Epilogue
EPILOGUE
Pia
O ne Month Later
It’s 2:13 a.m. on a Saturday morning.
The office is silent, bathed in moonlight through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I’m in heels, Ethan’s jacket, and nothing else. He’s in a shirt that’s mostly unbuttoned, and his tie’s hanging loose.
We’re holding hands. And we’re staring at it.
The sign in the marble entryway that reads: Lawrence, Tucker & Villiers
His name. At last. Just as my man deserves.
Ethan runs a hand through his hair and whispers, “Fuck, it’s real.”
I squeeze his fingers. “Of course it is. You earned it.”
His eyes shift to me. Heated. Possessive. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”
I step closer. “Not true. You were almost here. Me coming along just hurried it up a bit.” And it didn’t hurt that Uncle Phil stopped dragging his feet and retired early to spend more time with Aunt Barb.
“Fuck, I’m so glad it didn’t fuck us up beyond repair.”
“You never could. You told me I belonged to you, remember? I was never going anywhere.”
He slides his hands around my waist. “Too fucking right. But it’s good that I belong to you too, baby, right?”
“Hmm,” I hum. “We’re stuck with each other, and I couldn’t wish for anything more,” I respond.
Then we’re kissing. Deep, claiming. The kind that makes the rest of the world disappear.
And before I know it, he’s tugging off the jacket, pinning me to the cold marble, beneath his name.
The symbolism doesn’t escape either of us. Ethan has claimed me everywhere and every chance he gets, starting with the diamond ring glistening on my finger that he placed there the morning after our visit to Uncle Phil.
The wedding is planned for Thanksgiving.
The cold stone against my back makes me gasp. He devours the sound as his thumbs brush back and forth over my pebble-hard nipples.
“Mine,” he rasps against my throat.
“Yours,” I breathe. I grip his cock and pull him to me, eager for his possession, eager for this moment.
“Always,” he swears, as he sinks inside me, bottoming out with a thick, guttural groan.
I moan, wrapping around him, fingers clawing at his shirt, his hair. We move together—slow at first, then harder, needier .
“I love you, Pia.”
“I love you, Ethan.”
The sign gleams above us like a promise. And I believe it.
Because this?
This is forever.