Epilogue
Charles
The car glides to a halt, a seamless transition from the chaotic motion of the city to the absolute stillness of my building’s private curb. I let out a long, slow breath, the day’s frustrations crystallizing into a hard, cold knot between my shoulder blades.
I have a pounding headache that’s been throbbing behind my left eye since this afternoon.
“Thank you, Dale,” I say, my voice rough with disuse after a day of meetings that accomplished precisely nothing. “Get home safe. The roads might get slick.”
Dale nods, his gaze meeting mine in the rearview mirror. “Will do, Mr. Thornton. Have a good night.”
I push the door open and step out into the biting air and pause long enough to take in the snow that’s decided to start sprinkling from above.
Fine, feathery flakes drift down from the bruised purple sky, catching the light from the ornate streetlamps. They land soundlessly on the shoulders of my black wool coat, on the pavement.
I tilt my head back for a moment, just a moment, and let the cold kisses melt against my skin.
It’s a momentary balm. A pause. Then, the grumbling engine of my thoughts starts back up.
I nod at the security guard, a new kid named…
Mark? Mike? He gives me a respectful dip of his chin, and I stride past into the marbled silence of the lobby.
The elevator is a capsule of polished brass and warm, muted light. I slide the key—a heavy, cold piece of metal—into its slot and turn. The world drops away, or rather, we soar away from it. The numbers climb, a silent, swift ascension.
He shifts, uncomfortable. Must be my face. Can’t find the strength to even fake a smile if I tried.
Ding.
The doors slide open, and the world shifts from one to another. An escape from the stresses that come with my position to one of utter bliss.
The air in the penthouse is different. Warmer. It smells of… garlic, rosemary, something rich and savory. I shrug off my coat and hang it on the single hook by the elevator as the doors slide back shut, descending back toward the bottom.
“Ellie?” I call out, my voice echoing slightly in the vast, open-plan space.
Silence.
Not an empty silence. A waiting one. I run a hand through my hair, dusting off the melted snow. My work satchel feels like a piece of what is weighing me down so I drop it by the console table, not caring where it lands.
The hunter in me, a part I thought the boardroom had suffocated, stirs. I follow the scent, my footsteps quiet on the polished floor.
The kitchen is awash in the soft, golden light of the pendant lamps. And there she is. My wife. Her attention is drifting over a cookbook. She’s bent down, purposely not looking at me. Not right away. She knows I’m here, she must.
She always greets me with a kiss. This time, she’s greeting me with something different.
She’s wearing a new apron. A light pink with floral designs. There’s already a small stain on it, from her attempt to cook dinner from the looks of it. She must have ordered it online, a small, secret purchase made while I was stolen away by a phone call or two.
The apron isn’t the issue. It’s… cute.
It’s the breathtaking, heart-stopping, blood-rerouting lack of anything beneath it.
The thin straps of the apron are tied in a neat bow at the base of her spine, just above the gentle swell of her backside.
The hem hits her mid-thigh. And that’s all.
Just smooth, bare skin. The elegant line of her back, the delicate curve of her shoulders, the long, beautiful length of her legs. All of it, just… there. For me.
Every ounce of blood in my body, every frustrated thought, every coiled strand of tension abandons its post and heads due south, an immediate migration to my cock. It’s an immediate, painful ache that makes me forget about all of my previous issues.
Finally, she turns, and her face—that face I’d carve empires for and burn cities to protect—lights up. It’s a sunrise in the middle of my perpetual night. “You’re home.”
“I’m home,” I echo, my voice a low gravel. I’m moving toward her without conscious thought, a planet pulled into its sun’s orbit.
“How was work?” she asks, her eyes soft with concern. She’s speaking normally, like she isn’t standing right here looking like the sexiest form of temptation that’s ever come my way.
I don’t answer. I can’t. I’m still drinking her in. The faint flush on her cheeks, the way her bottom lip is caught between her teeth, the slight, nervous tremor in her hands as she abandons the cookbook, all of it… Intoxicating.
“I, um, I asked Jules to take the night off for dinner,” she says, gesturing vaguely toward the oven. “I wanted to make you something. Just… us. Casual.”
Casual. She planned this. This little surprise is a perfect, devastating ambush.
In two long strides, I’m on her. My hands find her hips, and I spin her around, pressing her front against the cool quartz countertop.
My body molds to her back, my erection a hard line against the softness of her ass.
She gasps, a sharp, sweet intake of air, and her hands fly to the counter’s edge to steady herself.
“How long?” I growl into her ear, my lips brushing the delicate shell.
“W-what?” Stumbling on her words, her body defies her, her hips wiggling to get closer. I don’t miss the way she parts her feet, giving me just enough room to step between them.
“The dish. In the oven. How long does it need to bake?” I’m already panting, too eager for this offering of hers.
A shiver wracks her frame as she feels how hard I am for her. “Fifteen… fifteen more minutes.”
Fifteen minutes. A gift.
I grind against her, a slow roll of my hips, and feel it. The hot, slick dampness is already soaking through the front of my trousers. She’s already wet for me. The knowledge is a shot of pure, undiluted power.
“I had a bad day, Ellie,” I murmur, my mouth trailing down the side of her neck as I lean against her. I taste her skin, salt and honey. “A fucking terrible day.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, her head falling forward, giving me better access. Even if she tries to shy away, I don’t miss it, the smile on her lips. She loves my bad days.
My hands slide from her hips, one splaying across her lower belly, pulling her back harder against me, the other working at the fastening of my trousers.
The zipper catches my knuckles, leaving behind a dull sting.
I free myself, fisting my cock, the touch almost painfully good after a day of being constrained.
I’m thick and heavy in my own hand, the tip already glistening.
“Are you ready for my cock?” I can’t even try to contain my hunger. “Is this pretty little cunt ready for me?”
She nods, already panting despite barely being touched.. “Yes. Charles, please.”
I guide myself to her entrance, nudging against her heat. “I love,” I rasp, pushing into her, one slow inch at a time, “coming home to my wife’s pussy already wet and ready for me.”
She cries out as I fill her, a choked, beautiful sound as her inner muscles clench around me, trying to accommodate my size. I don’t give her time to adjust. I set a brutal, driving pace from the start, my hips slapping against the backs of her thighs.
The more I take for myself, the more she arches, her slick already drenching her inner thighs and dripping toward the tile below us.
The pink apron is a ridiculous, yet adorable, contrast to the savage act of what we’re committing. It doesn’t cover her front well enough. As I pound into her, my hand slips beneath the hem, finding the slick, swollen nub of her clit. She jerks against me, a cry tearing from her throat.
“Quiet,” I command, though there’s no one to hear for miles. “Take it. Take all of me.”
My fingers circle her, matching the rhythm of my thrusts.
The kitchen fills with the sound of our ragged breathing, the wet, squelching sounds of my cock moving in and out of her, the occasional thud of my body against hers.
Her knuckles are white where she fists both of them together like a silent prayer.
It’s too much. The visual, the tactile, the auditory symphony of our joining. The coil of my own release tightens, a white-hot wire in my gut.
“Come for me, Ellie,” I snarl, driving into her harder, deeper, my fingers working her clit furiously. “Now.”
Her body seizes. A violent, exquisite tremor that starts where we’re joined and radiates outwards. Her inner walls flutter and clench around my cock in a rapid, milking rhythm, and her cry is a broken, ecstatic thing that echoes off the high ceilings.
It’s what sets me off. My own orgasm detonates, a low growl is ripped from my lungs as I empty myself into her, pulse after blinding pulse, until I’ve got nothing left to give.
I stay buried inside her, my body slumped over hers, both of us panting, slick with sweat.
After a long moment, I slide my hands under her body and help her lift off the counter surface, my softening cock slipping from her as she turns in my arms to face me.
Her legs are shaky. I wrap one arm around her front, the other hand coming up to cradle her throat, not squeezing, just holding.
A point of contact. Bringing her mouth to mine, I swallow down her satisfied sighs.
“Thank you, Ellie.” Murmuring my appreciation, she melts against me as I stroke her chest. At this rate, I’m going to have to carry her to the living room and finish whatever she’s trying to cook.
Her eyes close momentarily, her smile soft. “Was it good?”
“It was incredible.” Moving my mouth to her cheek, I pepper kisses against her skin. “I needed that. Badly.”
A slow, drowsy, utterly satisfied smile spreads across her kiss-swollen lips. She nods, her eyes still hazy. “Francine may have mentioned you were having… a particularly shitty one.”
A groan rumbles in my chest, part exasperation, part profound approval. Of course, my terrifyingly efficient assistant is in cahoots with my deviously brilliant wife. I should give her another raise. A massive one.
I slowly, reluctantly, pull out of her completely, making her sigh at the loss. Tucking my spent, sensitive cock back into my trousers, I fasten them with clumsy fingers. Then I straighten the ridiculous apron, my thumbs smoothing the fabric over her hips.
“I like the apron,” I say, my voice finally my own again, the grumpy edge sanded down to something softer, something only for her. “It’s… cute. We might have to get another one.”
As she lets out a laugh, we’re disturbed by a timer. Those fifteen minutes felt like nothing.
Trading one meal for another, I’m the one to pull out the casserole dish from the oven before I return to her. Plucking her up, she clings with a laugh.
“Need to let it cool off. Let’s get you cleaned up.” Humming my contentment, I carry her off. The thought of getting her clean is already giving way to the temptation of getting her dirty all over again. A challenge, indeed, and one I have no intention of winning.