Epilogue
Sugar, Sin, and Forever
Holly
Three months later
There’s a naked man in my bakery. Technically, he’s wearing jeans. Barely.
Low on his hips, button undone, no shirt, no shoes, and absolutely no respect for my ability to remain a productive member of society.
Daniel Reed stands in front of my industrial mixer with a wrench in one hand and a cinnamon roll in the other, looking like every bad decision I have ever wanted to lick.
My mate is a menace. A broad-shouldered, golden-eyed, tool-belt-wearing menace.
Also, he fixed the mixer permanently, repaired the back door, replaced the pantry shelves, put up new lights, and built me a display case that makes Mrs. Bell say, “Oh my,” every time she sees it.
So I suppose I will keep him. For practical reasons.
Obviously.
“Are you aware,” I say from the prep table, “that health inspectors frown upon half-naked handymen fondling bakery equipment?”
Daniel glances over his shoulder, mouth curving. “Fondling?”
“You heard me.”
“I’m checking the bolt.”
“You have been checking that bolt for ten minutes.”
“It’s an important bolt.”
“You’re an important bolt.”
His smile widens. “That made no sense.”
“It sounded better in my head.”
“Most things do.”
I point my spatula at him. “Careful. This is lemon buttercream. I’m armed and citrusy.”
His eyes drop to the spatula. Then to my mouth.
Then lower, because the man has the subtlety of a wolf staring at a steak.
The bond between us warms. Not the frantic, wild burn from the beginning.
Not the painful tug of fate demanding we hurry up and ruin our lives in the name of destiny. This is different now.
His claiming mark on my neck pulses as if it hears him thinking dirty things from across the kitchen. To be fair, I hear them too.
Daniel’s thoughts are not verbal, exactly. The bond does not work that way. But it carries emotion. Desire. Amusement. Love. The occasional image of me bent over something that absolutely should not be used for that purpose because this is a licensed food establishment and we are professionals.
Mostly.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I tell him.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re mentally violating food safety laws.”
He places the wrench on the counter with great care. “Sweetheart, if you knew the things I’m mentally doing right now, you’d already be sanitizing the table.”
My thighs clench. Traitorous thighs.
I turn back to the cake in front of me, because cake is safe. Cake does not have amber eyes, strong hands, or the ability to make me feel cherished and filthy in the same sentence.
The cake is for Mrs. Bell’s granddaughter’s baby shower.
Three tiers of vanilla sponge, lemon curd, and buttercream rosettes.
Decorated with delicate little sugar flowers I spent four hours making while Daniel sat at the counter and said deeply unhelpful things like, “That petal looks edible,” and, “So do you.”
Romance is alive and well. Unfortunately, so is my sex drive, and my mate knows it.
He comes up behind me slowly. I feel him before he touches me. The heat of him at my back. The scent of cedar, rain, and wolf wrapping around sugar and lemon. My wolf stretches, shameless and pleased. We have come a long way from her trying to launch herself at him in the middle of the bakery.
Now she waits. Barely.
Daniel’s hands settle on my hips.
I glance down. “You washed those, right?”
“I’m wounded.”
“I’m serious.”
He lifts both hands in front of my face. “Scrubbed. Twice. Because I live in fear of your wrath and the health department.”
“Good.”
His mouth brushes the shell of my ear. “Can I touch you now, bossy baker?”
My breath catches. Even after three months of being claimed. Three months of waking up beside him. Three months of learning his body and letting him learn mine. Three months of Daniel telling me I’m beautiful until the word no longer feels like a trap.
Still, he asks. Still, my heart stumbles every time.
“Yes,” I whisper.
His hands return to my hips, firmer now, thumbs sliding beneath the hem of my shirt to stroke bare skin. “Good.”
“Don’t say good in that voice while I’m handling buttercream.”
“What voice?”
“The one that makes me want to climb you like a pantry shelf.”
A low laugh rumbles from his chest into my back. “Patricia would judge us.”
“Patricia has seen worse.”
“She has?”
“She’s an oven in a small-town bakery. She knows secrets.”
Daniel turns me in his arms, and I go willingly because I’m weak. Also because he’s warm and mine and smiling at me like I’m still the best thing he has ever been allowed to touch.
Which is ridiculous and lovely and mildly terrifying if I think about it too long, so I don’t. Instead, I smear lemon buttercream across his chest.
Daniel freezes and I freeze. The kitchen goes silent.
Outside, the closed sign hangs in the front window. Maisie is off for the weekend after making three separate gagging noises about “the happy couple” and then asking for paid leave because apparently love is exhausting for employees too.
But now, it’s just us. Me, Daniel, and a streak of pale-yellow frosting across his left pec. His eyes slowly drop to the mess, then lift to mine.
“Holly.”
I take a careful step back. “In my defense...”
“You attacked me with frosting.”
“I was startled.”
“You were holding the spatula.”
“Exactly. Dangerous working conditions.”
His gaze darkens. “You know I’m going to make you lick that off.”
My stomach flips, the bond heats, and my wolf, deeply unhelpful creature that she is, practically purrs.
I lift my chin. “You think so?”
“I know so.”
“There’s a cake due tomorrow morning.”
“There’s a mate due right now.” He steps closer and I can’t help but glance down at the generous erection his jeans can’t hide.
“That is not how scheduling works.” My voice is breathy.
His mouth curves, slow and wicked. “I’m very persuasive.” He knows he already has me.
“You’re very naked-adjacent.”
“Part of being persuasive.”
Daniel reaches for me, but I dart away, laughing when his fingers miss my waist by an inch. His eyes flash wolf-bright, and my whole body answers.
Oh, this is going to become a problem. But I like this problem. I bolt around the prep table, and Daniel follows. Not fast. Not yet. He stalks, all loose-hipped confidence and hungry amusement, while I hold the spatula like a weapon.
“Stay back,” I warn. “I’ll do it again.”
“Promise?”
“Daniel.”
“Holly.”
“You’re interfering with business operations.”
“I’m your business partner now.”
“You fixed shelves and seduced the owner. That is not a business model.”
“It’s working so far.”
I snort, then make the mistake of glancing at his chest. Buttercream clings to warm skin, right above the hard muscle I know far too well. My mouth waters, and Daniel notices.
His smile turns smug. I hate smug, so I throw the spatula at him. He catches it easily. Stupid sexy fucking predator with his damn wolf reflexes.
“That was rude,” he says.
“That was strategy.”
“That was a declaration of war.”
He places the spatula down with terrifying gentleness right as he lunges. I shriek and run, but I’m laughing too hard to get far. He catches me near the sink, one arm banding around my waist, lifting me off my feet like I weigh nothing.
“Put me down, you oversized cinnamon roll thief.”
“I paid for that cinnamon roll.”
“You stole the second one.”
“I’m your mate. Community property.”
“That applies to emotional burdens, not baked goods.”
He sets me on the prep table.
I gasp. “This was sanitized.”
“I know.” His hands slide up my thighs, spreading them gently. “I watched you do it twice.”
My laugh dissolves when he steps between my legs. Heat blooms low in my belly. Just like that, the play shifts. Still fun. Still light. But also sharper now.
Daniel’s fingers trace the hem of my skirt, teasing the skin above my knees. His eyes stay on mine, warm and hungry, the bond glowing between us.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says.
I cup his face, my thumb brushing over his jaw. “If you stop, I’m going to be very cross.”
His smile flashes. “Can’t have that.”
“No. My wrath is legendary.”
“Terrifying.”
“Ask Patricia.”
His laugh brushes my mouth as he kisses me, and I melt instantly. It’s actually embarrassing how quickly I melt for this man. One kiss, and I’m no longer a competent business owner. I’m butter in a hot pan. I’m frosting left too close to the oven. I’m every soft, sweet thing I pretend not to be.
Daniel kisses me like he knows it. Like he loves it.
His hands move under my skirt, rough palms sliding over my thighs, thumbs stroking higher until I tremble. My fingers dig into his shoulders, brushing the buttercream still smeared across his chest.
I pull back, breathing hard.
His eyes search mine. “What?”
“You still have frosting on you.”
His gaze darkens. “Then clean it up.” Bossy handyman.
I lean forward and put my mouth to his chest, and Daniel goes perfectly still.
The first taste is sugar, lemon, and him. Warm skin beneath my tongue. His heartbeat thudding hard against my lips. I lick slowly, dragging the frosting from his chest while his hands tighten on my thighs.
“Fuck, Holly,” he rasps.
I smile against him. “Sanitary concerns?”
“None.”
“Good.”
I lick him again, slower this time, because power is a beautiful thing and I have learned to enjoy mine. Daniel groans, one hand sliding into my hair, not forcing, just holding. His cock presses against the open fly of his jeans, hard and thick and very interested in bakery work.
I nip his chest lightly, and he growls. The sound shoots straight through me.
“Careful,” he warns.
“Or what?”
His hand cups the back of my neck, and he tips my face up until our eyes meet. “Or I’ll bend you over this table and make you forget every smart thing you were about to say.”
My breath leaves me before I smile. “That would take a while. I know many smart things.”
His mouth finds my throat, kissing over the claiming mark. “I know. My clever mate. My beautiful, dangerous, sugar-covered trouble.”