Epilogue
ASHLEY
Iglance at the clock, then back at the rendering glowing on my screen.
This is it.
The last three-hundred-square-foot closet I will ever design.
No more glass-fronted shoe walls. No more jewel-lit islands for handbags that cost more than my first car. I’ve found something better—projects that use my skills in ways that actually matter.
It started with Tay.
She video called me one afternoon and announced that she’s done drifting. Done living in hotels and crashpads, and ready to put down some roots in a small town in western Colorado.
The caveat was that she wanted something small. Intentional. A place that could feel like home without taking up a huge footprint. She had the floorplan of this tiny house, but she wondered if it could be more efficient.
Was that something I could help her with?
I didn’t hesitate. I just said yes before she finished the sentence.
And then, out of the blue, I got a call from Simon. Apparently, having seen the digital renderings I’d made for Tay, he asked if I’d design one for him too. He’s talking about buying land outside the city. Fewer neighbors. More sky.
As for me and Beckett…
In a strange, hard-earned way, we’ve never been freer.
What we’ve learned—quickly—is that Beckett’s ability to sniff out a fraudulent investment is very much in demand. Apparently, the Aurrum PIPE thing had actually been cloaked pretty well, and the fact that he sniffed it out, well… it impressed some higher-ups in the SEC.
The irony isn’t lost on either of us.
Last week, they even offered him a position. A real one. Stability. Respectability.
He turned it down.
Consulting gives him more freedom. More control. And, frankly, it pays better—which matters, considering he’s set up a restitution trust with the bonus money he set aside. It makes direct payments to the people who lost their investments because of him. Without any fanfare.
And honestly, all of this, it’s kept us pretty busy.
Which is… good. Necessary, even.
Because we didn’t come out of the scandal untouched.
People read the headlines. They draw their conclusions, a lot of them pretty unforgiving. And even though it will probably blow over with time, we don’t feel particularly comfortable in our neighborhood these days.
The boys’ teacher has been wonderful—most of the staff, actually. They’ve done everything they can to protect them, to keep their days normal and safe. Still, a few friendships have quietly fallen away. Playdates cut off. Birthday invitations are conspicuously quiet.
I notice. I know they notice. And both Beckett and I try to fill those gaps. We’ve intentionally sought out different hobbies for them, activities we can do as a family.
But… It’s not the same as just playing with kids your own age.
So when we start talking about rebuilding our lives, selling the house becomes part of the conversation. Not running away—just choosing something better. Somewhere lighter.
The upside is that both of our jobs can be done remotely now. We’re not tied to a place, or a postal code, or other people’s opinions.
We haven’t decided where we’ll land yet.
Another adventure, maybe. And for the first time in our marriage, we’re not building a life that looks good from the outside.
We’re building one that keeps our family safe—and actually fits.
The garage door rumbles open, and I freeze at the table, stylus hovering above my tablet.
For the record, Beckett and I learned—after the cruise—that we should not have been nearly as creative as we were.
Or as… enthusiastic. According to Leo Keller, the licensed body piercer Beckett found here in town, there should have been no sexual activity—at all—for the first six weeks. Not even solo efforts.
So even though he’s come out of it… unscathed, he’s been given strict orders.
My poor, poor husband.
To be fair, I haven’t suffered. We’ve gotten very good at working around the rules. Resourceful. Inventive. Thorough.
And one of the best things to come out of all this is that we… talk. Like, before. During. After. And even in-between—when little ears aren’t around, that is.
Still…
I’m not complaining. Honestly. But—
I am literally squirming in my chair right now.
There comes a point when a woman doesn’t just need or just want—she aches for the full, unapologetic version of her husband. The ultimate connection. The kind that leaves her muscles complaining the next day.
And let’s be clear—pierced or not, Beckett’s unapologetic version has never disappointed.
But it’s been months—literally months. And we’ve both been so good.
Today, the temporary jewelry is being swapped for the permanent fit. It’s the appointment I have circled in red on the kitchen calendar.
And if things go well—if Beckett gets the green light—
The garage door makes that rumbling sound. I freeze.
Up. Up. Up. I hear the car pull in and then—down, down, down.
When I hear footsteps, I turn in my chair.
Beckett stands there for a beat, jacket still on, keys in his hand. His expression is unreadable.
Infuriating.
“Well?” I ask. My teeth catch my lower lip.
He says nothing. Just watches me.
Then—slowly—his mouth curves. That grin. The one that’s all confidence and promise.
My stomach does this little swoopy thing.
“That good, eh?” I say.
His eyes darken.
“All cleared.” He starts toward me.
Not walking.
Stalking.
Each step sends a thrill skittering up my spine.
“We have the house to ourselves.” My voice catches.
His gaze drops to my mouth. “So…”
“So…”
He closes the distance, palms bracing on the table as he leans in, caging me with his body.
“Where do you want to do this?” he asks, and his tone is pure sin.
My heart misses at least three beats.
But I don’t have to think about my answer. I’ve been thinking about this for nearly Six. Whole. Months.
“Our bed.” And before you say that’s lame or unimaginative, let me point out that I’m not seventeen anymore. And well… beds work really well for what I’m going to let this man do to me.
He arches a brow. “Not the kitchen table?”
I smirk. “Tempting. But let’s be smart. Soft. Cushiony. No need to rush…”
He lets out a soft laugh. “Practical. I like it when you're practical.”
“You like it when I beg,” I say, tilting my head just slightly.
His breath hitches. That one little sound makes me ache.
I duck under his arm, a flash of movement, and saunter past him.
But I don’t just walk. I sway.
“You coming?” I toss over my shoulder.
“Oh, I’m coming,” he says, voice already darkening.
Then I bolt.
Laughing, running, tugging my shirt over my head as I go, tossing it somewhere down the hall.
I am barely aware that he’s whipped his shirt off too.
Kicked off his shoes.
When I pretend to close the door on him, Beckett growls. “Oh, hell no—”
He pushes past me, catches the waistband of my skirt, and then we both fall onto our bed in a tangle.
Breathless.
I am literally STARVING for him.
For a beat, we just lie there, chests rising and falling, faces inches apart.
“You need to tell me if anything doesn’t feel right, okay?” he asks.
God, I love this man.
“I will,” I whisper, brushing my mouth over his.
He nods once. Serious. Steady.
“And tell me if I hit it,” he says.
It. The nerves behind my clit. We actually talk about these things in full, glorious, grown-up detail, and I love it.
I grin. “Let’s do this.”
My hands find the button of his jeans, unfastening him quickly. He lifts his hips to help, and in under two seconds, the hottest man I’ve ever known is naked and over me.
Radiating heat.
Breathing hard.
Absolutely gorgeous.
When I move to slide off my skirt, Beckett stops me.
“I like you like this,” he murmurs, his hand sliding under the fabric, over the curve of my thigh, to the warm center of me.
His fingers still. His eyes widen.
“Are you commando?” he asks, already knowing.
I am. And it’s not the first time.
Something I’ve been doing… randomly. Just because…
He groans, low and guttural. “You know it kills me, right? Every time I see you now, I wonder—is she or isn’t she?”
I grin. “Keeps things interesting.”
“You’re evil.”
“I like keeping you guessing,” I say, lifting a brow, “It’s my secret weapon.”
He shakes his head, eyes dark and reverent and ruined. “As if you need any more…” Beckett’s eyes burn into me.
Then he shifts, lifting himself just slightly, braced above me.
His eyes sweep over my face, serious again. “Why do I feel like I’m test-driving a new car?”
We both laugh—nervous, breathless, so ready.
And then the laughter fades.
Because I want him.
All of him.
And my awareness of what’s new—what’s pierced, what’s healed, what’s different—is suddenly sharper now.
“Just go slow, okay? At first.”
He nods. “You set the pace. You say stop, we stop. You say slower, we slow down.”
I nod once, biting my lip. “And if I say more?”
That grin comes back—wicked and devastating.
“Then buckle up.”
He lowers himself slowly, bracing his weight on his forearms, watching my face for even the smallest reaction.
Like every breath I take matters.
When he presses into me, it’s familiar at first—the stretch, the heat, the way my body just opens for him. But then—
I gasp, hands clutching at his shoulders.
Because there’s more.
A sharper edge to the sensation. Fuller. Deeper, somehow. A low, surprised sound tears out of me as he slides farther in, inch by careful inch.
“Do you—” I suck in a breath. “Does it feel different for you?”
His head drops back, a hoarse laugh breaking out of him. “God… yeah.” He swallows hard, jaw tight. “It’s—yeah. I feel it.”
The sound of his voice—wrecked, stunned—almost ends me right there.
He pushes in a little more.
And—
Oh.
“There,” I moan, the word barely making it past my lips.
He freezes instantly. “There?”
“Yes,” I breathe. “Right—right there.”
His eyes snap back to mine, focused. He shifts his hips just a fraction, angling himself—
And hits it again.
I cry out, my back arching off the bed.
The sensation is intense—deliciously overwhelming—familiar pleasure sharpened into something almost electric. Tay was right…
“Fuck,” he groans. “Ashley…” So right.
He rolls his hips slowly, deliberately, grinding into me instead of thrusting, and every tiny movement drags that new point of contact exactly where I need it. There’s this new pressure that’s making my toes curl and my thighs shake.
“Yes,” I gasp. “Just—just like that.”
He stays there, moving in small, controlled circles, watching me fall apart under him. Watching my mouth open, my breaths turn ragged, my body tighten around him.
His lips curve into a strained smile. “More?”
I nod frantically. “Yes.”
He starts to move deeper now—slow, steady, every thrust deliberate—each one brushing that spot, lighting me up from the inside out.
It’s still him, still the man who knows my body better than anyone—but he’s pulling moans from me I didn’t know I had.
“God, Beckett—” I pant.
“I’ve got you,” he says, voice thick. “I’ve got you. Tell me if it’s too much.”
“It’s not,” I whisper, already shaking. “It’s perfect.”
He groans at that, forehead dropping to mine, hips snapping just a little harder, a little deeper. The friction builds fast—too fast—and I’m clinging to him, my body tightening, pleasure coiling low and sharp.
“More,” I breathe.
His grin is feral. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
He’s finding that spot again and again with maddening precision. Something about the piercing intensifies everything; every glide and grind of his hips sends shockwaves through me.
It’s almost too much.
Almost.
I dig my heels into the bed, hips lifting to meet him.
“Yes—Beckett—don’t stop—”
My voice breaks as the orgasm hits—relentless and blinding.
My body clenches hard around him, pleasure cresting and rolling through me in waves. I sob his name.
But he doesn’t stop.
He keeps moving—slower now, dragging it out—and my climax just keeps going. It doesn’t end. It crests again, building on itself, turning into something I have no control over.
“Beckett—oh my—”
“I know,” he pants. “Fuck, I know. Ashley—Jesus—”
His rhythm falters. I feel it—the shudder in his body, the way he starts to lose control.
“I can’t,” he chokes out. “I can’t—”
His mouth crashes into mine and then he breaks.
I feel him pulse inside me, his whole body seizing with the force of it, groaning into my mouth like we’re one single person.
My body clenches again around him, another climax rolling through me. One of us makes a guttural sound that shakes me to my core.
Me. I think it’s me.
That… Wow.
We stay locked like that—tangled, trembling, gasping—until the world stops spinning.
His head is buried in the crook of my neck, one arm heavy across my waist, the other tangled in my hair.
My thighs are trembling. I’m not sure when I’ll be able to move again.
Eventually, Beckett lets out a low, wrecked laugh. “Okay… well. That was definitely worth the wait.”
I smile, staring up towards the ceiling. “Told you bed was the right call.”
He shifts just enough to meet my eyes, one brow lifting. “This time. I was thinking this might be fun in the office.”
I swat at his shoulder. “Just so long as we use your desk this time. It took me hours to get mine back to how I like it.”
He grins. “I’ll show you how you like it…”
“Oh my God,” I groan, laughing, and hide my face against his chest. “Don’t talk.”
We fall quiet again.
His hand strokes lazily up and down my thigh. Gentle now. Thoughtful.
“You good?” he asks softly, voice rough with spent pleasure and something deeper.
I nod, my heart squeezing. “More than good.”
He kisses my temple. “Anything feel off? Weird? Too much?”
I shift under him, testing my limbs, my hips, the lingering sensitivity between my legs. And then I smile.
“That felt like exactly six months’ worth of delayed gratification, executed to perfection.”
Beckett exhales through his nose, maybe a little smug. “So… I can keep it?”
“The piercing?” I look up at him. “You’d better.”
He kisses me again. Slow this time. Sweet.
When we finally pull apart, I sigh, settling back into the pillow with a contentment so full it’s almost dizzying.
Outside, a car drives by. Somewhere down the block, a dog barks. The real world ticks on.
—The End—