Epilogue
Olivia
I’m in Roberto’s office with my laptop open and three browser tabs too many, the desk lamp the only light on. The rest of the house is quiet. The kind of quiet that used to make me itch now wraps around me like a blanket.
I answer two vendor emails, flag a comps report for tomorrow, and rework a social media caption so it’s less awkward.
Roberto’s office is comfortable to work in, but it’s not going to work for long. We’re going to have to set up a permanent office for me somewhere, I think.
And soon, because he asked me to move in and I said yes. Does it feel fast? On paper, sure. In my bones, not at all.
The last few weeks with Roberto have felt like years, and I can’t believe it’s taken us even this long to get to where we are now. So, sure, maybe it’s a little fast, but we’ve earned it.
We don’t want to wait another minute to start our lives together, so why should we?
I lean back and let my eyes drift to the new picture frames on his desk. In the first, I’m laughing at something out of frame, hair shoved behind one ear. He took it while I was stirring sauce, said he wanted me “as I am.”
In the second, grayscale grain and a small bean at the center. I still can’t look at the ultrasound without losing my breath for a second. It’s ridiculous that something so small can rearrange a person’s entire future, but here we are. I rest my palm lightly over my abdomen.
Roberto isn’t home yet, but he texted that he’d be here soon. I stared at the dots longer than I should have and then put the phone facedown like that would make me cooler. Am I worried when he’s out? I’d be a liar if I said no. Worry is a muscle that’s being well-used now that I know the truth.
But, true to his word, he has answered every single question I’ve thrown at him. He hasn’t hesitated or danced around the truth once. If he can’t tell me, he says he can’t, plain and simple.
I close my laptop, and the room grows even softer, lit by the desk lamp.
His chair still smells faintly like his cologne.
It’s silly, but I pull the sweater he left on the back over my knees and check my list for the morning: VIP fruit plate at noon, comp audit at 2:00, meet security about camera blind spots at 4:00.
Headlights sweep briefly across the curtains from the street and move on. I breathe out.
My phone vibrates face down. I flip it: On my way. Five minutes.
I thumb back: I’ll be here.
I slide the frames an inch closer together—me and the crescent—so they touch at the corners. Then I pull the sweater tighter, tuck one foot up under me, and wait.
The front door opens and closes, and the sound spurs me into motion. I toss the sweater back over the chair and stand up, smiling as I head for the stairs.
There he is, in the foyer at the bottom of the stairs, jacket sliding off his shoulders, tie tugged loose with one hand, a big paper bag cradled in the other that smells like soy, ginger, and something fried.
“Hi,” he says, looking up at me with warmth in his eyes.
I take the stairs down and rush into his arms, rising on my toes.
“Hi,” I say and kiss him, slow and heated, fingers catching his loosened tie to bring him closer. He takes like mint and home. When I let him go, I’m a little breathless. “How was your day?”
“Better now,” he murmurs, brushing his mouth over mine once more before nodding toward the bag. “I brought provisions.”
We walk back to the kitchen. He sets the bag down and starts taking out white cartons: lo mein, broccoli beef, dumplings, scallion pancakes, orange chicken. The island fills with containers, and the air steams with the kind of smell that makes my stomach wake up and beg for attention.
“Updates?” I ask, leaning hip to counter, watching his hands.
“Antonio’s doing well.” He opens a cupboard and pulls out plates. “He’s annoyed that Luca insisted he stay at their house for a while once released. But he’ll get over it.”
“Good. He’ll have someone with him.” I watch his movements with growing heat. “How was work?” My voice comes out low. He glances up, catches it, and his mouth spreads into a smug smile.
He reaches for a carton. I reach for him.
“Later,” he says, amused, setting out plates. “You have to eat.”
“I don’t want later,” I say, and slide between him and the counter, fisting the front of his shirt and kissing him again, deeper now. The sound I make when his hand roams over my ass is downright indecent.
My body is alive. I don’t know if it’s hormones or him, but lately, I have no self-control.
His hand squeezes my ass lightly, then he’s kissing me back like he’s been starving too. The paper bag crackles when my hip bumps it, and neither of us cares.
I angle his face and take more. His other hand slides into my hair and takes a firm grip, pulling a hoarse moan from me.
“The food is warm,” he says against my lips.
“I’m warmer.” I nip his lower lip, feel the shiver run through him, and smile. “See for yourself. Feel me.”
He gives my ass one last squeeze before sliding his fingers down, down.
He slides them deftly between my legs, and I gasp into his mouth, seeking friction through the thin fabric of my sweatpants. I press my legs together around his hand, and I’m wet. I’m so, so wet.
“Are you wet for me, Olivia?” he murmurs, his thumb finding my clit.
I buck against him, the only answer I can manage.
“Say it.”
“Yes,” I choke out. “Yes, I’m wet for you.”
“Good girl,” he murmurs.
I press against him as he starts to rub circles through my sweatpants, and I could come like this, I could. I’m right there, the pressure is so perfect, so insistent, the room spins—
“You know,” he says, a smile in his voice as he slows, “I think I could eat."
I whine, an actual whine, and then his other hand slides down the back of my sweatpants, and he squeezes my bare ass, a full, possessive grip. I press my face into his neck.
He slides my sweatpants off, leaving them pooled at my feet. He lifts me onto the island and unbuckles, then unzips, his pants and underwear, letting them fall to the floor, his hard cock springing free and ready.
The marble is cool on my bare skin, and the food is right there, steaming and tempting, and the last thing I want.
But he’s looking at me like he wants me for dessert. Hell, breakfast, lunch, dinner, then dessert.
"Take your top off," he orders. "I want to see those perfect tits."
My hands fly to the hem of my sweater, pulling it over my head. My nipples tighten as he watches me, his eyes dark with a hunger that’s better than any food.
He leans in, taking a nipple into his mouth, and I arch my back, a cry escaping my lips. His tongue circles, teases, and I’m lost to the sensation. I tangle my fingers in his hair, holding him to me, desperate for more, as I work the buttons on his shirt, trying to remove it.
"Roberto," I moan. "Please."
He releases my nipple with a pop, blowing cool air across the wet peak. "Please what, Olivia? Tell me what you want."
"You," I gasp. "I want you."
He chuckles, a low, deep sound that vibrates through my chest. "You have me. All of me."
He leans down, and I think he’s going to kiss me again, but instead he throws his shirt on the floor to mingle with his discarded pants, then wraps his arms around my thighs and pulls me to the very edge of the counter, my legs dangling. A bag crinkles, and the soy sauce bottle rattles.
I’m exposed. I’m completely, deliciously exposed.
He licks a slow, hot stripe up my center, and I cry out, my head falling back.
He’s not gentle. He’s hungry. I am so, so wet for him, and I am not ashamed.
I let out a moan when he pulls my clit into his mouth, sucking hard.
His tongue is everywhere, hot, slick, demanding.
I’m writhing, I’m trying not to, but my hips are rocking, chasing the feeling.
He doesn't stop.
He adds two fingers, curling them inside me, finding the spot that makes stars explode behind my eyes. The pressure builds, a tight, coiling thing in my belly.
I lean back on my elbows and watch him, his dark hair moving erotically between my spread thighs. His tongue lapping at my clit.
I feel the orgasm starting, a warm, tingling rush that starts at my toes and works its way up. I'm close, so close.
He pumps his fingers in and out of my pussy, stretching me, filling me, and I'm lost.
“Come for me, Olivia,” he commands.
And I do.
I shatter, a wave of pleasure so intense it steals my breath. I'm crying out, my body convulsing on the cool counter, my hands fisting in his hair as I ride out the aftershocks.
“You taste so good,” he says, and then he licks my pussy again, slow this time, making me cry out in sensitivity. I can see the evidence of my arousal glistening on his lips. "Taste."
He leans forward and takes my mouth in a deep, all-consuming kiss.
His tongue slides inside, a warm, wet invasion. He kisses me like he’s trying to consume me, and I kiss him back with the same desperation. I can taste myself on him, a tangy, intimate flavor that makes me even wetter.
He pulls away, and I try to follow with a whine.
"Spread your legs wider," he says, his voice a low growl.
I do, my muscles straining. I feel the cool air on my pussy, and I can't help but blush.
His fingers return, circling my entrance. He pushes in slowly, deliberately, stretching me.
"Are you ready for me, Olivia?" he asks.
I nod, unable to speak.
"Use your words."
"Yes," I gasp. "I'm ready. Please, Roberto. I need you."
I hear the unmistakable sound of a zipper. Then he’s there, his hot and hard against my entrance. He teases me, rubbing the head of his cock against my clit, and I whimper, trying to move my hips to take him in.
“Please,” I beg, and my nails dig into the counter. He lines up with my entrance and pushes in, just an inch, and I gasp, my body stretching to accommodate him.
He pushes in another inch, then another, until he’s buried to the hilt. I’m so full, so complete.
He starts to move, a slow, deep rhythm that has me seeing stars.