Epilogue #3
Then his mouth found mine again.
We undressed slowly, not because we were uncertain, but because there was no need to steal from time anymore.
His sweater. My skirt. His shirt. My boots.
His boots. Layers fell onto the braided rug beside the bed until there was nothing left between us but skin, lamplight, and the old scars we no longer had to hide.
His bullet scar had faded over the year, but I still touched it every time like proof.
He closed his eyes when my fingers found it.
“Does it hurt?” I whispered.
“Not tonight.”
“Truth.”
His eyes opened. “Ache sometimes. Not tonight.”
I bent and kissed the scar.
His breath caught.
I loved that I could still do that to him. That after everything, after months of learning each other in ordinary rooms and stolen mornings, I could still make Dylan Degan look shaken with one soft touch.
His hand slid into my hair.
Slow.
Reverent.
“I used to dream about this,” he said.
“Cal’s guest room?”
That got me a smile. “You.”
My throat tightened.
He brushed his thumb over my cheek. “Not like this, though.”
“No?”
“No.” His gaze moved over my face. “In the dreams, I was always losing you.”
I covered his hand with mine.
“You’re not losing me tonight.”
His eyes darkened.
“No,” he said. “I’m not.”
The bed dipped beneath us.
The blue quilt was cool against my bare back as Dylan came over me, his body warm and solid and careful.
I opened my thighs for him without thinking, welcoming the weight of him settling between them.
His cock was thick and hard against my inner thigh, and the feel of it sent a fresh pulse of heat low in my belly.
He kissed me deeply, tongue stroking mine, while one hand slid between us. His fingers parted me, found me already slick and aching, and circled my clit with slow, deliberate pressure that made my hips lift.
“So wet,” he murmured against my mouth. “God, Destiny… you feel so ready for me.”
I was. I had been since the moment he slipped that ring on my finger in the snow.
I reached down and wrapped my hand around him, stroking once, twice, feeling the hot, silky weight of him. He groaned, forehead dropping to mine.
“Please,” I whispered.
He didn’t make me ask twice.
He notched himself at my entrance and pushed in slowly—inch by thick, perfect inch—stretching me open around him.
The sensation was exquisite: the deep, delicious fullness, the way my body had to yield to take all of him, the way every nerve ending lit up as he filled me completely.
I gasped, nails digging into his shoulders, and he paused, breathing hard, giving me time to adjust even though I could feel how badly he wanted to move.
“You okay?” he asked, voice strained.
“Better than okay,” I breathed. “You feel… so good. So full.”
That seemed to undo something in him. He kissed me hard and began to move—slow, deep strokes that dragged along every sensitive place inside me.
Each thrust sent sparks racing up my spine.
The angle was perfect, the friction exactly what I needed.
I wrapped my legs around his hips, heels pressing into the backs of his thighs, urging him deeper.
We touched when he caught my hand and laced our fingers together above my head. The soft clink of metal sent a fresh wave of emotion through me.
“My wife,” he whispered against my lips.
“Not yet,” I managed, half-laughing, half-moaning as he thrust again, hitting that spot that made my toes curl.
“My soon,” he corrected, voice rough.
The word, the way he said it while buried inside me, nearly broke me open.
He moved with steady, powerful strokes, careful of his side but not holding back the heat between us. I could feel every inch of him—hot, hard, sliding in and out of my slick heat. My inner walls fluttered around him with every deep push, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter low in my belly.
“Dylan…” His name came out on a gasp.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, releasing my hand so he could slide his thumb over my clit again in tight, perfect circles. “Let me feel you come, beautiful. Come on my cock.”
The filthy tenderness in his voice, the relentless pressure of his thumb, the way he filled me so completely—it was too much.
The coil inside me snapped. Pleasure crashed through me in hot, pulsing waves.
I cried out, back arching, thighs shaking as I clenched and fluttered around him, coming so hard I saw stars behind my closed eyes.
He groaned at the feel of me pulsing around him and thrust deeper, chasing his own release.
I held him through it, hands in his hair, legs locked around him, whispering his name like a prayer as he buried himself to the hilt and came with a low, broken sound.
I felt the hot, rhythmic pulse of him spilling inside me, and it sent another small, sweet aftershock rolling through my body.
For a long moment we stayed locked together, breathing hard, skin damp, hearts pounding against each other.
He was careful not to put too much weight on me, but he didn’t pull away.
I didn’t want him to. I loved the feeling of him still inside me, softening slowly, the intimate mess of us, the way his breath warmed my neck.
When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were soft and a little dazed.
“Hi,” he whispered.
I smiled, still catching my breath. “Hi.”
He kissed me slowly, sweetly, then carefully shifted to his side, bringing me with him so we stayed connected, tangled beneath the blue quilt. His hand stroked down my back, over the curve of my hip, soothing and possessive at once.
Outside, snow tapped softly against the window.
Downstairs, our family laughed and argued and probably kept Nate away from the staircase by force.
Upstairs, I lay in Dylan’s arms with the steady thump of his heart under my cheek and the delicious, satisfied ache between my legs.
This was what it felt like to be loved by him.
Not just wanted.
Loved.
When the world finally went quiet around us, I was wrapped in his arms beneath the blue quilt, my cheek against his chest, my ring hand resting over his heart. He traced lazy circles over my shoulder, his breathing still uneven.
For a long time, neither of us spoke.
Then I whispered, “This room is never going to feel innocent again.”
His laugh rumbled under my ear.
“Cal’s going to know.”
“Cal knows everything.”
“Edge too.”
I groaned.
Dylan kissed my hair. “Regan definitely knows.”
“She probably lit the candle.”
“She absolutely lit the candle.”
I lifted my head and looked at him.
His face was softer in the lamplight, the hard edges eased by exhaustion and happiness. He looked like a man who had survived his own worst instincts and still couldn’t quite believe joy had waited for him on the other side.
“We’re really doing this,” I said.
His hand rose to my cheek.
“Yeah.”
“Marriage.”
“Yeah.”
“Family holidays.”
“Yeah.”
“Lily crying at the wedding and Cupcake possibly attacking the veil.”
“Definitely.”
“Nate giving a toast no one asked for.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Edge threatening you before, during, and after the ceremony.”
“Expected.”
“Regan crying so hard she dehydrates.”
“I’ll bring electrolytes.”
I laughed.
Then the laughter faded into something quieter.
“And the house?” I asked.
His gaze held mine.
“The house waits,” he said. “No pressure. No deadline. No big dramatic move because I put a ring on your finger.”
My heart softened.
“But someday?” I whispered.
His thumb brushed my cheek.
“Someday, if you want it.”
I looked toward the window, where snow blurred the dark glass and the ranch beyond it.
Someday.
The word did not scare me anymore.
Not like it used to.
Maybe because Dylan no longer said it like a trap. Maybe because I had finally learned that choosing a life with someone did not mean losing myself inside it.
I settled back against him.
“Someday,” I said.
His arms tightened around me.
Not too much.
Just enough.
Downstairs, someone shouted. Nate, probably.
Then Lily yelled something back.
Then Cal’s voice thundered through the house, “If that cat scratches my sofa, somebody’s sleeping in the barn.”
Dylan and I went still.
A second later, we both started laughing.
Quietly at first.
Then harder.
The kind of laughter that shook the bed and made him wince and made me scold him and made him kiss me just to shut me up.
When the laughter faded, I lay there listening to his heartbeat.
Alive.
Steady.
Here.
The girl from the fire had survived.
The woman she became had said yes beneath snow and stars.
And the story ahead of us was no longer written in smoke.
It was written in candlelight, blue quilts, family chaos downstairs, a ring made of turquoise and pearl, and the steady, stubborn miracle of later.