BONUS EPILOGUE
LUCY
The salt spray kisses my face, cool and sharp, carrying the endless sigh of the Atlantic.
Christopher’s Hamptons beach house is peaceful. Secluded. A world away from the relentless pulse of Manhattan, from boardrooms and balance sheets, from the low-grade hum of anxiety that’s been my constant companion since taking the Hammond & Co. helm.
Three months of being Mrs. Lucy Hammond-Blackwell.
Still sounds weird. Still makes my stomach do happy little flip-flops.
And three months, roughly, of nurturing the tiny secret currently making its presence known via waves of nausea and a fatigue so profound I suspect I could fall asleep standing up.
“Deep thoughts?” Christopher’s voice murmurs from behind me.
His arms wrap around my waist, pulling me back against his solid warmth. He rests his chin on top of my head, his own gaze fixed on the grey-green expanse of the ocean stretching towards the horizon.
“Just appreciating the quiet,” I sigh, leaning back against him. We’re standing on the deck overlooking the beach, bundled in sweaters against the crisp autumn air. “And contemplating the existential merits of dill versus bread-and-butter.”
“Dill?” he says, no sexual innuendo lost on him of late.
I giggle, mock slapping him. “Stop it.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through my back. “Pickle cravings still hitting hard?”
“I said stop!” But I hope he doesn’t. He’s too cute when he’s like this.
“You’re radiant,” he says simply, his hand drifting down to rest gently, possessively, over the slight swell of my belly. A wave of warmth spreads through me that has nothing to do with the cashmere sweater I’m wearing.
Radiant? More like slightly green around the gills and perpetually ready for a nap.
But the way he looks at me these days… like I’m some kind of miracle. It melts the lingering vestiges of my ‘am-I-good-enough’ anxiety faster than anything else.
This weekend was his idea. A deliberate escape. A chance to just be, before the pregnancy news inevitably becomes public knowledge and our carefully constructed privacy bubble pops. He’s been… amazing. Intensely protective, anticipating needs I don’t even know I have, handling my hormonal mood swings with unnerving calm (mostly), and looking at my slowly changing body with an awe that makes my cheeks heat up.
Mr. Control Freak has morphed into Papa Bear Alpha.
Honestly, it’s ridiculously hot.
We spent the morning walking along the deserted beach, hand in hand, the only sounds the crying gulls and crashing waves. We talked about names (he vetoed Archibald, I vetoed Zeus), about turning one of the penthouse guest rooms into a nursery, about Lamaze classes (I’m terrified, he’s already researched the optimal breathing techniques, naturally).
We voiced the quiet anxieties too. My fear of balancing the all-consuming CEO role with motherhood, his deep-seated determination not to repeat the toxic patterns of his own father. Sharing the fears, saying them out loud to each other, somehow made them feel less daunting.
Lunch was… an experience. I insisted on trying to cook, wanting to contribute something domestic to our beach retreat beyond just growing a human. It turns out my culinary skills haven’t improved much since college. The fish was… charred. The quinoa resembled wallpaper paste.
Christopher watched the entire disaster unfold with barely suppressed amusement, occasionally offering “helpful” suggestions that mostly involved calling Emilia, his chef, for emergency instructions.
“See?” I declared, gesturing vaguely at the smoky kitchen with a spatula. “This is why you need me running a multi-million dollar company. My talents clearly lie in delegation and crisis management, not… cooking.”
He just laughed, scraped the burnt offerings into the bin without comment, and produced perfectly grilled sandwiches he’d apparently made earlier ‘just in case.’
Infuriatingly competent.
And I love him for it.
Now, as dusk paints the sky shades of purple, a comfortable quiet settles between us.
“Dinner?” he murmurs against my hair after a long silence.
“Only if you’re cooking,” I reply immediately. “Or ordering in.”
He chuckles again. “Deal. But first…” He turns me in his arms, his expression shifting, the playful amusement replaced by that familiar, intense focus. “I believe the mother of my child deserves some pampering.”
Oh boy. Here we go.
That look usually precedes something that leaves me breathless and wondering what century it is.
My pulse quickens automatically.
He leads me inside, away from the cooling air, towards the master suite. It’s all minimalist lines, natural wood, huge windows leading onto a balcony facing the ocean, and a massive bed that looks straight out of BILLIONAIRE Magazine (yes, the title is literally all caps, what do you expect from a luxury publication that’s distributed solely to Ultra High Net Worth individuals??).
He doesn’t immediately start undressing me. Instead, he leads me towards the enormous ensuite bathroom, where a deep soaking tub is already steaming, scented with lavender and... I think chamomile. Rose petals float on the surface.
Seriously? Rose petals? Did he have the invisible sheet fairies coordinate with the invisible bath fairies?
“A bath?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Something to help you relax.” He gently helps me undress, his hands lingering, stroking my skin with reverence.
When I’m naked, he doesn’t rush me towards the tub. He just looks at me, his gaze tracing the changes in my body with open admiration. His eyes linger on the slight rounding of my belly, and the new fullness in my breasts.
“You are so fucking beautiful, Lucy,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. He kneels, pressing a soft kiss to the small swell below my navel. “Both of you.”
My heart clenches. Tears prickle my eyes.
Damn hormones.
Or maybe just… him.
The bath is blissful. Warm water, soft candlelight, Christopher occasionally adding more hot water or just sitting quietly on the edge, watching me with that possessive, loving gaze.
Afterward, he wraps me in a huge, fluffy towel and carries me, actually carries me, to the bed, laying me down.
That’s when I notice it. A thin, discreetly placed, but undeniably crinkly, protective layer covering the duvet. Like a giant, waterproof mattress protector, only classier.
Hold up.
My brain, possibly short-circuited by love and hormones, immediately flashes to every true crime documentary I’ve ever binged.
Is this... Dexter’s kill room, luxury beach house edition? Seriously?
“Okay,” I say, trying to keep my voice light, casual, definitely not like someone suddenly picturing crime scene cleanup protocols. “Question. You waited until after I agreed to marry you and gestate your heir to reveal the ‘protective plastic sheeting’ phase of the relationship? Just checking if I should update my life insurance policy.”
He pauses on his way back to the bathroom, a smirk playing on his lips. He’s enjoying my mini-freakout. Of course he is.
“Relax, Hammond,” he murmurs, the sound low and amused. “This will be fun.”
He disappears into the bathroom, leaving me to ponder exactly what kind of ‘fun’ requires spill protection.
He returns carrying a small, elegant bottle.
Warmed massage oil.
Ahhh.
He pours a small amount of oil into his palms, rubbing them together before starting the massage.
His hands are magic. Strong, sure, yet incredibly gentle.
He starts with my tired feet, kneading away the tension, slowly working his way up my calves, my thighs. His touch is worshipful, lingering.
When he reaches my belly, his strokes become impossibly soft, circling the slight mound with reverence. He leans down, pressing kisses against my skin.
“I love you so much,” I hear him murmur. Soft words meant as much for the tiny life within as for me.
He pays special attention to my breasts, which have been aching lately. His touch is exquisite, using the warm oil to glide over the sensitive skin, cupping the weight, teasing my nipples with his thumbs until they’re tight, aching peaks.
He captures one in his mouth (of course), sucking gently, sending jolts of pleasure straight to my core.
I arch off the bed, gasping, “Christopher!”
He lavishes the same attention on the other breast, his control absolute, drawing out the pleasure until I’m trembling.
“You like that, my love?” he whispers against my skin.
“Yes,” I breathe out, utterly pliant under his touch.
He continues his exploration, his hands and mouth mapping every inch of me, learning the subtle shifts pregnancy has brought.
Then, finally, he shifts positions, crackling the plastic sheet as he kneels between my legs.
His fingers, slick with oil, find my pussy and part me gently.
“Still so wet for me,” he murmurs approvingly, his thumb finding my clit, circling slowly.
My hips lift instinctively.
He chuckles softly. “Impatient?”
Before I can answer, he reaches towards the nightstand again. My eyes follow his hand. He retrieves a small, sleek object. A vibrator. Different from the one he used before. This one looks smaller, more curved. I realize it’s designed specifically for external stimulation.
“Something new,” he explains quietly, showing it to me. “Just for you. For now.” He meets my gaze, his expression serious. “Your pleasure, your comfort… that’s all that matters, Lucy. Tell me if anything feels wrong. Tell me exactly what feels good.”
His consideration, his focus on me, on keeping things safe and pleasurable during pregnancy… it melts the last vestiges of any lingering awkwardness.
I nod, my throat tight with emotion.
He switches the vibrator on. A low, promising hum fills the air.
He starts slowly, pressing the curved head lightly against my clit, combining it with the slow circling of his thumb.
Oh god.
The sensation is immediate.
Intense.
Focused.
He varies the speed, the pressure, watching my face, reading my reactions.
“Like this?” he whispers, increasing the vibration slightly.
“Y-yes…”
“Or this?” He changes the angle, adding a gentle flicking motion with his thumb.
“Oh! Yes, that too!” My breath hitches.
He continues, sometimes adding his mouth into the mix, licking and sucking at my clit around the vibrator, creating layers of sensation that are almost unbearable.
His control is absolute. He feels entirely devoted to me. He’s orchestrating my pleasure like a symphony, building the tempo, introducing new instruments, watching me, guiding me, ensuring every note lands perfectly. An intensely focused, loving control aimed solely at my satisfaction.
He pushes me higher, closer to the edge. The vibrations are relentless as his fingers work magic.
“Let go for me, Lucy,” he commands softly, his voice rough with his own arousal, though he makes no move for himself. “Cum for me.”
With a final, desperate cry, I shatter.
“Christopher!”
The orgasm rips through me, powerful, profound, amplified by the focused stimulation, by the emotional weight of the moment, by the sheer love pouring between us.
The shudders go on and on, leaving me trembling, gasping, and finally utterly spent against the plastic-covered sheets.
He switches off the vibrator, setting it aside, and immediately gathers me, bringing me back to the bathroom. He wipes me gently with a warm, damp cloth he must have prepared, his touch infinitely tender.
He returns to the room alone and rips away the plastic. Then he walks me back to the bed, pulls the duvet open, and sets me down. He joins me, tucking me against his side, his arm a secure weight around me.
His hand comes to rest protectively over my belly.
We lie there in the quiet aftermath, the only sounds our breathing, and the distant rhythm of the waves.
Contentment settles over me.
“You know,” I murmur eventually, tracing patterns on his chest, my voice still a bit breathless. “Technically… everything’s still… ahem… operational down there for a while yet. Just saying.”
Subtle, Lucy. Real subtle.
He chuckles softly, pressing a kiss to my hair. “I know. And believe me, the thought is… compelling.” His hand comes to rest possessively on my belly. “But I think it’s best to focus on... other means of pleasure, for the next little while.” He meets my eyes, his gaze warm but firm.
Okay, yeah. Point taken.
Maybe trying to accommodate his… substantial assets… along with everything else right now might be overly ambitious.
I can’t help a sudden mischievous smile. “Other means of pleasure, you say?”
I let my gaze drop pointedly to his slacks. I can still see the thick outline of his arousal. He’s hard, even now. Wants me, but he’s holding back.
My smile sharpens. Noticing my gaze, he shifts, clears his throat. A rare flicker of uncertainty flashes in his eyes.
Always have to be in control, don’t you Christopher?
But not tonight.
I reposition before he can protest, fingers already working his belt.
His hand catches my wrist.
“Don’t.” A command, but his voice cracks.
I press my lips to the heat beneath the fabric.
He hisses, the tendons in his neck taut as bridge cables. “I said—”
I unzip him and reach inside. His grip becomes a vise in my hair.
I pull out his huge cock and take as much of him as I can inside my mouth. Salt and musk flood my tongue as he throbs against the back of my throat.
He curses, a half groan, and his hips jerk forward reflexively.
There he is.
My free hand slips between my legs, two fingers circling my clit as I suck him off. I grip the base of his cock with my other hand to make up for my inability to swallow him whole.
He fights it. I feel him trying to, anyway, but I hollow my cheeks and hum.
His restraint snaps.
His pelvis slams forward, forcing a choked gag from me. He begins pounding.
Tears blur my vision as he fucks my throat with a growl, primal and desperate. My fingers work faster at my pussy, the ache in my jaw eclipsed by the heat coiling low in my belly.
When he cums, it’s with a broken groan, fingers yanking my hair as he spills down my throat.
I swallow greedily, thoroughly milking him, and climax again, too. I’m shuddering in time to his own spasms.
Finally, as the waves of ecstasy ebb between us, he rolls away, chest heaving, and I gasp for air.
Holy shit. That was... intense.
“Christ, I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—” Guilt strains his raw voice.
I reposition so that my face is next to his. I wipe the corner of my lips with a thumb. His cum glistens there, and I suck it clean, savoring the bitterness.
“It’s all right,” I purr, leaning in until our breaths mix. “I wanted you to lose control.”
His pupils dilate, a flicker of awe beneath the shame.
Then he takes me in a slow, open-mouthed kiss, tasting himself on my tongue.
“I love you so much,” he says from the sides of his lips.
“I love you, too,” I reply. “Just want to make sure my husband is properly maintained.”
“Consider me thoroughly maintained,” he replies. “But next time, some warning please.”
“Maybe.” I sigh happily, snuggling closer.
He rests a palm on my belly.
I place my own hand over his, feeling the solid warmth of his touch.
The anxieties about motherhood, about balancing it all, haven’t vanished completely. Neither have his, I suspect.
But lying here, wrapped in his arms, feeling so utterly cherished and connected… everything feels possible. More than possible.
We faced down corporate sabotage, family demons, and our own worst fears to get here.
And now?
Now we just face… life.
Together.
Building our own messy, complicated, ridiculously happy future.
One day, one challenge, one shared moment of peace at a time.
And maybe with a few more interesting toys along the way.
The thought makes me smile against his chest.
Yeah.
I think we can handle that.
Thanks for reading!!