above her breast. He nuzzled the silk aside, his mouth finding her nipple, suckling gently through the fabric until it pebbled into a hard, aching point. She gasped, her back arching off the bed.

“Callum…”

“Shh.” His mouth traveled down her stomach, his hands sliding under her to cup her backside, lifting her slightly. He kissed the inside of each thigh, his stubble rasping against her sensitive skin, making her jump. He held her firmly, opening her to the dim light and his relentless gaze.

“So fucking beautiful,” he breathed, the words a warm wash against her most intimate flesh. “All wet for me. Still.”

Then his mouth was on her, and her world dissolved into sensation. There was no teasing, no gentle build. He ate her like a man starved, his tongue spearing deep inside her, then flattening to lap at her swollen clit with broad, devastating strokes. His nose pressed against her; his fingers dug into the soft flesh of her thighs, holding her wide. The sounds were obscene—wet, sucking, sloppy noises that echoed in the quiet room, underscored by her broken whimpers and the rough, hungry grunts from his throat.

“Taste yourself,” he growled, lifting his head for a second, his chin glistening. “Taste us. Fucking perfect.”

He dove back in, his technique brutal in its efficiency. He pinned her clit with the flat of his tongue and flicked it relentlessly, while two fingers slid inside her, crooking to find that spot that made her see white. She shattered quickly, violently, her hips bucking against his face as a silent scream tore through her. He didn’t stop, drinking her down, gentling his tongue but not ceasing, drawing the pleasure out until it was a sharp, unbearable point again.

Just as she was about to beg for mercy, he moved. In one fluid motion, he surged up her body, covering her. His weight was anchoring, real. He caught her wrists in one large hand and pinned them above her head, against the cool sheets. His other hand guided himself to her entrance, the broad head nudging through her slick folds.

His eyes locked on hers. There was no smile, no cocky charm. Just a raw, open need that mirrored her own.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice a dark rasp.She did. He pushed inside, a slow, inexorable invasion that stretched her deliciously, filled her completely. He didn’t look away. He watched every flicker of sensation cross her face—the shock, the overwhelming pleasure, the surrender.

When he was fully sheathed, he paused, his body trembling with the effort of holding still. A bead of sweat traced a path from his temple down the corded line of his neck.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

She couldn’t form words. She could only stare up at him, her lower lip caught between her teeth.

He began to move. It was a different kind of fucking than against the door. This was deep, grinding, intentional. Each thrust was a claim, a punctuation. The bed, a massive, sturdy thing, began to creak a steady, rhythmic protest. The sound was primal, a bass note to the symphony of their skin slapping together, their ragged breaths.

“Tell me,” he repeated, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper.

“Yours,” she finally gasped, the word ripped from her. “God, Callum, I’m yours.”

A feral sound of satisfaction escaped him. He released her wrists, his hand sliding down to grip her hip, angling her to take him even deeper. The other hand fisted in her hair, tugging her head back to expose her throat. He buried his face there, his teeth grazing her pulse point.

“Again.”

“Yours!” she cried out, the pressure coiling again, tighter, hotter than before. Her nails scored his back, her legs wrapping around his waist, heels digging into the hard muscles of his ass, pulling him into her with every driving stroke.

His rhythm broke, turning frantic, pounding. The possessive growls against her skin dissolved into ragged, open-mouthed pants. She could feel the tension winding in him, the imminent snap.

“Aurora,” he choked out, the word mangled, desperate.

It was her name that did it. The way he said it—like a prayer and a curse—sent her flying over the edge. Her climax crashed through her, a convulsing, milking wave that dragged a guttural scream from her lungs.

He felt her clamp around him and lost all control. With three final, brutal thrusts, he drove home, his body rigid, a raw, broken shout torn from his chest as he spilled into her. He collapsed on top of her, his full weight pinning her to the mattress, his face buried in her hair. His heart hammered against hers, a wild, syncopated drum.

For minutes, there was only the sound of their struggling breaths slowing. The neon glow painted their tangled, sweaty bodies in lurid color. Slowly, carefully, he rolled to his side, taking her with him, keeping her close. He brushed the damp hair from her forehead.

She expected the cocky remark, the easy deflection. It didn’t come.

He just looked at her, his expression unguarded, weary, and utterly sincere. He leaned in, his lips brushing hers in a kiss so soft it hurt.

“I love you,” he whispered against her mouth.The world stopped. The three words hung in the air, more shocking than any obscenity, more profound than any possession. They weren’t growled in passion. They were stated, quiet and sure, like a fundamental truth discovered in the wreckage.

She froze. Her mind, usually a chaotic whirl of narratives and dialogue, went utterly, terrifyingly blank. All she could see was the stark vulnerability in his green eyes, the slight tremor in the hand that still cupped her face.

He saw her panic. A shadow flickered across his face—not hurt, but understanding. He didn’t take it back. He didn’t try to explain it away. He simply pulled her closer, tucking her head under his chin, his arms wrapping around her as if to shield her from the magnitude of his own confession.

Outside, the first grey light of dawn began to bleed into the edges of the neon night. She lay perfectly still in the circle of his arms, listening to the steady beat of his heart, the words echoing in the silent, sacred space he had carved out between them.

I love you.

They felt like both a beginning and an end.