Epilogue #2
Scribbling the song title, Reaux pushed it back toward him, then tipped an imaginary hat. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I believe I hear the dulcet tone of the Mistress calling me.”
Grit laughed. “You’ve got better hearing than either of us then.”
“She speaks to my heart, oui?”
He crossed over to her, inclining his head toward Tabitha in acknowledgement of her presence, and took Violet’s hand.
As he lifted it to his lips, the bell sleeve of her sinful black dress slipped down, exposing her forearm.
Being him, he took full advantage, kissing her palm, her wrist, all the way to the elbow.
“Mistress, you are… exquisite. Simply magnifique.”
An imperious eyebrow rose. “And yet my Gomez is not suitably attired to accompany his Morticia.” She glanced at Tabitha. “I don’t think he deserves this dress or what’s under it, do you?”
Honestly, he didn’t think there was anything under the black silky fabric.
Although her arms were covered by those lengthy sleeves and her shoulders were covered, there was a large section of fabric missing, leaving her throat and a lot of her gorgeous cleavage exposed; it was tempting just to sink his face into those perfect breasts and spend the rest of the evening there.
More material hugged her ribs and waist like a second skin, accentuating her curves, before two high slits started at her hips, revealing beautifully strong thighs he knew from personal experience marked so easily. Such soft, creamy skin.
A long strip of material hung between the slits, offering very little protection.
He couldn’t see panty lines, any hint of a thong, nothing.
If she was commando under that thing…
Tabitha cleared her throat, but her voice still cracked slightly when she said, “That dress needs a lot more effort.”
The Dom in him focused his attention away from the vision before him to Grit’s sub. Her voice was unsteady, her eyes looked red and swollen behind the shadow of her mask. The firecracker was without her spark this evening. “Are you okay, Tabitha?”
She nodded once. “Yes. I need to, um… Thank you, Violet.”
“Don’t mind her,” Violet said softly as the tiger hurried away. “She got some news she thought would make her happy and instead…”
“Not so happy.”
“Yeah. She’ll be fine. Grit knows how to handle her, whatever mood she’s in.” Her gaze raked him up and down a few times. “Seriously, Reaux?”
“I chose comfort over insanity.”
“Uh-huh, and I’m wearing six-inch heels that are distinctly uncomfortable.
Not for my health, definitely not because they make my legs look sexy as fuck,” she stated confidently, “but because Evander puts a lot of effort into organizing parties for the membership, and supporting him and the club sometimes means sacrificing the subtle things.”
Reaux growled in agreement. “Consider me appropriately chastised, Mistress.”
“Hmm.”
As the opening chords of his requested song played through the speakers, he ducked his head. “The heels? Absolutely, unarguably, are my new aphrodisiac, Bennie. In fact, I do believe if you don’t dance with me right now, I may be tempted to fuck you over the nearest table.”
Her head cocked, listening to the drumbeat before the singer kicked in with the lyrics. She was already moving to the beat, her shoulders and hips rolling to the almost primal rhythm of the song. “I haven’t heard this one before.”
“No? It’s been very popular in Amatory over the summer.
” Reaux clasped her hand, her hip, and pressed her close.
When she used him as a prop to grind against, he flashed a grin.
“It’s called Good Girl by Nation Haven. The first time I heard it, all I could think about was playing it on repeat while you came on my cock. Of course, that backfired.”
“It did?”
“Well, you weren’t there for me to use and abuse to the music, Bennie. Once the clientele became obsessed with it, they requested it constantly, so of course, all I could think about was fucking the one person I wanted when she was nowhere in reach.”
The chorus crooned through the room, hot and heavy; Violet bit her lip, rolling it through her teeth as she swayed harder, her pelvis undulating against his. “Major case of blue balls for you, huh?”
Blue? Try various shades of black and purple. Listening to the damn song over and over, imagining all the ways she would be his goddamn good girl.
“Understatement of the year, Bennie.”
She laughed and brushed her lips over his. “Maybe, if you’re a very good boy, I’ll let you play this later, as many times as you want.” Her hand hooked around the back of his neck. “I can’t believe this all comes to an end tomorrow.”
“It’s not the end—just a change in direction.”
“Yeah. So many directions.”
“Bennie, are you sure leaving is what you really want to do?”
“Are you backing out on me?
“Never. You’re stuck with me now until the day you clock me over the head with a skillet and drag my body into the basement.”
She laughed, but there was sadness haunting the sound. “Who says I’d use a skillet?”
“I thought that was the murder weapon of all true genteel Southern women.” Displeased with her sudden twist of mood, he cupped her chin and lifted her gaze to his. “What’s wrong, Violet? I don’t like it when you’re sad.”
Violet
Sad wasn’t quite what she was feeling, if she was being honest.
Shocked was far more apt.
Dealing with Tabitha’s emotional outburst in the ladies’ bathroom had emotionally drained what was left of her energy—for the past two weeks, she’d been preparing for the move home, all the while thinking about pregnancy, babies, and abandoning her friends when they needed her most.
Peeing on a stick in tandem with Tabitha wasn’t on her cards for tonight, but it seemed like the right thing to do.
Moral support and all that. Only, the tiny assassin’s heart had broken when the test came back negative; a surprising reaction given her reluctance to become a mother, but Violet understood that even a glimmer of hope was catastrophic under the right circumstances.
There wasn’t going to be a baby for Tabitha, at least not an unplanned one.
Not this time, anyway.
The song changed to a country tune, something familiar by Cooper Alan, and she hummed along to it softly as she tried to formulate an answer for Reaux that wouldn’t compromise Tabitha’s confidence.
“Not sad, not really. Melancholy, maybe. The last four weeks have been—hands down—the weirdest of my life.”
Reaux wiggled his eyebrows. “But the best, oui?”
“No, I think I’ve had better. The month I met you and we spent every spare minute in bed, in the dungeon, in the shower.
That week we attended the BDSM convention in Seattle is pretty high on the list. But in actuality…
” Stepping back, she reached for the secret tucked down between her breasts and handed it to him.
“I personally believe the next few weeks are going to top them all.”
Reaux frowned at the plastic stick—the wrong side—until she sighed and turned it over. She saw the moment he realized how monumental the evening had become when his frown morphed into a hopeful, puppylike expression.
“It’s not a joke?”
“No, Daddy, it’s not a joke.”
He stared at the stick for a few long seconds before carefully tucking it away in his back pocket. “I should be really mad you did this without me, but I’m a forgiving man and I’m going to be a fucking awesome dad.”
“I peed on that, Reaux. It might qualify as hazardous waste.”
“Don’t care. I’m riding high and the only thing I’m bothered about is you.” Wrapping his arms around her, he picked her up and held her so gently, she felt like fragile crystal. “June has always been my favorite month.”
“Just remember, we’re not supposed to tell anyone until after the first trimester.” She kissed the underside of his jaw. “Congratulations, Boudreaux.”
“Party’s over, Bennie. That big bed is begging for one last bounce before we head out.”
“The party just started, but I’m impressed with your alliteration. Heavy on the Bs this time. Look, I understand how important this is to you; we just need to keep it under wraps for a few weeks in case…”
“I know, I know. The first trimester is prone to the most fetal casualties. Eighty percent of all miscarriages; between ten and twenty percent of known pregnancies end with the loss of the baby. I’ve done my research, Violet.
” Setting her back down, he squared his shoulders like a soldier about to charge into battle.
“That isn’t going to be us. Whatever I have to do, including tying you to the bedposts with the softest ropes I can find, to keep you and our baby safe…
well, my no limit rule doesn’t just apply to hard limits. ”
“Don’t forget your future wife is considered geriatric now,” she joked, more to distract him from the squeak of emotion constricting her throat.
Reaux waved that off arrogantly, the good news bolstering his Gallic flair. Confirming he was going to be a father meant he was about to upgrade himself to major pain in her ass for the foreseeable future.
“Geriatric,” he sneered in a molasses-thick Southern drawl touched with French accents.
“The idiots, they know nothing about my woman. My queen is perfect and shall remain that way until time is no more.” He kissed her sweetly, his fingers snaking through her hair to fist the base of her skull. “I love you, Violet.”
Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing, she mused as he assaulted her mouth passionately, to be immortalized by the man who loved her more than he needed his next breath.
High on this pedestal, raised above all others with his heart at her feet, she knew that whatever destiny had in store for her next wouldn’t be boring, and it certainly wouldn’t be easy.
Loving him was a trial, an adventure, a foray into not only trusting him but doing so on a level she’d never given him access to before.
Tomorrow, she was going home to her roots.
Taking his hand, Violet pressed it to her belly where the tiniest combination of their DNA was sleeping, growing, developing as the seconds ticked past. The dream that shouldn’t exist, the hope she’d thought long dead, were both alive and thriving.
Tomorrow, they were going home where they belonged.
“We love you too, Reaux.”
The End