Epilogue
MAX
Five Months Later
The ballroom of the Drake Hotel is gorgeous, chandeliers dripping crystal scatter light across polished oak floors.
The air’s thick with the scent of champagne and roses.
Voices weaving through the jazz quartet’s smooth melody.
The release party for the book Amelia was illustrating for is a spectacle, bigger than she expected, but I couldn’t help it.
Her publisher was all in when I pitched the idea of turning it into an art exhibition too, and now all of Chicago’s elite—my associates, friends, art collectors, critics—fill the room, their eyes drawn to the walls where her paintings hang like a gallery of dreams. Dragons, foxes, starlit forests, each one vibrant, alive, her brushstrokes, at once bold and delicate, a window into her soul.
They’re magnificent, every line a testament to the fire inside her.
I’m so proud of her it hurts.
I move through the crowd, shaking hands, nodding at compliments about her work.
“Her work is simply magical,” a gallery owner enthuses, his glass raised.
I grin, my heart swelling.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” a critic murmurs.
I grin, my heart swelling a little more.
Every now and again, my eyes keep finding Amelia.
Across the room in her emerald dress, the same one from the gala, its silk hugging her curves, the slit at her thigh unbelievably sexy and provocative.
Her hair is loose, framing her face, but I see the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers twist around her champagne flute.
Her bewitching eyes dart to me. She’s nervous, but she’s happy.
I know she is—but the crowd, the pressure, it’s got her wound up tight.
I’m talking to a board member, his voice droning about investment portfolios, when I glance over, and she’s gone, slipped out like a shadow.
My pulse quickens, a quiet worry flaring.
I excuse myself quickly and weave through the crowd.
I go past the glowing displays of her art.
One of the dragon’s eyes seems to follow me.
The lobby’s quieter. And there I find her, leaning against a column, her eyes closed.
“Amelia,” I say, my voice low, crossing to her, my hand grazing her arm. Her eyes snap open, as green and as wide as a field of dewy grass. She exhales, a slow smile curving her lips.
“You’ve come.”
“Of course.”
“I just needed some air,” she says.
“Don’t be nervous. It’s going good, Amelia. Great, even.”
“I know. I’m just…” She trails off, her gaze flicking back to the ballroom doors, where laughter spills out.
I step closer, my hand settling on her waist, the silk, warm under my palm. “No one can stop staring at your drawings,” I say, my voice steady, warm. “They’re breathtaking. You’re breathtaking.” I tilt her chin up, my thumb brushing her jaw, and her eyes soften, but the nervous edge lingers.
She grasps my jacket, her fingers curling into the lapels. “It’s going so well,” she says, her voice dropping secretively. “So why am I so freaking nervous?” Her eyes lock on mine, intense, searching, a spark flaring in their depths. “Maybe I need something to fire me up.”
“Yeah?” I ask, my voice low, a grin tugging at my lips. “So the room full of people dying to talk to you, didn’t do it for you?”
She steps closer, her body brushing mine, the heat of her sparking through me. “All I need is fifteen minutes,” she murmurs, her voice husky, a playful glint in her eyes. “Maybe ten, if you do that thing with your tongue that should be illegal.”
My grin widens. “Ten minutes?”
“Do you think they have a room available?”
I stare at her, my heart thudding, the air between us electric. I pull a key card from my pocket, the plastic cool in my hand. “I got it just in case you needed something to fire you up.”
She squeals with delight, an unguarded sound, and snatches the key, her fingers brushing mine, sending a jolt through me. “You’re unbelievable and wonderful. Your fifteen minutes start now.” She pulls me toward the elevators, her heels clicking on the marble.
She looks at her watch cheekily and raises an eyebrow.
I only shrug.
Seconds later, the elevator dings, and its doors slide open. We dash out, giggling like teenagers sneaking around, Amelia’s hand tight in mine. Her eyes are sparkling with mischief, and her cheeks are flushed.
We reach the room, and she fumbles with the lock, the plastic clicking until the door swings open, revealing a suite bathed in soft lamplight, white linen and dark wood.
I don’t wait. I have fifteen minutes, and I plan to go for the ten-minute deadline.
I push her gently against the door as it shuts, the wood cool against my palms, her body warm and yielding under mine.
“Max,” she breathes, her voice a husky whisper, but I’m already kneeling, my hands sliding up her thighs, pushing the silk dress higher, the slit baring her skin. Her scent—pussy heat—hits me, and I groan.
My lips brush the soft skin above her lace panties. I tug them down, her fingers tangle in my hair, as she melts against the door. My tongue finds her, wet and sweet, and I suck her whole sex into my mouth and do that thing that makes her come in three minutes flat.
“Fuck, Max,” she gasps, her knees buckling, and I feel her shatter, and her sweetness floods my senses.
I pull back then, my lips glistening, and look up at her—flushed, eyes heavy with pleasure, blonde hair spilling over her shoulders.
That’s my baby. That’s how I’ll remember her forever.
My chest aches with how much I love her.
I rise, scooping her up, her body light in my arms, and carry her to the bed, the mattress yielding under our weight.
I tug at her dress, the silk sliding off her shoulders, pooling at her waist before I pull it free, leaving her bare, her skin glowing in the lamplight.
She’s breathtaking, every curve beyond mesmerizing.
I can barely wait to have her. I strip off my jacket, my shirt, my pants, the fabric hitting the floor in a rush.
Her eyes darken, locked on mine, and she reaches for me, her hands pulling me down, her lips crashing into mine, hot and hungry.
We fuck—hard, rough, desperate.
I thrust into her, deep and fast. Each slam of my body sets us ablaze. The headboard thumps against the wall.
“I love you,” I growl, as we come together in a shattering wave. I look at my watch. We’ve made love with five minutes to spare. She giggles and shifts, propping herself on an elbow, her eyes searching mine.
“Let’s not go back,” she says, a naughty glint in her eyes. “Let’s disappear for the night, just you and me. No crowd, no eyes, just us.”
It’s tempting. Real tempting, but I know there are people downstairs who can make all Amelia’s professional dreams come true, and I’m not going to be selfish.
I laugh, shaking my head. “Amelia, you’ve got a room full of people down there, all here for you. Publishers, my friends, half of Chicago—they’re waiting to celebrate you.” I kiss her forehead, my lips lingering. “Nobody will forgive me if I vanish with the star of the show.”
She pouts, playful but serious, her hand sliding down my chest. “Ten more minutes,” she murmurs, her voice teasing, but her eyes are earnest, begging for a reprieve.
I shake my head again, sliding off the bed. “Nope, but hold that thought. It’ll be useful later tonight.” I head to the bathroom and take a towel from the rack. Wetting it with warm water, I return to her, and kneeling beside the bed, I open her thighs and clean her gently.
She watches me, her eyes softening, love radiating from her like a glow. “You take such good care of me, baby,” she whispers, her voice thick.
I lean in, and she pulls me into a kiss, long and deep, her lips warm, tasting of champagne. Her tongue dances with mine, slow, intimate, and I’m drowning in her, my hands cupping her face, but I pull back reluctantly.
“Come on,” I urge gently. “Let’s get you back to your adoring fans.”
She sighs, but nods.
We dress quickly. She slips back into the emerald dress, the silk gliding over her curves.
Then she turns to me, puts her hand in mine, fingers lacing tight, and we head to the door.
The elevator ride is quiet because I cannot stop staring at her.
I still can’t believe that she is mine. Then we step back into the ballroom, and her drawings seem to glow on the walls.
A testament to her brilliance. I watch as the crowd’s buzz wraps around, her carrying her away from me.
God, she’s beautiful.
Amelia
One Year Later.
The veil is a soft whisper against my cheeks, its delicate lace catching the golden light of the setting sun as I stand at the edge of the aisle.
Max’s mom, Ellen, is beside me, her hands gripping mine, her eyes glistening with tears.
Her graying hair is swept up, and her smile is radiant, trembling with emotion.
When Max and I got together, we went to see her, and she cried with happiness.
She had no choice but to go along with my father’s lie, as she needed the job and she knew my father would destroy her son if she didn’t agree, but her joy at seeing us together was unmistakable.
“Oh, Amelia,” she says, her voice thick, cracking, as she squeezes my fingers. “You’re so beautiful, so perfect. My Max is the luckiest man alive.” She leans in and kisses my cheek. Her lips are warm and dry, and the familiar scent of her rosewater perfume wraps around me like a hug.
I smile, my throat tight, tears pricking behind my eyes, and I squeeze her hand back, grateful for her warmth, her love.