Epilogue
Claire
Five Years Later
We never figured out how or why I taste so dang good, both my mouth and my sex.
But there ended up being a twist.
Every time my mouth is kissed by my husband, it tastes a little sweeter next time.
If Draven comes in my mouth, which he does frequently and at my fervent request, the flavor profile increases in potency twofold.
And, you guessed it, every time Draven makes love to me, the taste between my legs gets even more succulent.
My gift has been great for our restaurant, Ambrosia Girl, a sprawling, French-infusion restaurant perched on a clifftop in Maine.
If only we could stop making love long enough to run the place.
We’ve barely finished prepping the kitchen for the day and Draven has me outside, backed up against the side of the restaurant, my skirt jerked up around my hips as he fucks me like an animal, the loud waves crashing at the base of the cliff doing nothing to drown out gratified moans.
“Customers are going to arrive any second,” I hiccup, my back raking up and down the wall, his thickness filling me in deep, savage strokes, one after the other, his hips driving up, up, up.
“They can wait while I bang my little girl,” he grunts, his eyes eclipsed with the black of his pupils.
And he zeroes in on my mouth, kissing me with a deep lick of his tongue, his breath hitching in disbelief at the taste, his chest heaving up and down dramatically.
“Oh Jesus, it gets better every day. Every fucking day. Eventually you will kill me.”
“Don’t say that,” I gasp, my back teeth clenched to keep them from clacking together.
“I would die happy, though, just like this,” he says, the pitch of his voice deepening. Darkening. His thrusts turning aggressive. “Buried in this million-dollar cunt with that mouth ripe for tasting. Goddammit, does my wife keep me fed.”
I can’t respond, because I’m being thrown down on the grassy cliff and brutalized in the most welcome of ways, my thighs open for his sweet violence.
I have no air to breathe because his hand is choking it off and this…
this is when my clit begins to tingle and throb, his wet shaft riding so deliciously over the sensitive nub, Daddy’s hips rifling between my legs, his eyes looking down on me with a demand to endure the pain that comes right before the pleasure breaks—and I do.
I feel the tremble in my tummy. The obscene tickle.
A pooling of wetness where our bodies are locked in a rough fuck.
My consciousness begins to sparkle at the edges, and looking up at the overcast sky, I think of our life.
How perfect every day has been since we ran away from Tartine and left the fear, the guilt, the past behind.
How the truth about Draven’s mother truly set him free, once and for all, along with the imprisonment of his brother.
We started over in Maine, our first son born a year later, followed by his brother.
They are napping in the nursery now, located on the second floor of the restaurant.
There is a full-time nanny during business hours, but I often leave the kitchen to go play with them or bring them for a walk along the epic coastline we call home.
The nights, however, belong to my husband.
Daddy is insatiable and only becomes more so as the years pass.
As my taste turns more potent. More starvation-inducing.
I crave the brutish force he uses on me when his body loves mine, as it does now, his much larger body sating itself in a frenzy on top of me, before turning my body over in the grass and shoving his erection into me from behind, my cheek raking up and back in the grass.
“I love you, God, I love you. God. I love you,” he chants in my ear. “But you and this brat hole make a fucking mockery out of my self-control. How do you keep it so tight when I fuck you every goddamn night?”
“Magic,” I whisper, enduring my pounding, my eyes rolling back in my head when he reaches beneath me to fondle my clit, teasing it to a swollen throb. “It’s all for my Daddy.”
“It sure is, baby. Ohhhhh.” He pauses when he’s deep and grinds, his body jolting with the oncoming satisfaction. Anticipation. “Oh, that is too sweet. My come is dribbling out. Feel it?”
I rub my sex on his slippery fingers, that tugging sensation in my belly getting stronger, mightier. And he loves the movement of my smaller body beneath his, groaning as he takes me with renewed vigor, our groans mingling. Getting louder.
I mewl and wet his fingers with my climax, my tummy in a blissful twist as I release and release, pinned to the ground, but somehow also soaring up in the clouds.
On top of me, his stomach smacks into my ass one final time, and he shudders, filling me with sticky spend.
Panting, thrusting, and firing more sperm between my thighs, more, more, his voice raw from cursing by the time he’s done.
“You are such a good little girl,” he rasps into my hair, his hand smoothing up and over the curve of my behind, kneading the cheek.
“You make it easy.”
“No.” He turns me over and gazes down at me with all the love in his heart. “You make every single day worth living, Claire. I want to live a million more of them with you.”
I giggle. “Think of how good I’ll taste by then.”
Our laughter drifts along the cliffs and continues for decades to come.
THE END