Epilogue - Isaac
Four months later.
The second the front door closes behind me, before Jackson can get barely two steps toward the hall, every bit of restraint I pretended to have at the restaurant snaps clean in half.
I grab onto his arm and pull him back toward me before my hands grip the lapels of his suit jacket.
Shoving him gently but firmly, I press his back into the wall beside the door.
His breath leaves him in a surprised laugh, then my mouth is on his as I give in to the hunger that’s been consuming me since the moment I saw him in that damn suit, a hunger that has nothing to do with the dinner we just ate.
It’s messy and wild, nothing like the polite smiles we wore at the restaurant. My fingers slide into his hair, tugging just to the point that has him gasping. His hands land on my waist as I press close, as close as I can get without tearing both our suits off right here in the entryway.
“Fuck,” I rasp against his lips. “You look so fucking hot in a suit.”
His smile is slow, pleased, and maybe a little smug. That only makes me kiss him harder.
We stumble blindly toward the hallway, mouths fused, teeth grazing. Jackson tastes like wine and chocolate and the kind of happiness I’ve been dreaming my whole life to have.
The restaurant we just came from, The Vista, is the only upscale one in Viridian Falls. It had dim lighting, chandeliers, overpriced entrées, and a stunning view of the Viridian River. It was the perfect place to take him to celebrate.
He got his first publication. It was just a small piece, a short story accepted in an indie journal.
But, fuck, I’ve never been more proud of anyone.
Watching him try to hide how much it meant to him, how he kept opening that acceptance email and grinning at his screen when he thought I wasn’t looking, has made my heart feel ten times bigger this past week.
I kiss him again, slower now, my thumb brushing his jaw and tracing the line of his cheekbone.
“Thank you for indulging me tonight,” I murmur, nipping at his lower lip.
He fought me on going out for this, saying it wasn’t worth getting dressed up in suits and making a reservation at The Vista for, but fuck that. He honestly deserves more.
As nervous as I still get going out in public as a couple, we don’t get as many judgmental stares or nasty words whispered in our direction as I always expect us to.
Years ago, I probably wouldn’t have even wanted to brave a public date at all in this town, but I think things might slowly be changing.
Jackson has been shown more kindness in these past several months than he was used to last semester.
Which is good because if anyone ever makes Jackson feel bad for being who he is again, someone else might be going over that damn bridge.
But after everything that happened with Richard Grant, I think people are starting to realize who the true bad guys are.
And that gives me hope.
“I enjoyed showing you off,” I tell him as I continue backing him down the hall. “My brilliant writer. My beautiful man.”
I drag my mouth along his throat, tasting heat and the faint remnants of his cologne. He shivers—fuck, I love that—and I stop again to press him against the wall in the hallway, letting the weight of my body settle against his.
Jackson’s fingers curl in the front of my jacket, dragging me into another kiss, this one deeper. When he pulls back, his pupils are blown wide, his breath unsteady.
“Isaac,” he says, his voice low and warm and trembling in that way that goes straight to my spine. “I want you.”
A slow, dark heat coils low in my stomach as though his want hits me so hard it’s physical.
“It’s your day, sweetheart. That means you get whatever you want.”
Then his mouth crashes into mine again, hungry and reckless, his fingers clutching my suit jacket tight like he’s trying to pull me straight through him.
We’re on the move again, stumbling toward the bedroom, and I can’t help but laugh into the kiss because he’s so beautiful when he wants me like this, when he quits pretending he isn’t on fire beneath that mostly innocent exterior.
At the end of the hall, I press him into the bedroom door because I can’t be bothered to spend the time to open it before needing to feel his body against mine again.
I brace my hands on either side of his head, our breaths sharp and uneven.
His tie is already crooked. Mine is lying somewhere between here and the front door.
He looks ruined and perfect and all mine.
“Fuck,” I growl against his jaw, dragging my teeth along the edge of it as I grind my hips against his, both of us already hard. “You looked so damn good at dinner. I couldn’t fucking think straight.”
He lets out a breathy laugh, rolling his hips. “You kept staring.”
“I didn’t want to stare. I wanted to devour.”
I reach blindly for the knob and turn it. The door opens, and Jackson goes stumbling backward. I hold onto him tight so he doesn’t fall.
We’re both flushed, panting, our suits wrinkled and in disarray.
I step away to flip on the floor lamp in the corner, warm light spilling over the room and over him.
Shrugging out of my jacket, I toss it on top of the dresser before leaning back against the wood.
I cross my arms over my chest and get comfortable.
“Strip.”
“I thought this was supposed to be whatever I want,” he says cheekily.
“Do you want to be in charge?” I ask with an arch of my brow.
He licks his lips and grins. “No, Sir.”
“Good. Strip.”
Removing his jacket, he places it neatly on the small, cushioned bench behind him.
As he works the buttons of his dress shirt, his gaze holds mine, already heavy with lust. He loosens his tie and pulls it off, followed by his shirt.
His nipples harden when they meet the cool air, his breaths coming ragged even now.
I do my best to control my own breathing, staying firmly in the headspace I need to be in.
By the time he has all his clothes off, his cock hangs hard and heavy between his legs, precum already leaking at the slit. My mouth damn near waters at the sight of him standing there in nothing but his collar, and I have to resist the urge to rub myself through my pants.
“Now open the closet,” I order, surprising myself with how deep and raspy my voice already is.
Something in his eyes sparks, his pulse visible in his throat.
He knows what that means.
He turns, giving me a view of his perfect, delicious ass, and I can’t wait to see it in my preferred shade of red.
When he opens the closet, the toys hanging on the inside of the door sway slightly from the movement. It’s a neat row of leather and wood—crops, floggers, paddles, and the slender line of the cane at the far end. His eyes move over them as his hands shake with anticipation.
“Choose one. Bring it to me.”
He hesitates only briefly before he reaches out and runs his fingers along the collection.
He stops at the cane.
Lifting it carefully, he takes it off the hook. He’s seen the twenty-four inch intense impact cane plenty of times before, but he still looks at it as though it’s intimidating.
Turning around, he walks a little unsteadily across the room and stops in front of me, holding the cane between us in both hands. I don’t take it from him right away, instead reaching up and cradling his jaw, my thumb brushing his bottom lip that trembles under my touch.
“You want the cane, sweetheart?” I ask softly, letting the edge of my voice scrape over him.
“Yes, Sir.”
It took Jackson a couple of months to feel comfortable enough to bring back this side to our relationship. I was patient, of course. I never rushed him, and I waited for him to ask for it. He’s so good at that, asking for what he wants.
And he craves the hurt as much as I crave giving it.
Fuck, he hurts so beautifully.
Not with fear or resistance, but with trust. With anticipation. With the kind of surrender that feels like a gift every time he offers it.
And I give him pain because it brings him pleasure. Because it lets him let go, breathe, and feel free in a world that’s taken so much from him. Because with me, he never has to hide the way pain and pleasure twist together until they’re indistinguishable.
But we haven’t used the cane yet.
I’ve caught him peeking at it with curiosity a few times, but I know he’s been working himself up toward it.
“Are you sure?” I ask, leaning in and dropping my voice to a low murmur at his ear. A slow smile curves at the corner of my mouth. Possessive. Hungry. A little bit cruel. “It’s going to hurt like fuck.”
“Yes.” His breath stutters, and his eyes flutter half-closed as he whispers, “I want it, Sir.”
“Then you’ll get exactly what you want.”
I kiss him, deep and claiming and full of promise. When I pull back, I curl my fingers around the handle of the cane and take it from him.
“On the bed. On your knees facing the headboard.”
Jackson shivers, a full-body tremor of anticipation.
Fuck, I love him like this.
I love this.
The heat between us, the trust, the dark thrill blooming under my skin like a second heartbeat. The feel of the cane in my hand, solid, the instrument of Jackson’s ruination and liberation.
He moves and climbs onto the mattress, carefully like he’s afraid he might fall over. He settles on his knees in the center of the bed, his shaky hands in his lap.
My eyes stay glued on the arch of his back, the curve of his spine, as I slowly remove my shirt. I take my time, making him wait and heightening the anticipation. He starts to squirm, and I smirk to myself.
After laying my shirt with my jacket, I approach the foot of the bed. The mattress dips beneath me as I settle behind Jackson with my front pressed to his back.
“Look at you,” I whisper in his ear. “Already trembling. Nervous?”
His lips part. “I’m not…”
I bring the cane around and brush it over his chest, flicking it over his left nipple. He gasps and leans his back against my chest, sinking into the sensations.