Epilogue
. . .
Sharon
Two years later
Two years later, and his touch still lights me up like a Vegas marquee.
We're tangled in the sheets of our bedroom—not the penthouse anymore but a sprawling estate outside the city with security that would make Fort Knox jealous.
Fabio's hands are everywhere, his mouth hot against my neck, whispering filthy promises that make me arch against him like a cat.
His business has grown, his power expanded, but here, in our bed, nothing's changed.
He still looks at me like I'm the miracle he never expected.
Still touches me like he's afraid I might disappear.
Still claims me with a desperation that should have faded by now but somehow only burns hotter with time.
"Turn over," he commands, voice rough with need. "I want to see that perfect ass."
I comply, rolling onto my stomach, looking back at him over my shoulder. His eyes devour me—hungry, possessive, adoring. Two years of marriage, and that look still makes me wet instantly.
He grips my hips, lifts them, positions me on my knees before him. His hand strokes down my spine, over the curve of my ass, between my thighs where I'm already slick for him.
"So ready for me," he murmurs approvingly. "Always so ready."
His fingers push inside me, testing, stretching, preparing. I moan, pressing back against his hand, wanting more. Always more.
"You know what I want?" His voice drops lower, becomes a growl that vibrates through me. "I want to breed you, angel. Want to fill you up with my cum until it takes. Until you're round with my baby."
The words send a shock of heat straight to my core. It's not the first time he's talked like this. Lately, it's become almost an obsession for him—the idea of me pregnant, carrying his child.
"Want to see your belly swell," he continues, fingers working me slowly, deliberately. "Want everyone to know I did that to you. That you're mine in every possible way."
"Fabio," I whimper, rocking back against his hand. "Please."
"Please what?" He withdraws his fingers, leaves me empty, aching. "Tell me what you want, angel."
"You." I look back at him again, see the raw need on his face. "Inside me. Now."
He shakes his head, a wicked smile curving his lips. "Not yet. I want your mouth first."
He lies back against the pillows, his cock hard and thick against his stomach. I crawl between his legs, eager to taste him, to feel him lose control because of me. I lick him from base to tip, savoring his groan, the way his hand tangles in my hair.
"That's it," he encourages as I take him deeper. "Take all of me."
I hollow my cheeks, sucking harder, taking him as deep as I can. His hips thrust upward slightly, carefully, always mindful of not hurting me even when he's lost in pleasure. His cock pulses against my tongue, and I know he's close.
Suddenly he pulls me off him with a growl. "No."
"What's wrong?" I ask, confused by the abrupt stop.
"Not like this." He flips us over so I'm on my back, him looming over me. "When I come, it's going to be inside you. Where it counts."
My breath catches. There it is again—that primal need to plant his seed, to watch it grow inside me. I should find it archaic, possessive to a fault. Instead, it makes me throb with answering need.
He pushes my thighs apart, positions himself at my entrance. "You want that too, don't you? Want me to make you a mother. Want to carry my baby."
"Yes," I admit, the word barely audible.
His eyes darken further. "Say it. Tell me what you want."
"I want you to get me pregnant," I whisper, and watch his control fracture.
He surges into me with a single powerful thrust that makes me cry out. There's no gentleness now—just raw, animal need as he pounds into me, each thrust punctuated by filthy, possessive words.
"Going to fill you up, angel. Pump you so full of cum you can't help but get pregnant. Want to see you round and glowing, everyone knowing you're mine, that I’m the one who did that to you."
His words push me higher, closer to the edge. My nails dig into his shoulders, legs wrapped tight around his waist, taking him as deep as possible.
"Touch yourself," he orders. "I want to feel you come around my cock when I fill you."
I slip a hand between us, find my clit, circle it in time with his thrusts. Pleasure builds, tight and hot, coiling at the base of my spine. His rhythm grows erratic, his breathing harsh.
"Now, angel," he groans. "Come now."
My orgasm crashes over me in waves, muscles clenching around him as I cry out his name. He follows immediately, burying himself deep, his whole body shuddering as he empties himself inside me. His face—usually so controlled—is transformed with pleasure, vulnerable in a way only I get to see.
Afterward, he doesn't pull out right away. Stays inside me, one hand moving to rest possessively on my lower belly, like he can already feel life taking root there.
"You're obsessed," I tease gently, running my fingers through his sweat-dampened hair.
"With you? Always." He presses a kiss to my shoulder, my neck, my lips. "Want all of you. Want a part of me growing inside you."
"I want that too," I admit, covering his hand on my stomach with mine. "Have for a while now."
He lifts his head, studies my face. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." I smile up at him. "I stopped taking the pill three months ago. Just didn't tell you."
His eyes widen, then darken with renewed hunger. "You've been letting me come inside you, knowing you could get pregnant?"
I nod, suddenly nervous about his reaction. "Are you mad?"
He answers by kissing me—deep, thorough, possessive. When he pulls back, there's wonder in his eyes. "Mad? Angel, I'm fucking ecstatic."
His hand caresses my belly again, more reverently this time. "Could you be already? Carrying my baby?"
"It's possible." I cover his hand with mine again. "We'll have to wait and see."
He rolls to his side, taking me with him, keeping us connected. His arms wrap around me, one hand still resting protectively over my stomach.
"My angel," he murmurs against my hair. "My wife. My everything."
I snuggle closer, feeling perfectly safe, perfectly loved.
It's strange how easily I adapted to this life—to wealth and power and danger lurking at the edges.
Strange how natural it feels to be the center of this dangerous man's universe.
Strange how much I love the weight of his protection, his obsession, his devotion.
Or maybe not strange at all. Maybe this was always where I was meant to be. Maybe that mix-up at the altar wasn't a mistake but destiny.
His breathing slows, deepens, but his arms stay tight around me. Even in sleep, he protects what's his. And I am his—completely, irrevocably his. Just as he is mine.
I place my hand over his where it rests on my belly, imagining the life that might already be growing there. His child. Our child. The ultimate proof of what we've become to each other.
Turns out I was never an accidental bride.
I was exactly where I was meant to be.