008

Aurora’s POV

I woke to a dull, deep ache between my legs.

Sunlight slipped through heavy curtains. The sheets smelled like him—clean soap and something darker. My body felt heavy. Used. Marked.

I shifted and a soft sound left my throat. Everything was sore.

Gideon was already dressed. Dark shirt. Sleeves rolled to his forearms. He sat at a wide desk near the window, papers spread in front of him, phone in one hand. He looked completely calm, as if the night before had not happened.

I pulled the sheet higher over my chest.

He did not look up right away.

“You’re awake,” he said.

My voice came out rough. “What time is it?”

“Just after seven.” He set the phone down and finally turned. His eyes moved over me slowly. “Come here.”

I hesitated. The sheet slipped as I sat up. Cool air touched my bare skin. Small reddish marks dotted my neck and the tops of my breasts. I had not noticed them last night.

He watched me notice them.

“Come here, Aurora.”

I stood. My legs felt unsteady. The ache between my thighs made every step careful. I stopped in front of him.

He reached out and tugged the sheet away. I stood naked in the morning light while he looked at me.

His fingers traced one of the marks on my neck. Then another lower, just above my breast.

“These will fade in a few days,” he said. “Turn around.”

I turned. His hand settled at the small of my back, then lower, over the curve of my hip. He parted my thighs slightly and examined me with quiet focus.

“Sore?”

“Yes.”

“Expected.” He opened a small drawer and took out a tube of ointment. “Stay still.”

The cream was cool. His fingers were careful as he spread it over the tender skin. I bit my lip. A soft breath left me.

“Does that help?”

“A little.”

He wiped his hands, then stood. He was still fully dressed. I was completely bare. The difference made my pulse quicken.

He stepped closer. One hand rested at my waist. The other tipped my chin up so I had to look at him.

“Mornings belong to me too,” he said. “Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to touch you. Tell me if you need me to stop.”

The words were calm. Direct. They settled something in my chest even as my heart beat harder.

“I won’t ask you to stop,” I said.

He kissed me.

It started slow. Controlled. Then deeper. His tongue slid against mine and a quiet sound slipped from my throat. His hand moved to the back of my neck, holding me in place while he took his time.

My hands rose and settled against his chest. The fabric of his shirt felt smooth under my palms. He guided me back until the edge of the desk pressed against my thighs.

He broke the kiss just enough to speak against my lips.

“Stay still.”

His mouth moved to my jaw, then lower, along the side of my neck where the marks already sat. He kissed one of them. Then another. Soft, deliberate pressure that made my breath catch. A short moan left me when his teeth grazed lightly over sensitive skin.

His hands slid down my sides, over my waist, then up to cup my bare breasts. His thumbs brushed slowly over the peaks until they hardened under his touch. Another soft sound slipped out of me.

He lowered his head and took one nipple into his mouth. Warm. Wet. His tongue moved with the same careful patience he used for everything else. My back arched slightly. Soft, breathy moans kept leaving my lips.

He switched sides. The same slow attention. My fingers curled into his shirt. The ache between my legs pulsed harder with every pull of his mouth.

When he finally lifted his head, my breathing was uneven.

He kissed me again. One hand slid down my stomach and between my thighs. His fingers moved carefully over the sore flesh.

A short, shaky moan broke from my throat.

“Still tender,” he said against my mouth. “But you’re already wet.”

His fingers circled slowly, gently. Soft moans spilled from me with every careful stroke. My hips shifted toward his hand without thought.

“Does that feel good?”

“Yes… keep going.”

He slid one finger carefully inside, slow and shallow because of the soreness, while his thumb continued those slow circles. The dual sensation pulled a longer, broken sound from my throat.

“Easy,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

He worked me with patient movements. Soft moans and shaky breaths filled the quiet space between us. My forehead dropped against his shoulder. My hands stayed fisted in his shirt.

“I’m close,” I managed, voice rough.

“Then let go.”

The tension built slowly. When the release finally rolled through me, it was quieter than the night before but just as deep. A trembling moan left my lips as my body clenched around his finger. My legs nearly gave out.

He held me steady until the shaking eased. Then he withdrew his hand carefully and kissed the corner of my mouth once more.

Neither of us spoke for a moment.

He stepped back, wiped his hands, and returned to the calm efficiency he had shown earlier. He handed me a folded set of clothes—simple black pants and a soft gray blouse.

“These are for you. Wear them today.”

I dressed slowly. Every movement reminded me of the lingering ache and the fresh marks on my neck. My lips still felt warm from his mouth.

He returned to his desk and picked up a paper.

“Your schedule changes starting today,” he said, as if nothing intimate had happened. “You will be here by seven every morning. You will stay until I dismiss you. Fridays remain as written. You will not be late. You will not ask unnecessary questions. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“You will have a driver. He will wait downstairs. Your old apartment is no longer suitable. A room in this house has been prepared for you. You may keep personal things there, but you sleep where I tell you.”

I looked up. “In this house?”

“Yes.” His eyes met mine. “Is there a problem?”

“No.”

“Good.” He checked his watch. “Breakfast is downstairs. Eat. Then come to my office. We have work.”

I stood. My legs still felt unsteady. The marks on my neck felt hot under the collar of the blouse.

I walked to the door.

“Aurora.”

I looked back.

“You did well this morning,” he said. The words were quiet, almost casual. “Remember the rule.”

I nodded and stepped into the hallway.

The house felt different in daylight. Larger. Quieter. I followed the stairs down, one hand lightly touching the railing.

Voices reached me before I reached the bottom.

I turned the corner into the wide entrance hall and stopped.

Callum stood near the front door, baseball bag at his feet, phone in his hand. He looked up.

His eyes found me. Then they dropped to my neck.

The fresh marks were visible above the collar of the blouse. Reddish. Unmistakable.

His face changed.

The silence between us stretched.

He stared at the marks, then at my face, then back at the marks again.

His voice came out low and tight.

“What the fuck did you do?”