Repeat Booking — Bonus Chapter
An Exclusive Scene by Isla Wilde
This bonus chapter takes place after the events of Repeat Booking. Contains extremely explicit content and spoilers. 18+ only.
Prague
The hotel room overlooked the Vltava, and the river was doing something unreasonable with the moonlight.
Sloane stood at the window in bare feet and a slip she’d bought that afternoon — black silk, thin straps, short enough that Callum would lose the ability to form sentences.
Callum was standing in the middle of the hotel room in his shirtsleeves. His eyes, when they found her in the window with the silk slip falling mid-thigh, went dark in a way she’d spent eight months cataloguing.
She could see the evidence of his response in the front of his trousers.
“I have a request,” she said. “I want you to take control.”
Their dynamic had been established early: she led, he followed. But tonight she wanted to feel what Callum Vale was like when the leash came off.
“I trust you. With every part of me. I want the version of you that takes.”
His hands went to her waist with a decisiveness she hadn’t felt from him before. He kissed her — a claiming kiss. His tongue pushing past her lips with an authority that was new and electrifying. One hand went to the back of her neck, tilting her head to the angle he wanted.
She gasped against his mouth. The reversal hit her nervous system like a drug. She felt it in her spine, in her nipples tightening against the silk, in the slick arousal already soaking through her underwear.
“Bed,” he said. One word. An instruction, not a request.
He slid the straps off her shoulders. The silk pooled at her feet. He stripped her underwear in a single motion. She was naked.
“Lie down,” he said — the same words she’d said to him in her apartment, returned with a weight that made her breath catch.
He stripped. His cock sprang free, hard and thick, the head flushed dark. He knelt on the bed, straddled her thighs, and pressed her wrists into the pillow above her head.
“Keep them there. Don’t move them until I tell you.”
Her fingers curled into the linen. She was so wet she could feel herself on her inner thighs.
He started at her throat. His mouth worked down her neck with a thoroughness that said he’d been wanting to do this for months. His mouth closed around her nipple and sucked hard and the sound she made echoed off the high Prague ceiling.
“Good girl,” he murmured against her breast.
In nine months, Callum had never once praised her during sex. Hearing it reversed sent a bolt of heat straight to her clit so intense she cried out.
His mouth traveled lower. He kissed her hip bone, the inside of her thigh. She was shaking.
“Callum. Please. Your mouth. I need your tongue on my clit right now or I’m going to lose my mind.”
He lowered his mouth. The first contact — his tongue sliding flat and broad through the slick folds of her arousal, pressing firm against her clit — made her scream. A raw, full-throated scream she felt in her teeth.
He didn’t ease in. He ate her like he’d been starving. His tongue worked her clit with firm, relentless strokes while his hands gripped her thighs and held them apart, keeping her open for him.
She came in under three minutes. He didn’t stop. He slid two fingers inside her, curled them forward against the front wall, tongue on her clit, and the second orgasm arrived like a detonation. She came so hard her vision whited out.
His face was wet. His eyes were black. “You can move your hands now,” he said.
She pulled him to her. He rolled on the condom. Positioned himself at her entrance.
He pushed inside her in one long, deep stroke. They both made sounds — his a groan that broke apart in the air, hers a sharp cry against his shoulder.
He fucked her with the accumulated force of a man who had been gentle for eight months and had just been given permission to be something else. His hips drove into her with a depth and power that hit every nerve ending she possessed. Each thrust bottomed out inside her with a force that made the headboard shift against the wall.
She wrapped her legs around his waist. Her nails dragged red lines down his back.
“God — Callum — right there — you’re so deep — harder — please, harder —”
He gave her harder. His hands gripped her hips, lifting them off the mattress, changing the angle so each stroke dragged the base of his cock against her clit.
“Come for me,” he said. His voice was wrecked. “Come on my cock, Sloane.”
She came around him with a scream she didn’t try to contain, her cunt clenching so hard he groaned against her throat. She was shaking. She was crying — not from sadness, from the sheer overwhelming intensity.
“Come inside me,” she said. “Let go, Callum. Give me everything.”
His rhythm shattered. Three deep, driving strokes, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise, and on the third his body locked and the sound he made was the loudest she’d ever heard from him — a raw, open-throated cry that carried nine months of patience released in a single devastating moment.
She felt him come inside her. Felt the pulse, the heat, the shudder. She held him through the aftershocks.
They lay tangled in the wreckage of the white linen sheets, the Vltava moving past the window.
“You’ve been holding back,” she said.
“I didn’t know I was allowed not to.”
“You’re always allowed. Every version of you is allowed in this bed. The gentle version. And the version that just made me come three times.”
“The part where you said good girl — that almost ended me before the main event.”
“I’ve wanted to say that for months.”
“You can take anything. Anything I have, anything I am. We get to have both. That’s how this works.”
“Both,” he repeated. Like a man discovering that love was bigger than a single blueprint.
She pressed her lips to the silver at his temple — the silver that had started everything.
“We should see the staircase in Vinohrady tomorrow. And then you should take me back to this room and do that again.”
He laughed. Pulled her closer. Breathed her in.
“Deal.”
She fell asleep in a hotel room overlooking the Vltava, in a city made of cake frosting aged into something serious, in the arms of a man who had finally stopped being careful.
The staircase held. It always would.