EPILOGUE
One Year Later
Hawthorne Cay
Millie Mercer posted a new story
The notification pops up on my screen while I’m sneaking in some work emails while she’s supposed to be asleep.
Tossing a quick look across the bungalow’s deck, I can see the faint, shadowy outline of the bed through the open sliders.
Tapping the notification, I see a picture of me, sitting exactly where I am now—on a chaise by the pool—working on my phone. The caption reads:
room with a view.
#honeymoon #neglected wife #divorce
She posted it less than five minutes ago and it already has ten thousand views and over five hundred comments.
Lord, I’ve seen what you’ve done for others…
Not me, kicking my feet in the air, every time one of you posts.
You guys are so in love it’s disgusting.
Shhh, everyone—my show is on!
That’s a helluva upgrade!
This booktok girlie is STILL waiting for one of you to write this book!
I cried at their wedding and I wasn’t even there.
Smirking at my phone, I toss another look through the sliders without raising my head because I know she’s watching me, just like I know she added #divorce, just to get a rise out of me.
A lot’s changed over the last year, but not that.
Millie and I still love to push each other’s buttons.
We still love to drive each other crazy, and I love every fucking second of it, almost as much as I love her.
Tapping the screen, I type out a reply to her post.
I’d like to see you try—I’m not above kidnapping my own wife.
Millie and I have been married for five days.
Before I proposed, I reached out to Conner Gilroy and asked him to draft the most sadistically punitive prenuptial agreement possible and he was all too happy to oblige.
So happy he did it for free. I signed it without even looking at it and took it to Millie’s father.
I’m going to ask Millie to marry me. I’m not asking for your permission or even your blessing—I just want you to have some piece of mind that this is real. That all I want is Millie and that there is nothing you could offer to give me or threaten to take away that will ever change my mind.
Things between Millie and her father are still a bit rocky but they’re getting better every day—the fact that he backed her move to remove her Aunt Renee from the board of directors at Blackwell Investment and publicly denounced Paige before revoking her trust fund, went a long way toward mending their relationship.
I pressed charges on Paige at both Millie and her father’s insistence, which resulted in her taking a plea deal—500 hours of community service and six months probation.
Everyone insisted it wasn’t enough. It was a hot topic on social media for months but I just wanted it to be over.
I was ready to move on with my life with Millie. That’s all I really cared about.
Last I heard, Paige was living in LA and trying desperately to become a beauty influencer but every few months or so, the video of what happened in the hotel bar, the night of the gala, resurfaces and she loses traction.
I asked Conner about it but all he did was shrug his shoulders and say, welp, that’s what happens when you touch someone’s no no square, uninvited.
The ceremony was held at St. Patrick’s because that’s where this whole crazy ride started and there was no way in hell I was going to let Allister and Paige take ownership of something they had no right to.
Gwen was Millie’s maid-of-honor and Henley Gilroy was her bridesmaid.
Conner and Dalton stood up for me and when poor Father Flanagan finally said, you may kiss the bride, the cheer that went up from the pews was so loud, people posted that they heard it in Time Square.
After the ceremony, we had the reception at the Hawthorne. Millie and I didn’t even make it to the cake cutting before we were in our honeymoon suite, getting each other naked—and the disappearing act wasn’t my idea.
My Millie is insatiable.
Closing the IG app on my phone, I open up my texts.
Me: What the fuck, Minolta? People are going to think you’re serious.
Millie: I am serious.
Her text is followed by a picture she must have just taken. It’s a selfie of her, wearing one of my T-shirts, her legs spread in invitation, her fingers, one of them wearing her engagement ring—a three-carat cushion cut emerald, surrounded by a halo of pavé diamonds—buried in her perfect pussy.
See what I mean?
Me: Come here.
I count to ten. When she hasn’t appeared in the doorway or so much as laughed at me from the bed she’s torturing me from, I tap out another text.
Me: Millie.
Millie: Dean.
Me: Get your ass out here
Millie: You come in here.
Millie: Better hurry…
Another picture—this one of her fingers stroking her clit.
Fuck.
Me: My dick is so hard rn I can’t stand up. If you want me to fuck you, you’re going to have to be my good girl and come out here.
Now I can hear her laughing at me, the sound of it floating through the open sliders and across the deck.
Millie: Say please.
I said it a year ago, and it still holds true.
Millie Blackwell is going to be the goddamned death of me—and I wouldn’t want it any other way.
Me: Pretty please, Princess Millie—get your ass out here so I can make you come on my face.
Expecting another picture, this one certain to drive me over the edge, she appears in the open doorway, on the other side of the pool.
Fuck, she’s beautiful, wearing nothing but my shirt and the ring I put on her finger.
Sun bleached hair tousled from sleep. Skin tanned from running around naked for the past five days.
The farthest we’ve gone is to the private beach attached to the bungalow.
No pool. No Davino’s. No ziplining or horseback riding.
That’s not what we’re here for. We aren’t here to pretend.
We aren’t here to convince anyone of anything.
We’re here for each other and neither one of us has had nearly enough.
“I should make you crawl,” she tells me, still standing in the doorway, her jaw tipped at a stubborn angle that makes my cock ache.
I would.
For this woman I’d crawl over a mountain of rusty razorblades. I’d crawl through hell. I’d follow her around on my hands and knees for the rest of my fucking life, if that’s what she wanted.
“Come, here, Mrs. Mercer,” I say, tossing my phone onto the table next to me. “Let me apologize.”
Giving me a satisfied little smirk, Millie leaves the doorway to pad barefoot across the deck, in my direction. Stopping next to my chaise, she crosses her arms over her chest and looks down to give me one of her haughty little huffs. “Well… I’m waiting.”
The goddamned death of me.
Reaching out, I snag her by the hem of her shirt and drag her onto the chaise with me, quickly situating her to where she’s straddling my hips.
Hands still tangled in her shirt hem, I yank it up over her head before tossing it aside.
“You know…” Dropping my hands to her hips, I tilt them forward while pushing the stiff ridge of my cock into the juncture of her thighs.
“You’re awful sassy for someone who’s addicted to my cock.
” Fingers digging into her ass cheeks, I open her wider from behind before doing it again.
“Matter of fact—” Dragging her pussy along the length of my shaft, I groan deep in my chest when she whimpers softly, her pussy so wet, it soaks the front of my sleep pants.
“I think maybe it’s you, who should be apologizing to me. ”
“Dean…” she whimpers again, the needy sound of it shaped around my name when I do it again, this time tilting her hips forward enough to reach her clit.
“Threatening divorce, five days in, is a pretty big infraction,” I tell her, one of my hands reaching up to cup itself around her sun warmed breast to tease its stiff, swollen nipple. “What do you propose we do about that, Mrs. Mercer.”
Mrs. Mercer.
My wife.
My good fucking girl.
All my favorite M words.
“So is leaving your wife… in your honeymoon bed, unfucked…” she counters, her tone ragged and whisper-thin while she grinds herself on the stiff length of my cock “So you can check your email.”
Not only is My Millie addicted to my cock, she’s also developed a dirty mouth.
I fucking love it.
“Are you insulted, Princess?” I murmur against her mouth while I roll her nipple between my fingers, tugging and pinching hard enough to make her give me another gasp.
“Ummhmm,” she says, the desperate sound of it vibrating against my lips while she rolls her hips forward. “You hurt my feelings.”
“That, I seriously doubt,” I say on a hoarse chuckle before letting out a sharp hiss because Millie’s got me right where she wants me. I’m seconds away from flipping us over and jerking my pants down so I can pound myself into her so hard, the chaise we’re on will collapse.
“You did…” Flexing her hips in my grip, Millie traces my lower lip with her tongue. “I just might cry myself to sleep over it.”
“Millie…” I growl her name, my fingers digging into her ass cheeks, trying desperately to regain some ground.
Hand gripped around her thigh, I lift, setting the front of her calf on the wide, padded arm of the chaise, the sudden change in angle pitching her forward.
Digging the heel of her hand into the thick pad of my pec, Millie looks at me, wide-eyed when I grip her other thigh.
“I’ve been thinking about doing this in this chair for a fucking year.
” Lifting her other leg, hand gripped around her waist to keep her balanced, I settle it on the other arm of the chaise until Millie is kneeling in front of me, thighs spread.
Hips level with my face, her slick, swollen pussy is split wide and inches from my mouth.
Exactly where I want it.
“Dean…” Looking down at me, Millie braces her hands on my shoulders with a shaky breath. “I’m going to fall.”