Epilogue Rae
EPILOGUE
Rae
NOVEMBER
“WHY DID WE DECIDE to do this again?” I ask Grant from the warmth of the massive bed he insisted on getting and then adding all kinds of bells and whistles to.
It’s silly to have so many restraints because we can always go to the club, but actually, Sunday morning is kind of my favorite time to be kinky. So I’m not complaining.
“To celebrate.” His smile’s wide and warm and so familiar now that it’s less of an ache when I see it and just pure joy.
“Ugh, Thanksgiving.”
“You love Thanksgiving.”
He’s right. I do love it. The way I love every single opportunity to celebrate.
“But I also love this.” I lean in and kiss the side of his pec, a ridiculous bulge of muscle, tipped with its even more ridiculous tight brown nipple.
I say ridiculous, but really I mean wonderful. Beautiful, perfect, divine.
“And I love this too.”
“You do?” I ask, bending to kiss the slightly furred center of his abs and then lower, to where the hair gathers darker and curlier, right at the base of his absolutely glorious cock. “What about this?” I ask, letting my breath play along his shaft until it’s again at full-mast.
I say again because we have just literally finished what Grant calls making love and I call a good, hard fucking. Mostly to mess with him.
“I know you love that, you little brat.”
“Do you? How?”
“Because you let me put it deep inside you.”
“Mmmmmm. What else?”
“You let me fuck you with it. Tease you.”
With a sigh, I lick gently up the length and force myself to hover at the tip, tenderly stroking with my mouth. “How else do you know?” I ask, already squirming with the desire to give and take and feel, feel, feel. I am constantly ravenous for this man.
And he knows it.
“I know, sweet girl, because when I do this…” He slides his fingers into my hair, and with a moan, I pull back just enough to show him I like it. “And this.” Grasping himself at the base, he feeds his long, hard cock inside my mouth, holding me in place.
For a few beats, I let the taste and smell of him—of us—overwhelm me.
The feel of him, thrumming hard and thick against my tongue, the heft of him so perfect for my body.
He pushes deep, and I struggle to open my eyes and meet his, watching him watch me in the perfect feedback loop we always create.
Once he’s firmly rooted inside me and I’m close to tearing up from how good it feels, he says, “You take it like the good little sub you are. Don’t you?”
And I do my best to nod. Because I do love this and want it and also… we’ve only got, like, thirty minutes before people start arriving, and my dad is always early, and—
“Whoa, whoa, whoa…”
“What?” I ask as he pulls back. “I didn’t stop. Why are we stopping?”
“I heard car doors.”
“No! No, dammit! Tell them I am sucking my man’s cock, and I am not to be disturbed. Come here.”
He backs away, taking his absolutely glorious erection—still wet from my mouth—with him and rolls off the bed. “Can’t, sweetheart. Let’s go.”
I pout. Which is a thing I do now. He loves it. I kinda like it too, in a sceneing kind of way. Honestly, outside of playing, I have absolutely no reason to pout. The man is…
“You’re amazing,” I say.
“No, you are.”
“Stop it. Let me compliment you, Grant. Take it gracefully.”
“Fine. Thank you.” He gives my body one last, lingering look. “Now get up and shower. You smell like sex.”
“You smell like sex.”
“Which is why I’m showering.”
“What about Dad?”
“Are you saying you haven’t given him a key yet?”
It is a valid question. I have, after all, given keys to Sam and to Hannah. Malika and Dorothy also both have keys, as do Lucas and Harlow.
“No. I draw the line at him walking in on us. I mean… ew. It was enough to have to see Ms. Barcom-Tancredi in her underwear.”
“Laura.”
“Whatever. You didn’t know her before.” I follow him into the enormous dual-head rain shower that literally doesn’t even seem like it should be in a home.
It’s like a spa in here. Or a hotel or something.
He turns on the water, and I just stand here, and the sprays do pretty much the rest. Including the one at waist level that the man utilizes for wicked, wicked things. “This is like a car wash for humans.”
“Don’t complain.” He soaps up his hand and laughs. “You do know that I’m the one who washes you in here, right?”
“You mean it’s not a built-in robot?”
“Nope. Just your man.”
I sigh. My man. Oh my god. He really is my man. Which is wild. And beautiful. And…
“What? What is it? Are you crying?”
“Just hormonal. You know how it is.” And I always miss Mom in the fall.
“I do, sweetheart. I do.” He wraps his arms around me and pulls my back tight against his front. “I love you,” he whispers into my ear, “but I can hear your dad talking down there. And I swear if he walks into this bathroom right now, there will be words.”
“Didn’t you just suggest I give him a key?”
“Suggest it? No.” He’s grinning. “This is how rumors start.”
“You said I should give him a key.”
“I said I thought you already had.”
“Oh. Hm. Well, I won’t.”
“Thank god.”
“Crap. Is that him on the steps? I’m going!”
I race to get dressed and swipe on mascara before heading downstairs to find literally a dozen people here. And four animals.
“Hey, hon!” Dorothy calls from the living room, where she’s pouring champagne into the glasses I set out earlier. “I let your dad in.”
My dad and Laura are in the kitchen, covering the counter with pies. “I brought the bananas!” Dad yells.
Otty and Hannah and the kids swarm in. Sam is here, and also Harlow with her Frenchie, Augustus, who, along with Malika and Dorothy’s dog, McGruntcakes, are a perfect buffer between Hannah’s kids and the cats.
The only ones missing today are Lucas, and Rachel, who sold the home she had with Dane and took off to Europe, funded in part by her mother, who was more than happy to see her sow her wild oats.
Go on and get some European action, girl.
After being married to that creep, I’d say the woman deserves a break.
Grant’s mother, who came to visit us for a week last summer, decided to stay in Florida. I honestly think it’s best for everyone. We are a lot, and she’s clearly had her fill. She likes a quiet home. Without animals. Preferably without mess.
Oh, and we don’t talk about Schaffer at all anymore. But I’ll leave that story for another day. Also, we do not discuss kink with my dad here. I mean, he possibly knows, given the club and all, but… I’d rather the two never shall mix.
What we do talk about is work and theater and how Grant spends every weekend building things for our house.
First, there were the ceiling-high library bookshelves, complete with ladder, that I’d fallen in love with.
He then refinished a stunning apothecary cabinet for my itty-bitty book-nook supplies.
Now he’s putting a mini screen porch on my workshop, which I told him was overkill.
What can I do, though? The man lives to make me happy.
We talk about our animals and the kids’ teeth, and how great Dad sang “Mr. Cellophane” in the recent production of Chicago.
Otty has given up music and started working in this really fancy French place over in Charlottesville, and…
yeah, I think Devil Cat’s expecting kittens.
“You were both amazing,” I tell Laura every time I see her. Because it’s true. Chicago was really good.
And though she’s not my mom—and she’ll never replace her, either here or onstage or in my heart or anywhere else—she makes my father happy.
The way Grant makes me happy.
In a home way. In a real way. In the way that good couples don’t complete each other but lift each other up.
What we have gives me hope.
So when I look around and see Otty yawn and check her phone for the millionth time, and Sam, separate from what’s actually happening in the room, surreptitiously grimacing at the kids, and Hannah sitting in the corner, downing her third glass and looking as strained and exhausted as I’ve ever seen her, I have hope.
Maybe they’ll find love too.
I know they will. Seriously. The world had better provide. I refuse to take no for an answer.