Epilogue
It was August, a year and a half after the fiasco in Italy, and Isla was four months pregnant with our first child.
Jesus Christ. I'd never imagined happiness could take up so much space inside me. I didn’t know a man could feel so fulfilled, so deeply rooted in love, so fully surrendered to it. I didn’t know I had it in me—this kind of devotion. This blind, overpowering joy.
Isla’s nausea subsided, but something else had skyrocketed: her sex drive. Jesus fuck, she wanted to have sex all the time—any hour, anyplace—and I gladly participated in it all. Not like we went a day without fucking, but this obliterated anything that happened to us in the past.
We were in New York, getting ready to head to Kirill and Mia's wedding—the event of the century, obviously. Like everything Kirill did, this was over the top and grand. They had something like six or seven hundred guests coming, and the whole event sounded tiring and exhausting.
I wondered why he was pushing for this to be as big as it was planned. A few times, Mia mentioned how the wedding seemed like it was too much.
She and Isla became friends, and when we were in New York, we frequently went out for dinner all together. Like a goddamn double date. Fuck, Kirill and I were living under the heels of our women, but neither he nor I seemed to want anything else.
I sat on the bed and watched Isla clasp her bra in front of the mirror. Her movements were gentle and slow, but my imagination was moving at a much faster pace.
"Actually, wait! I can't wear a bra with this dress,” she groaned. “Damn it. My boobs are so much bigger now. I can't go like this."
That was only half true. While her breast definitely grew a size—magnificently so—she could absolutely go without a bra. I watched her try the dress on, and it looked perfect. Just like her. She was stunning and perfect.
She assessed herself in the mirror in the olive green silk that hugged every inch of her body like it was made for her, but her expression was uncertain.
"Angel,” I murmured, my eyes glued to her. “You look gorgeous. Don't hide your tits away. They're mesmerizing." I spoke the truth. She giggled and turned to saunter over, hips swaying, her smile full of mischief.
"Only if you lick champagne off of them tonight." Her lips brushed mine. "And fuck me in church."
Damn, Isla was a sinner.
I was already lifting up her dress and pulling it over her head while she straddled me, her tongue in my mouth, her pussy grinding on my lap. Hurriedly, she unbuckled my belt and shoved me onto the bed, my blood rushing through me at how needy she was.
I leaned back, helpless under her spell as she pulled down my boxers and licked up my hard cock, moaning loudly, like she’d been starved.
My mind floating and my soul fulfilled, Isla did it so well, rendering me desperate for her—for all eternity. She fucking swallowed my cock down her throat, doing it again and again until I wasn't sure where I was anymore. Maybe in heaven.
In a minute, I was propped up against the headboard, and Isla climbed onto me, her back to my chest. The view—her hourglass silhouette, the curve of her hips, the way her body moved—was fucking obscene.
Fuck, she was so good at this, bouncing up and down on my cock fast, then slow, drawing out the last of my self-restraint. Her voice—her moans of pleasure awakened something primal inside me. I pulled her back into me, one hand on her tits and the other at her throat.
"Fuck..." she drawled, and I was instantly reminded of one of the first times we had sex, after which my life changed forever.
"Say it, baby." I breathed into her ear, my hands guiding her rhythm. Her mesmerizing pussy slid up and down on my hard cock, the connection between us unbreakable. "Call me by that name, moya devochka."
"Fuck, Daddy! Your cock feels so fucking good!" she cried out, her voice breaking just as I tightened my grip on her throat. Her actions became rougher, hurtling us both closer to the edge.
"That's right, Angel," I groaned. “That’s it, baby.” I was quickly becoming delirious, greedily drinking in her energy.
Everything with her was so good. Exceptional, incomparable, delectable, compelling, meaningful, alive. She was life itself.
One thought tripped over another, but the only thing I had clear in my head and in my eyes was how much I loved Isla.
My treasure. My Angel. My girl.
Thank you so much for reading Roman and Isla's story!