Epilogue #2
I give her more—one slow inch, then another, watching in the mirror as her mouth falls open wider, glancing down to watch as her body stretches and yields and takes me in.
I have to pause, breathing hard, because the sight of my wife opening for me like this threatens to undo every shred of control I possess.
“More,” she gasps, pushing back against me, and I oblige, pressing deeper until I’m fully seated inside her, until there’s no space left between us at all. My hips are flush against her ass, the toy buried to the base, and she’s making these small, desperate sounds that go straight to my clit.
“God, Eva—” she breathes, and I can feel her bouncing slightly on the toy, back and forth, can see the flush spreading down her throat in the reflection.
I withdraw almost completely before thrusting back in, harder this time, deep enough to make her cry out.
She laughs, breathless, reckless, and the sound breaks into a moan she can’t swallow. I drive another stroke into her, then another, building a rhythm that belongs to us and only us. Tight, controlled—then a little cruel, making her pant and moan.
I hook an arm around her waist and lever her up, keeping her full of me as I pull her back against my chest, the toy still buried deep inside her.
Her head drops back on my shoulder with a broken sound that I feel everywhere.
The bodice of her gown bites into my forearms; I palm her breasts roughly, feeling her nipples harden as I thrust up into her from this new angle.
“Look,” I command softly, and tip her chin with my knuckles.
She sees it all. The white of the dress rucked high around her waist. The way I am inside her without mercy and with every ounce of devotion I own.
“Mine,” I say against her damp temple. “Say it.”
“Yours,” she gasps. “Always, Eva—always?—”
I answer with a slow, deep stroke that wrings the vow out of her again.
Always .
“Eva, please,” she whispers, and the please turns into my name the way a flame turns into a blaze.
I pull up her skirts impatiently at the front, let her watch my hand slide into those ivory panties as I set a bruising pace and hold her steady while I take her apart.
Hard, fast strokes that make her voice break into fractured sounds.
The wet sound of the toy driving in and out of her soaked pussy fills the room.
“That’s it,” I pant against her ear. “Take it. Take all of me.”
She does—she takes everything I give her and begs for more with every gasping breath.
Her hands falter on the silk; the skirts slide, and I catch them with one hand without breaking rhythm, fist tangled in the white, hauling it up again so there is no question about how I want my bride displayed.
My other hand keeps circling her clit as I continue fucking her.
Her thighs are shaking, her whole body trembling with the effort of staying upright, of taking everything I’m giving her.
“Good wife,” I purr into her neck, and feel her shiver on the words.
“Say it again,” she begs.
I drag the words along the rim of her ear, into her throat, into the tender places I intend to worship later. “Good. Wife.”
She’s shaking—pleasure, effort, the ache of being seen this completely. I let go of the skirt, slide my hand down to her belly, and press her tighter to me, my hand clenched around her cunt until her body has no choice but to answer.
“Eyes on me,” I demand, and she meets my gaze in the mirror just before the climax takes her.
It’s not dainty. It’s a storm that breaks.
She calls out my name and I hold her through it, through her trembling and shaking as wave after wave crashes through her.
When she thinks she’s done, I shift my angle slightly and thrust once more, grinding deep, and she cries out again—a broken, desperate sound—as another orgasm tears through her before the first has even finished.
“Eva, I can’t—oh God?—”
“Yes, you can,” I murmur, ruthless, keeping up the pressure, the rhythm, my fingers working her clit in tight circles while I fuck her through the aftershocks and chase my own high.
But my orgasm is still not as sweet as watching hers. I wring every last tremor from her until she’s limp and pleading for mercy and utterly wrecked in my arms.
Then I ease her down.
She folds onto her forearms with a gasp, breathing hard, the skirts sliding from her hands in a soft avalanche. I drink in the sight of her—my wife—ruined and resplendent, the dress askew, her hair tumbling around her face and breasts.
“You’re impossible,” she says into the linens, laughing, wrecked.
“You married me,” I remind her, smoothing a palm over her spine, straightening the gown, a tenderness at odds with what I’ve just done.
But it feels right.
I disengage the harness and let the toy fall to the ground. Robin rolls to her side and reaches for me, catching me by the wrist and pulling me down until we’re an untidy knot of limbs and satin and heat. I kiss her mouth, slow now, a wordless promise.
“I love you,” I murmur.
Her eyes shine. “Say it again.”
“No,” I say, and she swats me, laughing, and I swallow the laugh with another kiss until it turns into something that isn’t laughter at all.
We spill sideways across the bed as she demands I tell her, but her words dissolve into incoherent sounds as I work my fingers inside her now, feeling how drenched she is, how her body clenches around me despite herself, how impossibly tight and hot she is around me.
“Too much?” I ask against her ear, ready to ease off if she needs me to.
“No—don’t stop—please don’t stop?—”
I curl my other palm around her throat, not to hold, only to remind. Of who we are to each other. Of who she is to me. Her pulse flutters against my hand. Her breath goes jagged.
“Again?” I ask, my mouth at her ear.
She nods helplessly. “Yes. Please.”
“Greedy,” I murmur. “I love it. I love you . I never thought I’d believe in forever,” I say into the soft place below her ear. “But here you are.”
She smiles, eyes closing. “Then show me forever again.”
I do. Slow, thorough, shamelessly tender. I map every inch we rushed past, and go back to worship it properly. Her hands in my hair. My mouth on her skin. The night sliding by outside the windows while the candles gutter down to stubs, and still I’m not done proving the point.
When we finally lie quiet, sweat-damp and exhausted, she turns her face to me on the pillow.
“Mrs. Novak,” she says, testing the shape of it.
“Mrs. Novak,” I agree, and let my hand rest over her heart to feel what I have been gifted.
She smiles. “Forever.”
I kiss her one more time—lazy, grateful, victorious—and gather her close.
“Forever,” I tell her.