Epilogue
WILDER
There was nothing like the love of a good woman.
I smiled to myself as I fired up the grill.
We’d talked about going to the honky-tonk for dinner, but in the end, we didn’t want to share our date night with anyone else.
Now that the kids were older, time alone wasn’t as rare, but our best friends, Sienna and Blade, were hosting a sleepover for all their kids' friends, giving us a full twelve hours alone.
“Hey.”
The voice came from behind me, and I turned, expecting to find my wife holding a platter of raw steaks, ready to be cooked. Instead, Sage stood wearing an apron…
And nothing else.
“You might want to hold off on that,” she said. “I’m in the mood for an appetizer.”
I flipped back around and switched everything off, then turned to face my wife. My dick was stirring restlessly against the zipper of my jeans, and I knew it would become painful in seconds if I didn’t set it free. But my wife of ten years would be more than happy to help with that.
She lifted her hand and crooked her index finger, wiggling it toward herself in a “come here” gesture. But she made that more challenging by slipping back inside through the sliding glass door, leaving it open.
I crossed the deck in just a few strides and slide the screen door shut with a soft click, sealing us in the quiet kitchen.
The only light came from the stove hood, painting her skin in a warm, golden glow.
My boots were heavy on the tile, the sound echoing the hot, pounding rhythm of my own blood.
I was already gone for her, and we’d only just begun.
I found her exactly as I’d expected. She was perched on one of the stools we kept pushed up to the island, the stark white of the apron a dramatic contrast to the flush of desire spreading across her chest and cheeks.
Her knees were pressed together, a demure gesture that was utterly betrayed by the hungry look in her eyes.
It was a look that promised my undoing.
I moved toward her, my mind already made up. I was going to drop to my knees right there, to make her come before I even thought about my own pleasure. That was my way. My privilege.
But she shook her head, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “My turn,” she whispered, her voice husky and full of intent.
Before I could even form a protest, her hands were at my waistband.
Her fingers were deft and sure, popping the button, rasping the zipper down.
She pushed the rough denim and the soft cotton of my boxers over my hips, and my erection sprang free, thick and achingly hard, the tip already glistening.
“Jesus, woman,” I groaned, my hands gripping the cold, hard edge of the island behind her for support.
She didn’t hesitate. She leaned forward, her breath a warm caress in the seconds before her mouth closed over me.
A low, guttural sound was torn from my throat.
Her tongue flattened against my sensitive underside as she took me deep, her head beginning to bob in a slow, devastating rhythm.
She sucked me with a practiced, greedy hunger, one hand cupping my sac while the other stroked the base of my shaft.
The sensations were blinding. The wet, hot suction of her mouth, the flick of her tongue, the sight of her lips stretched around me—it was too much, too good. Pleasure coiled, tight and urgent, deep in my gut. My thighs trembled.
“Baby…wait,” I gasped, my fingers tangling in her hair, not to push her away, but to hold on as my world narrowed to the points of her mouth and her hands. My anchor in the storm. “God, if you don’t stop, I’m going to come.”
She released me with a soft, wet pop, her eyes gleaming with pure, unadulterated triumph. “Promise?”
With a growl, I gently pulled her up and guided her off the stool, turning her to face the island. “My turn,” I said, my voice rough with a need that was bordering on painful.
I knelt between her legs, my hands sliding up the impossibly smooth skin of her inner thighs, pushing them wider. I buried my face in her sweetness, my tongue finding her core in one long, languid stroke.
She cried out, her hands slapping down on the marble countertop.
I licked and suckled, worshiping the most intimate part of her, learning her rhythms all over again.
When I slid one finger, then two, deep inside her, curling them just the way she loved, her whole body bowed.
A broken, keening wail escaped her as she came, her inner muscles clenching rhythmically around my fingers, her thighs clamping against my head.
I rode out her climax with my mouth, drinking her in, until her tremors subsided into weak shudders. Only then did I rise, my own body screaming for release.
She slid off the stool, her body melting against mine. I kissed her, a deep, claiming kiss where I could taste her own essence on my tongue. My hands ran over the bare, smooth curves of her backside, squeezing and kneading the generous flesh.
I turned her around, my front to her back, and ran my hands up her sides, under the apron. Cupping her full, heavy breasts, my thumbs circled her taut nipples, appreciating every one of her lush, womanly curves.
“So damn perfect,” I rasped into her ear, my erection pressing insistently against the cleft of her ass. “Always so fucking perfect for me.”
I bent her forward, guiding her hands to grip the seat of the stool she’d just vacated. Her back arched, presenting herself to me. I positioned myself at her entrance, the head of my cock nudging against her slick, swollen pussy.
“You ready for me, sweetheart?” I murmured, my voice thick.
“Yes,” she panted, pushing her hips back in an invitation I couldn’t refuse. “Please.”
I drove into her in one smooth, deep thrust, burying myself to the hilt. We cried out in unison—a sharp, guttural moan from me, a long, breathy sigh of pure pleasure from her. She was so hot, so tight, gripping me like a fist.
I set a relentless, powerful pace, each thrust a deliberate stroke that made her gasp. The sounds of our bodies meeting, skin slapping against skin, filled the kitchen. I gripped her hips, my fingers digging into her soft flesh, holding her steady as I plunged into her again and again.
“That’s it,” I grunted, my own pleasure building into a roaring fire. “Take all of me, baby. So damn deep. You feel that?”
“Yes! Oh, God, yes!” she cried, her head falling forward.
I watched, mesmerized, as one of her hands left the stool and slipped between her own legs. I’d watched her touch herself enough to know that her fingers were working her clit in frantic, desperate circles, matching the rhythm of my thrusts.
“That’s it, touch yourself,” I encouraged her, my voice a raw, dirty whisper. “Come for me again. I want to feel you come all over my cock.”
Her breathing hitched, her moans becoming higher, more frantic. “I’m… I’m close…”
“Do it,” I commanded, driving into her harder, faster, my own control fraying at the edges. “Come for me, baby. Now.”
A sharp, broken cry was torn from her throat as her body convulsed around me, a second, shocking wave of pleasure seizing her.
The intense, rhythmic clenching of her inner muscles was my undoing.
With a final, brutal thrust and a ragged shout of her name, I poured into her, my own release a blinding, white-hot explosion that seemed to drain me completely.
For a long moment, we stayed like that, bent over the stool, my body draped over hers, both of us panting, slick with sweat, trembling in the aftermath. The world slowly seeped back in, but all I could feel was her.
I helped her stand, turning her in my arms and pulling her close. She melted against my chest, her breathing still ragged, and I pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
"I love you," I murmured into her hair.
"I love you too," she whispered back.
Ten years. Ten incredible years since that first night in this cabin.
Sage had healed me in ways I never thought possible—not just with her love, though that was powerful, but by refusing to let me hide from my demons.
She'd pushed me to get help, sat beside me through every PTSD therapy session, held me through the nightmares that still came occasionally.
The therapy had given me tools to manage the trauma, but her love had given me a reason to try.
The night terrors were rare now. Most nights, I slept peacefully with her in my arms.
And our life—God, our life was everything I never knew I wanted.
Ridge, our eight-year-old, had my dark hair and his mother's green eyes and her fearless spirit.
Cole, our five-year-old, was pure mischief wrapped in stubborn determination.
They filled this cabin with laughter and chaos and a kind of joy I'd thought was lost to me forever.
"Think the steaks can wait a little longer?" Sage asked, her voice sleepy and satisfied.
I smiled against her hair. "Baby, the steaks can wait as long as you need."
She laughed, that beautiful sound that had been my favorite music for a decade. "Good. Because I'm not done with you yet."
And as I carried my wife to our bedroom, past the family photos on the walls and the toy trucks scattered on the floor, I sent up a silent prayer of thanks.
For this woman who'd seen past my scars.
For the family we'd built together. For every single perfect, imperfect moment of the life we'd created.
I was home. Finally, completely home.