Epilogue
Rose
“Murray? Murray! Whereis he?” I look out the kitchen window, trying to spot him amongst the throng of guests milling about in our back garden. “Is that barbecue even on yet? That’s Skye and Lucky and the kids here.” I grumble to myself as I move bowls and plates from the fridge to the countertop, whilst simultaneously making sure the baked potatoes aren’t reduced to ashes in the oven and the corn-on-the-cob doesn’t boil all over the stovetop.
A further, exasperated glance out the window fails to locate my husband in the crowd, but his ex-wife gives me a cheerful wave across the garden.
“Do you need a hand?” Skye mouths.
I shake my head. “Get a drink,” I instruct, pointing to the heavily laden drinks table. She grins and nods.
The doorway darkens as Murray’s huge frame enters the kitchen.
“Where have you been?” I growl.
“Oooh, someone’s crabbit!” He wraps me into his arms. Despite the stress, my body doesn’t even protest. I fold against him, letting the warm, solid comfort of his chest under my cheek soothe away my worries. He kisses the top of my head. “It is going to be just fine.”
“I know,” I mumble against his t-shirt. “I’m just a bit overwhelmed. Why did we invite so many people?”
“Because you’ve got a lot of friends,” he says. My eyes are closed, but I can hear his proud smile in the tone of his voice. “They aren’t here for me, sweetheart. This is your day. It isn’t every day the beloved town librarian scores a book deal.”
I can’t help the grin that lights my face. “I did, didn’t I?”
“You did. All that hard work paid off. I was starting to forget what you looked like.”
“Well, I’ll have to be starting on the sequel,” I tease. “My fans will be waiting...”
“And I’d better grab you while you are free.” He tightens his arms round me and nuzzles his deliciously hairy face against my neck. “I’m ready to give you some sausage,” he murmurs.
“You are a rude man,” I scold with mock horror.
He turns me gently so my back rests against his chest. His huge hands make their way under the bib of my apron, finding the already pebbled nubs of my nipples.
“You had better believe it,” he growls in my ear.
My back arches and the embers of desire that have burned ever-present in my core since I first laid eyes on him lick into flame.
Is it even possible to come just from having your nipples stroked? I think I’m about to find out.
Murray bends forward and takes the delicate skin of my neck between his lips. He sucks gently, not enough to leave a mark. To anyone walking into the kitchen, we’d just look like a couple in love sharing a tender embrace. And yet my body is on fire. The press of his palms against the weight of my breasts and the flick of his thumbs over my nipples is scorching a burning line of desire straight to my core.
What this man does to me. What he’s taught me. What he’s given me. I’m his—mind, body and soul. Forever.
He wraps one arm round my waist as I start to sag against him, my trembling legs unable to withstand the waves of pleasure washing over me.
“Come for me, little mouse,” he instructs, the breath of his ooh warm against my goose-fleshed skin.
He grazes his teeth against my neck, and every muscle south of my waist contracts. I try to bite back the moan that tears from my lips but the flashes of light dancing behind my eyes are burning away any control I have left. My body is his to command. And as pleasure rolls from the tip of my toes and the ends of my hair, searing through my body to that place deep in my belly, I am about to find out that yes, it is indeed possible to come just from having your nipples stroked.
The strength of my orgasm catches my breath. My hands reach back, frantically searching for the solid comfort of his body to hold onto to as the pleasure coursing through my own threatens to carry me away. He tightens his arm round my waist. I’m safe. He has me. I’ll never be lost with Murray. With a sigh, I surrender and sink into the white light of my release.
* * *
“That was your motheron the phone.”
Murray’s words permeate my bliss-soaked brain slowly.
“Hmm?” I murmur, resting my head back against his shoulder. “My mum? On the phone?”
His chest shifts under my back as he chuckles. “Mmhmm, your mum. That’s where I was when you shouted for me. Answering the house phone.”
“Well,” I say, stretching in his arms, luxuriating in the heat of his body pressed against mine, “one day, when they manage to get reliable phone reception up this big hill, you’ll be able to talk to my mother from the comfort of our garden.”
I can almost hear his eyes rolling.
“Anyway,” he continues, “Caledon’s just finishing up giving a personal training session at the gym, then he’s going to pick her up on the way here...” He trails off.
“What’s up?”
“Do you think they’ll get here before sunset?”
It is my turn to roll my eyes.
“Oh, Murray, not the car again. His personal training business is really picking up. Kent says he’s the most popular trainer at the gym. Very in demand. I’m sure he’ll replace it soon.”
“Hmmm,” grunts Murray. “He’d better hurry up or I might be tempted to buy him something for his birthday.”
“Don’t you dare! You know what he’s like.”
“I know what you are all like,” he says, squeezing his arms round me. “Proud. How long did it take before you let me replace yours?”
“That car had special memories...” I protest.
“Hell yeah it did,” he agrees. “Do you remember that time we went to Starfall Point?”
“Mmmhmm,” I murmur.
“And MacLeod’s Pass?”
“Mmhmm.”
“And Cherry Cove?”
“Mmhmm.” My tummy flips at the thought of what we did in the back of the car on that particular outing.
“So many memories. It is a wonder we haven’t been arrested...”
“Would have been worth it, though, if we had...”
A growled laugh rumbles in Murray’s chest. “Indeed.”
I need to get us back on track or we are going to end up at it right here in the kitchen. And that won’t do. We’ve got guests.
“We’ve got Mum and Cal here, in Oakheart Glen, with us. That’s enough for me. If they’ll let us spoil them a bit in due course, well, that’ll be the icing on the cake.”
“Talking of spoiling, your mum says she’s got something for Violet. And Maisie.” Murray’s voice is thoughtful. “She never forgets Maisie.”
“It’ll probably be hand knitted.”
“Hopefully,” says Murray brightly. “Maisie loved the last cardigan she made for her. Said it was ‘bang on trend.’ And Violet just likes to be like her big sister.”
As if called by her father’s voice, our daughter squeals in the garden. We turn to look out the window. She catches sight of us and waves, her three-year-old face beaming as Skye and Lucky’s brood join her on the huge trampoline Murray dug into the far end of the garden. The noise of the children reverberates against the dense woods enclosing the cabin’s garden, and I’m grateful that our nearest neighbours are miles away.
“Look, Mum and Dad!” she yells, careening wildly across the elastic expanse, almost bouncing the Hughes’ youngest son clear into the trees.
Before I have the chance to respond, Maisie steps forward and with every bit of sisterly authority tells them all to stop behaving like wild things. For someone who was an only child for so long, she sure knows how to keep them in line.
“That’s my girls,” says Murray proudly. “Well, Maisie seems to have them in hand,” he continues, his voice lightening. “Perhaps we could nip upstairs for a few minutes, while the sausages cook.”
I turn into his embrace. I want to protest, to tell him that we’ve far too much to be doing, but his mouth brushes against mine and I’m lost. When I rise, panting, from his kiss, I take his hands in mine, smiling as our wedding rings glint in the sun streaming in the window.
“We can’t, Murray. The sausages will burn.”
“The best-laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men...” he murmurs against my ear.
“Ooh, pulling out the big guns, are we?” I tease. I’m normally a sucker for some whispered poetry. But not today. “The only Burns there will be around here will be those sausages.”
“Lucky’ll look after them for me.”
“Murray Walsh, are you letting another man tend your barbecue?” I ask with mock surprise.
“Yeah,” he says with a shrug. “I’ve got more important things to tend to.”
He gives me a cheeky wink and pulls my body against his. His thick cock nudges my lower belly. I ignore the dampness between my legs.
“I thought this was a celebration?” he murmurs, his lips brushing mine.
“It is, but...”
“My wife, the soon-to-be bestselling novelist. By rights we should be doing this in the library...”
My eyebrows raise. “Can you imagine what Mrs. Boardman would say if she found you making me moan in the non-fiction aisle? She’d have a stroke.”
Murray takes my hand and presses it against the bulge at his crotch. “Lucky Mrs. Boardman.”
I can’t help the laugh that huffs from my lips. “You, Murray Walsh, are absolutely incorrigible.” I draw my fingers along his cotton-covered length. “And insatiable.”
“And you love it.”
I roll my eyes, but have to admit, “I do.”
He nuzzles his shaggy beard against the soft skin of my neck. “The thought of going down on you in the non-fiction section is turning me on,” he whispers against my ear.
Holy shit. I am actually going to explode. Never mind the barbecue, my insides are on fire. My body melts against him. His hands slide down from my waist to my bum, and a tiny pant escapes my lips. Oh, this man. My husband. The thought still sends thrills of delight rolling down my spine. But right now, I have to stay strong. We’ve been away long enough. Our guests are waiting.
“Murray...”
“Hmm?” he murmurs, raining a shower of tiny kisses down my neck.
“No sausage for me.”
He groans. “What are you doing to me, woman?”
“No, really. No sausage.”
“Oh, right. What are you having for dinner then?” He nibbles my earlobe, clearly still hopeful that I am going to be the first course. But we have other things we have to attend to right now.
“There’s some plain cooked pasta in the fridge. Could you take that out for me, please?”
“Sure thing, Boss. Just need a moment,” he says, puffing out his cheeks.
I shake my head. “You poor thing.”
He wraps me in his arms.
“I love you, Rose Walsh.”
I nestle my head against his chest. “And I love you, Murray Walsh.”
I know how he feels. My body is screaming at me to take his hand and lead him up to our bedroom right now.
I break from his embrace reluctantly. “Come on, our guests will be ravenous. And you’ve still got the steaks to cook...”
Still looking a little dazed, Murray crosses the kitchen and throws open the fridge door.
“Do you want a steak...?” he begins. But when his eyes fall on the small bowl of plain pasta, he pauses. He turns to look at me. I watch his face, enjoying seeing the realization unfold as he remembers the last time when I could eat for nine months was plain pasta.
“Rose?”
“Yes, Murray?”
“Are you...?”
I nod.
His face breaks into an enormous smile. He crosses the kitchen in two strides, gathers me into his arms and places his hand tenderly over the curve of my stomach.
“I can’t believe it,” he murmurs.
My mountain man looks down at me with shining, dark eyes.
“Thank you, Rose,” he says softly.
“What for?” I ask, wiping a tear from his cheek with my thumb.
“Thank you for giving me all of this. Our life together, our home, our family.”
“My pleasure,” I whisper.
He looks deep into my eyes, his dark eyes soft, gentle. “Thank you for knocking on my door that day. And for schooling me on data protection.”
I roll my eyes. “Data protection is everyone’s business,” I mutter.
He laughs. “Best chat up line ever.”
“It wasn’t a...” I begin to protest, but his lips brush away the end of my sentence, and my thoughts scatter to the wind.
* * *