Chapter 68: Team Dinner Temptation
The smell of charred lobster and citronella candles hung heavy in the twilight air. Laughter, loud and beer-soaked, erupted from the long teak table where Callum’s teammates held court. Aurora sipped her Sauvignon Blanc, the glass cool against her fingertips, and tried to remember how to breathe normally.
Callum’s hand was a brand on her thigh under the linen tablecloth.
His thumb traced slow, maddening circles on the bare skin above her knee, a stark contrast to the relaxed, smiling face he presented to the table. He was holding forth on some ludicrous training camp story, his voice a easy baritone that commanded the space. But his fingers, those clever, calloused fingers, were speaking a different, secret language against her skin.
“…and then the gaffer walks in,” Callum continued, a grin playing on his lips, “and finds the entire defensive line trying to recreate the choreography from that K-pop video. In full kit.”
The table erupted again. Aurora laughed along, the sound feeling thin in her own ears. She was painfully aware of every point of contact: his thigh solid against hers, the heat of his palm, the rough pad of his thumb etching promises into her flesh.
One of the younger wingers, Leo, leaned forward, his eyes bright with mischief. “And you, mate? Don’t act like you weren’t in the back trying to learn the ‘Gangnam Style’.”
Callum shrugged, the movement causing his hand to slide higher, just an inch. Aurora’s breath hitched. He felt it; his thumb paused, then pressed down possessively.
“A man has to have diverse skills,” Callum said, his tone light, but his gaze flicked to Aurora for a half-second—a dark, secret glance that stripped the linen and the laughter away. It said, You’re thinking about this morning. So am I.
She took another sip of wine to wet her suddenly dry throat. The conversation flowed around her, a river of inside jokes and contract talk and holiday plans. She was an island in the current, tethered only by the anchor of his touch.
Under the table, she let her own hand drift. She smoothed her napkin, then, with deliberate slowness, let her fingertips brush the inside of his wrist. He stopped talking mid-sentence about preseason fixtures.
“You alright, Nordy?” someone asked.
“Yeah,” Callum said, recovering quickly, his voice slightly rougher. “Something in my throat.” He took a long pull of his sparkling water, his eyes never leaving the middle distance, a muscle ticking in his jaw.
His fingers curled, gripping her thigh tighter. Not enough to hurt. Enough to claim. To remind.
The teammate to her right, an older, kind-eyed midfielder named Sven, turned to her. “And you, Aurora? Callum says you’re a writer. What’s your book about?”
It was a polite, genuine question. It felt like an interrogation under lights. Callum’s hand stilled, waiting for her answer.
“It’s… about silence,” she said, the truth tumbling out before she could craft a smarter, more vague reply. “The different kinds. The comfortable kind, and the heavy kind.”
Sven nodded thoughtfully. “Sounds deep. I like it.”
Callum’s thumb began its circles again, slower now, appreciative.
The reprieve was short-lived. Across the table, Leo launched into a graphic retelling of an Ibiza trip, his hands painting pictures of neon-lit clubs and endless cocktails. Callum’s smile was fixed, polite. But his patience was a thin wire, fraying with every shouted punchline.
Aurora, emboldened by the wine and the electricity coursing from his touch, shifted in her seat. She let her knee press more firmly against his, then slowly, so slowly, parted her thighs just a fraction.
His thumb stopped dead.
He leaned towards Sven to say something, but his head tilted towards her ear. His breath was hot, a shockwave in the cool evening breeze. The smell of him—soap, salt, him—flooded her senses.
“Five more minutes of this,” he murmured, the words a low, private vibration meant only for her, “and I’m carrying you out over my shoulder like a fucking caveman.”
A shudder of pure, undiluted want rolled through her. She arched a brow, looking at him sidelong over the rim of her glass, a deliberate challenge. She took a slow sip, letting her lips linger on the crystal.
His control snapped.
He stood up so suddenly his chair legs screeched against the decking. The conversation lulled.
“Everyone,” Callum announced, his voice startlingly even, a stark contrast to the wildfire in his eyes. “This has been brilliant. But I’ve got an early call tomorrow. Training regimen.”
A chorus of good-natured groans and “soft lad” jabs followed. He absorbed them with a tight smile, his hand now conspicuously out of sight, extended towards Aurora.
She placed her hand in his. He pulled her to her feet, perhaps a touch too quickly. Her napkin fluttered to the deck.
“Thanks for the lobster, lads,” Callum said, already steering her towards the villa’s sliding doors. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“That leaves a lot of room, Nordskov!” Leo called after them, followed by another wave of laughter.
The moment the glass door slid shut behind them, the sound was muffled, then gone. They were in the cool, dim quiet of the living room, the roar of the sea and the muffled party the only sounds.
He didn’t give her a second. He backed her into the nearest wall, the impact soft but decisive, his body caging hers. His hands came up to frame her face, his gaze scanning hers, turbulent and hungry.
“You,” he breathed, “were trying to kill me out there.”
“You started it,” she whispered back, her heart hammering against her ribs. “Your hand…”
“Was the only thing keeping me sane.” He dipped his head, resting his forehead against hers. The caveman bravado was gone, replaced by a raw, shaking need. “Listening to him talk about fucking foam parties while I could smell your shampoo… it was torture.”
He kissed her then, but it wasn’t the fierce, claiming kiss she expected. It was slow. Devastating. A deep, searching exploration that tasted of wine and want and a frustration that had been simmering for hours. Her glasses dug into the bridge of her nose. He carefully reached up and removed them, setting them on a side table without breaking the kiss.
When he finally pulled back, they were both breathless.
“The carrying you out bit,” he said, his voice gravel, “I wasn’t joking. I’m not feeling very civilized right now.”
“I noticed.” She traced the line of his tense jaw. “But you were. Civilized. For three hours.”
“For you,” he corrected, his eyes serious. “I did it for you.”
The words landed in her chest, warm and heavy. He had. He’d navigated his own world, a world she was only guest in, and he’d kept her anchored through it all. The gesture was more intimate than any touch under a tablecloth.
The last of her nervous tension melted away. She wound her arms around his neck. “Your couch is very far from the terrace,” she said softly, echoing his threat from a different night, a different confession.
A slow, wicked smile spread across his face, the one the cameras loved, but this time it was only for her. It was all heat and promise.
“Then,” he said, bending and hooking an arm behind her knees, lifting her effortlessly against his chest, “I guess I’ll have to make do with the kitchen counter.”
He carried her, not over his shoulder like a caveman, but cradled against his heart, through the quiet villa. And she, wrapped in the scent of him and the certainty of his want, buried her laugh in his neck, knowing the night had only just begun, and that the quiet of the villa was theirs alone to break.