Epilogue
Livie
Three months later, I'm sorting through a stack of clients' files at my desk in the salon when the bell above the door jingles. I don't look up immediately, focused on organizing tomorrow's appointments.
"Be with you in just a second," I call out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
The door locks with a decisive click. That sound—that familiar, promising sound—sends a shiver racing down my spine. I raise my head slowly, knowing exactly who I'll find.
Greyson stands there, leather cut over a black t-shirt that stretches across his broad shoulders, jeans riding low on his hips. His eyes meet mine with an intensity that still takes my breath away, even after everything we've been through together.
"Busy?" he asks, his voice a low rumble that I feel more than hear.
I glance at the clock. Thirty minutes until my next appointment. "Not too busy for you."
He moves toward me with predatory grace, the look in his eyes making my pulse quicken. We've healed in these months since Volkov, finding our way back to each other, back to ourselves. The nightmares have faded, replaced by dreams of a future we're building together.
"I missed you this morning." He rounds my desk and turns my chair to face him. "You left before I woke up."
"Early client," I explain, breath catching as he drops to his knees before me. "What are you doing?"
His hands slide up my thighs, pushing my skirt higher. "What does it look like I'm doing?"
"Greyson," I protest weakly, glancing toward the locked door. "I have clients coming."
"Thirty minutes," he counters, having clearly checked the appointment book. His fingers hook into my panties, dragging them down my legs. "More than enough time for what I have in mind."
Before I can argue further, he spreads my thighs, his mouth finding me. The first stroke of his tongue has me arching in the chair, fingers gripping the armrests.
"Someone might hear." I gasp, even as my body betrays me, hips tilting to give him better access.
He pauses just long enough to murmur against my sensitive flesh, "Then they'll hear how much I worship you." With that, he returns to his task with single-minded focus.
My head falls back as he devours me, his tongue tracing patterns that have become both familiar and thrilling. He knows my body now, knows exactly how to build me up, how to push me to the edge without letting me fall.
"Please," I whimper, one hand tangling in his hair.
He responds by sliding two fingers inside me, curling them to find that spot that makes stars explode behind my eyelids. My thighs begin to tremble as tension coils tighter in my core.
"That's it," he encourages between deliberate strokes of his tongue. "Let go for me, Livie. Let me taste how much you want this."
The combination of his words, his fingers, his mouth, is too much. I come apart with a muffled cry, my body convulsing around his fingers as waves of pleasure wash over me.
He works me through it, drawing out my release until I'm gasping his name, tugging at his hair to pull him up to me. When he rises, his eyes are dark with desire, his mouth glistening with evidence of my pleasure.
"Turn around," he commands, already unbuckling his belt.
I obey without hesitation, bracing my hands on the desk as I hear the metallic sound of his zipper lowering. His hand presses between my shoulder blades, bending me forward until my cheek rests against the cool surface.
"Mine," he growls, positioning himself at my entrance. "Say it."
"Yours," I breathe, the word both a surrender and a claim. "Always yours."
He enters me in one powerful thrust, filling me completely. The fullness is exquisite, a perfect joining that still takes my breath away every time.
"I love you." His voice is rough with emotion as he begins to move. "Every day more than the last."
His pace is measured but relentless, each thrust driving me higher despite having just come undone moments before. One hand grips my hip, and the other slides beneath me to find my center again.
"Greyson," I gasp as a second climax builds impossibly fast. "I can't—"
"You can," he insists, his rhythm faltering as his own release approaches. "One more. Together."
His fingers press harder, his thrusts deepen, and suddenly I'm falling again, clenching around him as pleasure crashes through me. He follows immediately, my name a broken whisper on his lips as he empties himself inside me.
For long moments afterward, we remain joined, his body draped over mine as our breathing gradually slows. When he finally straightens, helping me upright with gentle hands, his expression has softened to something tender and vulnerable.
"I meant what I said," he murmurs, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "I love you more every day."
"I love you too," I reply, leaning into his touch. "Even when you make me risk traumatizing my clients."
He laughs, the sound warming me from the inside out. These moments of lightness, of joy—they're precious to us both after the darkness we've survived.
As he helps me straighten my clothes, his hands linger on my hips, unwilling to break contact completely. "Dinner tonight? I thought we could try that new place by the water."
"It's a date," I agree, reaching up to press a kiss to his jaw. "Now go, before I get fired for improper use of salon facilities."
He grins, that devastating smile that still makes my heart skip a beat. "Worth it."
After one final kiss, he unlocks the door and slips out, leaving me to collect myself before my next client arrives. I smooth my skirt, check my reflection in the small mirror on my desk, and take a deep breath.
My phone buzzes with a text message. Greyson, of course.
Already counting the minutes until dinner. And dessert after.
I smile, typing back, Insatiable.
His response is immediate. Only for you. Always for you.
I tuck the phone away as the bell above the door jingles again, this time announcing my three-o'clock appointment. As I greet her with a professional smile, I can't help but think about how far we've come. From nightmares and terror to this rich, full life we're building together.
Some scars remain, invisible but present. Moments when a sudden noise makes me jump, nights when Greyson wakes reaching for weapons that aren't there. But we heal a little more each day, finding strength in each other that neither of us knew we possessed.
And in moments like today—stolen passion in my office, promises of dinner and forever—I'm reminded that what we have is worth every battle we fought to protect.
* * *
I leave the salon, practically floating on air despite the lingering soreness in my ankle that still flares up occasionally. The evening air carries the scent of autumn, crisp leaves and woodsmoke, as I make my way to my car.
My phone buzzes with another message from Greyson. Wear something nice. Special night.
I smile, wondering what he's planning. With Greyson, "special" could mean anything from a candlelit dinner to a midnight ride along the coast. Whatever it is, I'm looking forward to it.
At home, I take extra time getting ready, selecting a deep burgundy dress that Greyson once said brought out the fire in my eyes. As I'm applying the final touches to my makeup, headlights sweep across the bedroom window. Greyson has arrived to pick me up.
He's standing outside the door when I open it, breathtaking in a charcoal button-down and dark jeans, his hair slightly tousled as if he's been running his hands through it nervously.
"You look beautiful." He sounds almost reverent as he takes me in.
* * *
The restaurant is intimate, tucked away on a cliff overlooking the water. Our table sits by a window with a perfect view of the sunset, painting the ocean in shades of gold and crimson. Throughout dinner, Greyson seems distracted, his hand repeatedly touching the inside pocket of his jacket.
"Is everything okay?" I finally ask as our dessert arrives.
"Perfect," he assures me, reaching across the table to take my hand. "Just thinking about how far we've come."
After dinner, instead of heading to the car, he leads me down the path to a secluded overlook. The moon has risen, casting silver light across the waves below.
"I wanted privacy for this," he says, turning to face me, his expression suddenly serious.
My heart begins to race as he takes both my hands in his.
"Livie," he begins, his voice low and intense, "when I thought I might lose you that night with Volkov, I realized something. I realized that life without you isn't something I can face. Not ever."
He drops to one knee, still holding my hands, and my breath catches in my throat.
"You are the strongest, most beautiful soul I've ever known," he continues, reaching into his pocket to withdraw a small velvet box. "You faced down hell itself and came out fighting. You've seen the darkest parts of me and loved me anyway."
He opens the box, revealing a stunning vintage ring. A large oval diamond surrounded by smaller stones that catch the moonlight and throw it back in brilliant flashes.
"This was my grandmother's," he explains, his voice rough with emotion. "She made me promise I'd only give it to someone who owned my heart completely."
Tears blur my vision as he takes the ring from its velvet nest.
"Olivia Bennett, will you marry me? Will you be my wife, my partner, my forever?"
"Yes," I whisper, then louder, "yes, Greyson. A thousand times yes."
His hand trembles slightly as he slides the ring onto my finger. When he rises, I throw my arms around his neck, and he lifts me off my feet, spinning us in a circle of pure joy.
"I love you," he murmurs against my lips before claiming them in a kiss that promises forever.
When he sets me down, I can't stop staring at the ring on my finger—tangible proof of our commitment, our future.
"It's beautiful," I breathe.