Epilogue
Ashley
Five Years Later
My peal of laughter carries across the parking lot as my husband swings me up into his arms, carrying me toward the bookstore. I let my neck go loose, arms limp, not one iota of tension in my body. Secure in the knowledge that I’m in the most capable hands. The sun peeks in and out from behind the clouds, the hem of my sundress fluttering against my calves. I am the embodiment of bliss.
The feeling only increases when Caleb squeezes me tighter and says, “There’s a line out the door, angel.”
I jerk to attention in his arms. “What?”
“See for yourself,” he says, a pride heavy in his tone.
Blocking my eyes from the sunshine, I look to the far end of the parking lot where the two-story bookstore is located, my heart rippling in my chest when I see a line of women standing in the shadow of the building. If it wasn’t for the fact that each of them is holding a copy of my debut novel, I would assume they’d come to see someone else.
But…they’re here to see me.
“Oh my gosh. Is this real?””
“It is.” He hefts me higher and slightly alters the direction we’re traveling. “We’ll have to bring you in through the back entrance like a celebrity.”
“That seems unnecessary,” I murmur, but I allow Caleb to carry me around back of the building, if only because I need some time to gather my composure. This is my first time doing a book signing and I expected the turnout to be minimal.
“I don’t know why you’re so surprised. Your novel is still flying off shelves,” Caleb says, settling me on my feet in the small alley behind the shop. He doesn’t knock on the back door yet, however, probably sensing I’m not ready to go in. Instead, he wraps his arms around me, pressing his lips to my forehead, his palm rubbing circles between my shoulder blades. “I’m so proud of you, Ashley.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, tilting my head back to look at this man, this hero. The one and only great love of my life. Father of my son…and the second child growing in my belly even now. “Who knew people would want to read a story about a lost and lonely woman falling in love with her therapist?”
His mouth brushes over mine, teasing me with light contact, before he deepens the kiss, his hand palming the back of my head, his lips a tool of magic. Everything about Caleb is magic. His practice has grown exponentially over the last five years, his client list overflowing, mostly with men seeking counseling. After the release of my book, in which the hero saves the heroine from her abusive husband and teaches her how to stand on her own, the pair ultimately falling madly in love, women started sending their husbands to therapy with Caleb in droves, hoping he’d be able to impart his secret to being a good partner. Just like the hero from the book, which I titled Method to His Madness.
“We need to get working on the sequel,” Caleb says, his knuckle rubbing against my nipples through the thin bodice of my dress, turning them to aching points. “Where the main characters build their dream house on the edge of the family farm and spend their evenings on the porch, watching a border collie run circles around their toddler.”
“That sounds familiar,” I say, breathing a laugh, sliding my arms up around his neck, so I can absorb his strength, the sensation of his steely shaft against my belly. “In this sequel, does the hero request a soundproof bedroom from the contractor who builds their house?”
Caleb’s blue eyes flash with heat, and somehow, I know he’s thinking about last night, when he had my wrists bound tightly to the headboard of our marital bed, a blindfold wrapped around my eyes, his drives relentless while my screams of Daddy echoed off the rafters. Our sex life defies explanation. It’s constant and raw. We never know when the mood is going to strike and we never deny ourselves, either.
That impulsivity has led to a lot of public lovemaking.
It started for my benefit. Caleb learned early that PDA heightens my desire, as does the possibility of being seen. Caught. Now, the fact that we can’t stop ourselves, no matter the setting, has a lot to do with his overwhelming obsession. With me.
Five years ago was only the beginning.
Now, he fills notebooks with information about me. Observations. He thinks I don’t know about them, but one time, he left his file cabinet unlocked and a stack of notebooks—all labeled with my name—caught my eye. Maybe a normal woman would have been scared to find out their husband keeps track of her moods, opinions, hairstyles, how many orgasms she has per day. Where she goes and who she associates with. Fantasizes about her twenty-four hours a day.
But none of that scares me. I fantasize about him to the point of madness, too.
I would burn myself alive for him.
And speaking of burning, his mouth is hungry on mine now, his hands down the back of my panties, molding my cheeks reverently.
“We should stop,” he rasps. “This afternoon is about you, angel. I’m being selfish.”
“You could never be selfish,” I croon against his mouth.
I hook a leg around his waist, and he shudders, his eyes taking on a glassy quality. “I have less and less control with you.” Two hands on my backside, he picks me up, baring his teeth against my lips. “I almost fucked you on the table in the restaurant last night.”
“I’d have let you,” I say softly, lapping at his panting mouth. “Daddy gets what he wants, when he wants it.”
“Angel,” he groans, tilting his hips. “ My fucking addiction .”
“We’re early,” I whimper, peeling down the straps of my sundress, my sex clenching at his visible reaction to my bare breasts in the dappled sunlight. Pupils expanding, chest heaving, a curse forming on his lips. I lean forward to flirt our mouths together, rubbing my aroused nipples against his chest at the same time. Getting myself wet for him. “It’s only fitting to have your fresh, warm come inside of me while I’m signing a book about us.”
My husband is overcome, then. As he often is.
He rips his zipper down and shreds my panties, leaving them in tatters.
I’m soundly fucked in the alley, his animal snarls muffled with my praising kisses, my legs dangling up above the ground, high heels clattering down once his thrusts turn frantic, his mouth devouring my throat, my neck, my mouth while we get our momentary fix of each other, his teeth clamping onto my shoulder when he erupts, my hips angling and grinding on his smooth base, the contact with my clit allowing me to follow him, shaking and shuddering, our combined moisture splattering down to the pavement.
“I love you, angel,” he grits against my temple. “Til death.”
“Til death, Caleb,” I sob, my heart in my throat. “I love you, too.”
I sign three hundred copies of our story that day with a smile on my face, Caleb watching proudly in the shadows, both of us knowing the real story will never end.
THE END