Epilogue
Tabitha
Five Years Later
“ Let’s go through the checklist one more time.”
I barely contain my groan. I love procedures as much as any other scientist, but this is the fourth time Marshall has wanted to double check our go bag.
“Okay,” I agree.
He shoots a look at me but goes through the list as he unpacks and then repacks the bag one more time. I know he’s worried and needs to feel in control of something. This is our first child and I’m overdue by two weeks.
It makes all our friends laugh that the two most punctual and precise people they know are having a child who is already late.
I’ve already made my peace with the likelihood that I will have a type B child.
I’m nothing like my own mother and it makes perfect sense to me that my own child would follow suit.
Marshall hasn’t accepted our fate yet.
“Should we pack more diapers?” he asks not looking up from the bag.
“The hospital will have diapers,” I remind him.
“What about another set of clothes? These might be too big,” he says even as he packs another tiny onesie.
I wait for him to finish packing the go bag as patiently as I can.
It’s sweet that he’s so worried about us.
I’ve been growing another human being for months and he’s done everything he can to make the process more comfortable for me.
He’s catered to my weird cravings. He’s helped me through my anxiety and my moments of panic. He was at every appointment and exam.
He's done everything he could to make this easier for me and now there’s nothing else to do but wait.
And we have another list. A list of approved activities that might help jumpstart the labor. I could spend my time eating spicy foods or stop by the spa for acupuncture, but I have another idea in mind.
“Marshall,” I call when my husband seems determined to go outside and recheck the car seat installation. “Can you help me with this?”
I hold out the bottle of castor oil. One of the Anderson sisters swore that it would induce my labor, but I can’t remember which one. Both had a dozen suggestions each. Regardless of whether it was Betty or Barb who recommended the clear liquid it’s one trick I won’t be trying.
My husband stops halfway out the door to return to where I recline on the couch.
“This is on the list?” he asks skeptically as he looks at the bottle. “Are you sure you want to take this stuff? It smells awful.”
Rather than answer I tug on his hand. He sits down beside me still eyeing the bottle.
“Forget the oil,” I mutter. “It was a ruse.”
His dark brown eyebrow rises as a smile tugs the corners of his mouth up into an easy smile.
“Surely my wife wouldn’t resort to trickery,” he says even as he slides the bottle onto a nearby table.
“Under normal circumstances, no.”
“Is something wrong?” he asks in a teasing tone. He makes no effort to stifle his grin. “Do you need help with something?”
“Marshall.” The word is both a warning and an entreaty.
“Come here,” he says reaching for me.
It’s a struggle to straddle his hips with my stomach protruding between us and his smile turns mischievous. The sight warms my heart even as my desire turns desperate.
“Eager, are we?”
“ Marshall, ” I growl.
He laughs even as I start unbuttoning his cargo shorts. He doesn’t bother hiding his prosthetic during the warmer months now. Therapy has done wonders to help him accept his body as it is.
“Lift your hips,” I order.
“I love it when you’re bossy,” he replies as he follows my request. “Remember what it was like when we were still trying to conceive? You were so adamant about not missing your ovulation window.”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
My dress lands on the floor as Marshall shimmies out of his boxer briefs.
“I’m not even mad that you’re using me,” he says before pressing a quick kiss to my lips.
“No sex for at least six weeks after,” I mumble against his lips. “We should be making the most of this time.”
His beard tickles my neck as he traces the length with his mouth.
“This could be our last chance,” I add breathlessly.
“Hm.”
He doesn’t need any more convincing. Considering there has scarcely been a night or morning where we haven’t made love I don’t think he needed any to begin with.
Marshall kisses me like he never wants to stop. Without breaking our kiss, he doesn’t stop touching me. He caresses my stomach, strokes my hips that have gotten softer with the weight gain and massages my breasts while avoiding my sensitive nipples.
Every gentle touch is a reminder of how much he cares.
“Tell me what you want, clever girl,” he whispers against my lips.
It’s a phrase that’s become familiar over the years. One that never fails to bring a smile to my face.
“Everything you’ve got, soldier boy.”
Arousal drips from my core as we rearrange ourselves on the couch. We’ve tried a variety of positions through the years, but we always return to our favorite. Marshall leans back, bracing his foot on the floor and helps me to move over him under his cock lines up with my core.
“Show me how much you want it.”
His cock slides into my pussy, my arousal coating the length as I ease down onto his lap. The feeling of him filling me, stretching me to fit him is unlike any other. The pulsating ache between my thighs only sharpens as we begin to move in unison.
Marshall uses his foot planted on the floor as leverage to thrust his hips up to meet mine as I rise and fall above him. Our bodies slam together with a ferocity that takes my breath away.
“You are fucking magnificent,” he moans.
“And your cock feels fucking amazing,” I reply making him laugh.
He looks up at me, admiration lighting his brown eyes. It’s impossible to feel more than a moment of insecurity as my body changes when he’s always looking at me like I’m a priceless masterpiece.
My orgasm rolls in like a warm summer storm, steady with spikes of lightening that makes my toes tingle as I roll and undulate my hips through the waves of bliss and pleasure. Marshall joins me with a groan. Warmth coats my walls as they pulsate and squeeze his cock, milking every drop of his seed.
Marshall shifts beneath me until I can lie comfortably on my side and still cuddle him.
“Have I told you lately that I love you?”
“Nope,” I say with a grin. We both know that it’s a blatant lie. It’s the first thing we say every morning.
“I love you,” he whispers against my forehead before pressing a chaste kiss to the damp skin.
“To the end of days,” I reply.
We lay on the couch for a while longer, dozing lightly before getting up and going about the rest of our day.
Four hours later my water breaks and we rush to the hospital to welcome our first child.
A daughter named Marianne after one of my favorite botanical artists.
Marshall cries the first time he holds our daughter, and his tears bring mine out.
We turned into a sobbing mess right there in the delivery room and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
The love I have for Marshall that already filled my heart matches the love I feel for my daughter. She’s a delicate pink creature with the lungs of a soprano and my husband’s eyes.
“She’s perfect,” Marshall whispers into my ear later when we’re curled up together on the hospital bed. We’re watching her sleep in the plexiglass crib rather than sleeping like we should.
“Yes, she is.”
The End
Thank you so much for reading The Mountain Man’s Clever Bride. If you loved Tabitha and Marshall's story, then you'll love Bay and Jessa's story in The Mountain Man’s Secret Bride by Wynter Ryan.
Start reading it HERE .
And if you're interested in reading about how a librarian with a hatred for dirt and bugs fell in love with a park ranger check out A Bride For Scott to read Victoria and Scott's love story.