Page 21 of Red Flagged
A faint, crooked smile tugged at her mouth. “Wait for you?” she taunted. “You’d only have scolded me, told me to be agood girl, and rest.” She batted her eyes, deliberately teasing me. “But you’re still on your meds,mon champion.” She tilted her head, a hint of defiance curling through her grin. “So I fixed it myself, and now it’s not so bad. Maybe you’re not the only one who knows what’s best for me.”
I swallowed, fingers flexing against her thigh. “You’re testing me.”
Her smile only deepened. She leaned in until I could feel her breath on my jaw, voice dropping to a whisper meant just for me. “You should know by now, mon amour…” a heartbeat pause, “... I only play the good girl when it’s for you.”
The air left my lungs in a slow, shaking exhale. Every muscle in my body locked tight as I fought to keep the line between concern and craving from blurring completely, but failed when I found my hand leaving her thigh to grab her throat. I felt her pulse beneath my palm, the source of life that gave me the woman I loved, and an inexplicable primal need flooded me.
She gasped, but all I could see was gold skin and flushed cheeks and freckles that mapped a constellation that belonged to just us.
Her scent hit me first. Lavender and something subtly citrusy, sweet and warm, and the unmistakable musk of sweat and skin that wanted to be devoured. My eyes fell shut as I inhaled deeply, memorizing her smell. My hands ached to mark her, trembling with restraint to power through this conversation before I caved to the pressure that couldn’t be released with words.
Every inch of me throbbed with the need to command, to take, to put her exactly where I needed her. Beneath me, breathless and obedient, perfection personified.
I wanted to make her beg. I wanted to pray into her mouth. I wanted to claim her and still fall to my knees for her.
Her hand lifted, fingers finding my shirt, curling lazily in the fabric. The drag of her knuckles over my chest erased every last rational thought I had. I shoved her down to the bed so she’d be forced to pay attention to me. The shirt rode up, revealing delicate red lace that hugged her hips like a secret and clung to her pussy the way I wanted my tongue to. I knew those panties. I’d seen them dangling from her fingertips when she unpacked her clothes upon arriving in Silverstone. And fuck me, I knew she wore them on purpose.
My shirt. My girl. My undoing.
It was almost enough to make me forget every reason we shouldn’t be doing this right now.
I positioned myself between her thighs, forcing them apart so she couldn’t stimulate herself while we talked.
“Aurélie.” My voice cracked, somewhere between lust and fear. “In the tent—you scared the hell out of me.” She huffed a quiet laugh, the sound too soft to be amusement, and I felt her throat working under my hand. I forced myself to let go, bracing my hands on either side of her head, and her eyes flashed with disappointment.
Oh. She wants to play.
Fuck, that really wasn’t helping me think clearly.
“I scare a lot of people, apparently.”
“I’m not joking.”
“I know.” Her lips pressed into a flat line before she propped herself up on her elbows. “It happens sometimes. I have,” she waved her hand in the air, eyes flicking upward as though she was deep in thought, “endométriose.”
“Endo—what?”
She blinked, realizing I had no idea what she was talking about.
“Endometriosis,” she said softly. “It’s when the tissue that’s supposed to line the inside of the uterus grows outside of it instead. It shouldn’t be there, but it still acts like it is. It swells, bleeds, and scars.”
Her hand floated up, motioning vaguely to her abdomen. “It sticks to things. My ovaries, my bladder. Sometimes it wraps around nerves. It’s like… my body’s trying to glue itself together from the inside.”
A wry smile touched her lips. “It turns my periods into crime scenes. The pain isn’t always predictable. Sometimes it’s dull, like someone pressing into a bruise. Sometimes it’s bad enough to make me throw up or pass out.”
She paused, letting her head fall back slightly, eyes heavy. “Every few months, it flares. Nothing triggers it. I just wake up and know it’s going to be bad. And then I ride it out.”
“That’s what that was?”
“Probably.”
“Probably?”
She reached up and traced a finger down my jawline, eyes red and glassy, but steady. “I have an IUD, Cal. It’s fine. Just hormones being cruel.”
It was my turn to blink. I felt completely unprepared to respond, and suddenly I realized how much I didn’t know. About her, aboutthis, about what she lived with quietly, on top of what she fought for loudly. I hated that she had to explain this to me like I was new—because I was.
I should’ve thought to ask more questions earlier, but it hadn’t even crossed my mind. I just accepted what she told me about not being able to have kids. Not once did I think aboutwhether or not she physicallyfeltthe decline of her reproductive health.
