Epilogue #2
The stalls are still buzzing—kids with glowsticks, teenagers chasing each other with plastic swords, parents clutching cider and trying not to lose mittens.
Mason introduces me to a few of his crew mates. Beck Holloway, with his messy man-bun who nods at me like I’ve just passed inspection, and Colt Lawson, who smirks at Mason like he definitely knows what’s going on here.
“I like her,” Colt says. “You bringing her to poker night?”
Mason grunts. “She’d rob you all blind.”
“I would,” I say sweetly, sipping from the cider he just bought me. It’s warm and spiced and just slightly too hot, and I make an appreciative noise that has Mason looking like he wants to cause a scene.
There’s butter tarts, too. Flaky and sticky and criminally good. Mason swipes another one off a passing tray and hands it to me without asking. I think he just wants to hear me moan again.
“No cider for you?” I ask between bites.
He shakes his head. “Volunteering. We’re not on call, but we’re still visible.”
“So no New Year’s kiss for me at midnight?”
He leans in close. “Not here.”
Around 11:30, the crowd starts drifting toward the bonfires lining the edge of the lake, everyone trying to snag the best view before midnight.
Kids are bundled into chairs, older folks cozy up under plaid blankets, and phones start glowing as people prep for the countdown.
Mason doesn’t move.
“Shouldn’t we—?”
“Nope,” he says, mouth brushing my ear. “I’ve got a better idea.”
“Which is…?”
He nods toward the back of the lot. “Firetruck’s over there. It’s warm. Quiet. Better view of the sky. Thought we could watch the countdown from the cab.”
“Mm. Romantic.”
“Better than freezing your ass off surrounded by drunk teenagers.”
I grin and let him tug me through the crowd, around the tents and past the makeshift sound booth where someone’s blasting old school rock hits.
A few people wave as we go, but Mason just tips his chin and keeps moving.
The firetruck’s is huge, and he helps me up the side step, then climbs in behind me and pulls the door shut. The cab is warm, clean, and surprisingly private.
We settle on the bench seat, pressed shoulder to thigh, a whole sky stretched above the windshield.
“You okay?” I ask softly, watching his profile.
His thumb rubs absent circles against my thigh. “Just thinkin’.”
“About what?”
He exhales through his nose. “New Year’s. It’s always been kinda… shit. I haven’t really done the whole resolution thing since everything happened. Just figured there wasn’t much point in planning anything.”
My heart aches for him, and I thread my fingers through his.
“Well,” I say gently, “maybe there doesn't need to be plans. Maybe it’s just about remembering you’re not alone anymore.”
Stormy gray eyes lock on mine. “You makin’ a resolution, baby?”
“Yeah, I think I am.”
“What is it?”
“To make new memories that don’t erase the old ones… just give them something else to sit beside.”
His fingers tighten around mine as I repeat his words back to him from Christmas.
“Fuck, Frankie.”
I press a kiss to the corner of his mouth and is hands are on me before I can say anything else.
Rough palms cradling my face, mouth slanting against mine. He grabs my hips and pulls me into his lap, shifting us so his back hits the cold metal wall of the truck cab.
My coat flares around us as I straddle him, our bodies slotting together. It’s not to distract or soften, I want him to feel that this night, this moment, this thing between us is different.
It isn’t haunted, it’s ours.
He groans low in his throat, hands already roaming. One finds my jaw, tilting my mouth open. The other lands on my thigh, sliding hot and firm as my breath hitches.
“You know what I want?”
“Besides me?”
“Lay back, baby.”
He eases me off his lap and onto the bench, tugging my jeans and panties down. Then he drops to his knees on the truck floor, his massive shoulders pushing my thighs apart.
“Mason—”
“Shh.” He presses a kiss to the inside of my knee. “I wanna taste my resolution.”
And then he does.
His mouth is obscene—slowly dragging his tongue through me, then faster, filthier. He hums against me, one hand locking around my thigh, the other sliding under my sweater to palm my breast.
His mustache is scratchy heaven, tongue flicking and fucking until I’m arching off the seat, biting my lip to keep quiet.
I gasp, head tipping back as his tongue firmly circles over my clit. My legs flex and twitch, one booted foot slamming the seat as he hums into me.
“Jesus, Frankie” he rasps. “I’ve missed this pussy like hell.”
A whimper escapes me as he licks deeper, nose nudging my clit, his mustache stubble rough against soft skin.
“You’re fuckin’ soaked. So greedy for my mouth, baby.”
“Oh my god—”
“You gonna come like this? Make a mess on my tongue before midnight?” His voice is gravel, fingers digging into my thigh. “Let everyone out there cheer while you fall apart on my face?”
I’m close, but I grab his shoulder and yank.
“Wait,” I pant. “I want you inside me. I want to start the year with you.”
Mason’s head snaps up, lips slick and eyes dark.
“You sure?”
I nod, breath catching. “Please.”
He stands, unfastens his jeans with shaking hands, and pulls me upright so he can sit back down.
“Get on, baby.” He nods at where he’s fisting his cock. “Ride me into the new year.”
His cock is hot and heavy between us, and when I slide down onto him in one slow, desperate motion, we both moan.
“Fuck yes.” Mason’s head tips back. “That’s it. Take all of it.”
I start to move, rolling my hips against him, feeling the way he fits inside me so deep I see sparks behind my eyes. His hands clamp my waist, guiding me up and down.
“Look at you.” His voice is reverent filth. “So pretty when you’re full of me.”
As I grind harder, his mouth drops open. “You’re so wet,” he whispers, thumb gliding down to stroke my clit. “Always so fuckin’ ready for me.”
“You feel so good,” I gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. “God, you feel—”
“Want it harder?” he pants.
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“Fuck me harder, Mason.”
He groans and surges up into me, thrust meeting bounce. The bench seat creaks, the windows fog, and the entire truck rocks with the rhythm of us.
“Fuck, yes.” His forehead presses to mine. “This what you wanted? Wanna end the year with my cock in you?”
My breath catches. “Yes.”
He grabs my ass cheeks, spreading me wider over him. Then he brings one hand back to his mouth to suck on his index finger, before sliding it back around until it presses lightly against my ass.
“Fuck—” My head drops back and body shakes.
“You wanna be full for new year?”
I nod quickly. “Yes.”
He pushes the slickened finger inside, shallow and teasing, the pressure perfect in a way that makes me react loudly.
“My perfect fucking girl,” he breathes, sweating now. “You’re gonna make me come so hard.”
I’m almost there, right on the edge, every nerve ending lit.
Outside, the crowd begins to chant.
“TEN!”
Mason’s thrusts get rougher. “Frankie—fuck, yes—ride me—”
“NINE!”
I take his hand and guide it up to wrap around my throat.
His eyes go molten.
“EIGHT!”
I bounce harder, desperate and wild. Every thrust slams him deeper, the thick stretch making my thighs shake.
“You love this,” he growls. “Two holes stuffed and you still want more. My greedy fucking girl.”
“SEVEN!”
“Please—God—I’m so close—” My voice breaks, thighs clenching around him.
He snarls. “You ride me so good, baby. So fucking tight.”
“SIX!”
“Harder,” I whimper. “Don’t stop—please don’t stop—”
“You ready to come for me?” His voice is a rasp. “Gonna let that greedy little pussy drench me?”
“FIVE!”
I pick up the pace, grinding faster, thighs trembling, the slap of our bodies drowned out by cheers.
“FOUR!”
“Tell me who you belong with, Frankie?”
“You,” I moan, feeling his finger sink deeper, his hips pistoning upward. “Fuck, I belong with you.”
“THREE!”
He hums, leaning in to lick up the column of my throat. “That’s right, baby. With me. You’re mine.”
“TWO!”
“Yours,” I sob, pleasure peaking. “Please—let me come. I need it—I need it so bad.”
“Tell me,” he murmurs against my neck, teeth scraping gently. “Who makes you come like this?”
“You,” I pant. “You do, Mason.”
“ONE!”
His finger crooks inside me. “Then come for me, baby.”
A broken sound leaves me, somewhere between a gasp and a whimper.
We explode together, his cock pulsing inside me as I convulse around him, our eyes locked while fireworks detonate across the sky in a symphony of color.
We're not looking at them, though. We’re looking at each other.
My body shudders, nails digging crescents into his shoulders as he fucks the aftershocks into me, soft groans mixing with the last crackle of fireworks overhead.
“I’ll never get enough of you,” he whispers, leaning in.
I whimper again, too wrecked to speak.
He kisses me deeply, my own lips trembling as I kiss him back. And when I finally collapse against his chest, he cradles me close.
“Happy New Year, Mason Fletcher.”
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just holds me there, arms locked tight around me as if he’s afraid to let go.
And maybe that’s the thing I’ll remember most about this night.
Not the fireworks, not the countdown. Not even the way he made me come so hard.
But this—his heartbeat against mine, steady and stunned that somewhere in the shadow of what this night used to mean, we made something worth keeping.
It won’t erase the hurt, but it’ll sit beside it.
“Happy New Year, Francesca Monroe.”