Epilogue
Marlow
Seven Years Later
I watch through the front window of the house as my husband chases our three sons through the yard, sending them diving into a pile of freshly raked leaves.
The youngest is only a toddler, so it takes him a little bit longer to get there, but he’s a bruiser like his daddy, with a lot of height and padding, meaning he doesn’t hesitate to hurtle himself into the pile with his laughing brothers.
As always, when I watch Eric with the boys, when I witness firsthand what an incredible father he is, I start to get that itch. For another baby.
Which is why I’m wearing the black stockings right now, underneath my sundress.
The stockings. Same ones I was wearing when I met him.
I have every faith that he’ll get the message and enthusiastically agree.
After our third boy, I went on birth control for a while, so I could spend some time furthering my career and Eric could get a foothold in the NHL without worrying about not being there for me, in the event he was on the road when I went into labor.
Ever since I had our first boy, right after senior year of high school, and he witnessed the struggle of childbirth firsthand and nearly fainted every time I screamed, he refuses to be absent while I’m pregnant and vulnerable.
Our second boy was born while he was dominating in front of the goal in college and I was just beginning to make money as an illustrator. Those days were full of pure love and unrivaled lust, even if we were far from financially stable.
All those money troubles have fled now.
Our first apartment could fit into this palatial estate thirty times.
The attic I once lived in is nothing but a speedbump in my rearview, and so are the people who kept me there, convincing me I was evil. After their stint in jail and my ironclad restraining order, I’ve never seen them again. Good riddance.
My heart scales my throat when Eric throws himself into the leaves with his sons, making sure not to land on top of them.
He’s always so careful, so conscious of his size, but no longer even remotely self-conscious about it.
On the contrary. As a professional hockey goalie, he’s revered for his big man status.
And in the bedroom, he’s been given the privileges of a god.
Anything goes. It’s safe to say he’s not only comfortable in his own skin now but proud of how much it turns me on, every second of the day.
I catch Eric’s gaze through the window and send him a flirty wave, biting my lip.
He’s so distracted by the sight of me, he doesn’t see our toddler coming to tackle him, which results in an exaggerated yelp and a round of laughter from the boys.
My heart aches with love.
The love Eric gives me, the safe haven he became that night seven years ago, has allowed me to blossom.
To gain confidence and embrace who I am.
I now have a flourishing career as an erotic illustrator.
Knowing such a job existed seven years ago could have saved me some self-doubt and heartache, but I’m simply happy it allows me to do what I love now.
And I have such an inspiring muse, I think, watching Eric climb out of the pile of leaves and stretch his arms up over his head, drawing up the edge of his T-shirt, giving me a peek at that thick stomach and the trail leading to my favorite meal.
Speaking of which, I haven’t fed on him since yesterday and I’m starving.
Food doesn’t help with this kind of craving.
Funny enough, he’s become as much of an addict as I am. When he is on the road for games or at training camp and he can’t give me my daily loads, he loses his mind a little. By the time he gets home, he practically drowns me in every drop he’s been saving up.
I swallow audibly, my fingers curling into the windowsill.
As if he senses that I’ve grown needy, Eric makes hot eye contact with me through the window and instructs the boys to go play in the backyard.
He closes the gate behind them and secures it with the lock, before ambling to the front door, his shaft already thickening against the front of his jeans when he walks through the door.
“I know what that look in your eye means, Fairy Tale.”
Seven years later, my heart still flutters over that nickname.
“What look?” I ask innocently, breathlessly, twirling a piece of my hair.
He growls while crowding me toward the living room, his hand fisting in my long mane of hair.
“The same look you have every time a few hours pass without my milk.” He urges me close, tilting my head back and stooping down, his mouth sucking its way up the side of my neck, making me moan shamelessly.
“What’s hungrier today, baby? That sexy fucking mouth or that horny little pussy? ”
I start fumbling with his zipper, because the way he speaks to me is so divinely arousing, I can never listen for long without getting desperate for a serving of him. His touch, his smell, the salty pour he gives me on command.
“Pussy,” I whimper, stroking his steel through the opening I’ve created in his jeans. “Hard and deep, please.”
Panting now, he propels me into the hallway that leads to the bedrooms, out of view of the window, stamping his mouth down over mine, kissing me with so much passion that it reaches my soul and I cry out from the emotion, climbing the front of his brick house body until I’m high enough to wrap my legs around his hips.
Eric’s hands are already under my dress, kneading my bare backside, moaning into our kiss to discover me with no panties. But he jolts when he grabs my thighs to open me wider and feels the stockings that stop mid-thigh.
His awed gaze searches out mine and he groans wildly, shoving his cock into me with shaking hands, filling me to the hilt with a strangled sound.
“Oh, hell. Marlow.” A savage thrust rattles my teeth and makes me call for God.
“I’ll have you pregnant in no time. I thought you’d never ask.
” He fucks me so rough, I know he’s forgotten that I’m only a third of his size, but I cling to him, loving every pulse-pounding second.
“What’s the promise I always make before getting you pregnant, baby? Say it and I’ll give you a huge load.”
“No matter how many babies we have, you’re my Daddy first.”
He wedges deep and blows with a hoarse groan, bringing me with him.
Into oblivion.
And a future that dreams are made of.
THE END