Epilogue Marco
epilogue: marco
MARCO
I’d planned the whole thing days ago. Ordered the outfit. Cleaned the car—twice. Charged the camera. Checked my lighting setup in the garage. Again.
But none of that shit prepared me for the look on her face when she unwrapped the box and saw what I’d bought her.
Black leather lingerie. Smooth as sin. Laced up the back. Plunging low in the front. A hint of delicate lace that would expose just enough, leaving me hard the moment I imagined her in it.
Her lips parted, one finger brushing the material with wide eyes. “This is... um. Wow.”
I bit my lip, grinning like the devil. “You like it?”
She looked up at me, cheeks flushed that adorable pink. “You want me to wear this?”
“Oh yeah, Angel,” I murmured, leaning in. “I want to photograph you in it. With my car. On my car. Photos just for us.”
Her whole face went up in flames.
I swear, the only thing better than watching her unwrap the damn thing was watching her try it on. She disappeared into the bathroom for what felt like a fuckin’ century, and when she finally emerged…
Fuuuuuck .
I almost dropped the camera right then.
“You look like every wet dream I’ve ever had,” I breathed, swallowing hard as I drank her in.
She squirmed under my gaze, biting her lip. “You sure I don’t look ridiculous?”
“Baby,” I growled, stepping close enough to tilt her chin up, “you look dangerous and sexy as sin.”
Her blushed deepened, but I saw it—underneath the nerves, she was curious. Excited. Brimming with anticipation as I led her down to the private garage beneath the penthouse. The rumble of the elevator along with my motor oil and leather scent helped set the mood.
The lighting was perfect. The car was spotless. And Kit? She was the fucking star.
Nerves got the best of her, and she started off hesitant—posing with her arms crossed, smiling shyly at the camera. But I kept coaching her, kept praising every shift, every smirk, every slow, sultry lean against the hood.
“You’re stunning,” I rasped between photos.
“You really think so?”
“Angel, I know so.”
And somewhere in the middle of it all, something shifted. Her nerves melted into confidence. She arched her back, flicked her hair, dragged her fingers down her own thighs. My sweet, shy Omega turned into a goddamn temptress right in front of me, and I nearly lost my fucking mind.
I snapped one last picture—the way the curve of her ass caught the light, how the heels made her legs look miles long.
Then I set the camera down and abandoned it.
“Are we done?” my Omega asked breathlessly.
“Not even close.”
I stalked toward her, slow and hungry, and those pretty blue eyes widened, pupils blown, glossy pink lips parting with a small, sharp inhale.
“You’re gonna get your car dirty,” she whispered, teasing, half breathless already.
“Absolutely filthy.” I smirked, backing her into the hood, hands sliding up her thighs, loving the feel of all her creamy bare skin beneath my palms.
“You’ll have to wash it again.”
I kissed the mark I left just above her breast, living for the low, needy moan that slipped up her throat. “Worth it.”
My mouth found hers before she could answer, and I showed her—right there on the hood—exactly what she did to me.