Epilogue
Susanna
Six months later.
I'm standing in our kitchen, making coffee, when Teller comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist.
"Morning, Mrs. Penderson," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my neck.
"Morning yourself."
He's been calling me that more often lately—Mrs. Penderson—like he's reminding himself that I'm his wife. That I chose to stay.
And I did choose to stay. Every day, I choose him. Just like he chooses me.
The past six months haven't been perfect. We've had arguments, moments of doubt, times when the old hurts resurfaced. But we've worked through them together. We've gone to couples therapy, learned how to communicate better, how to prioritize each other.
And we've never been happier.
"What are you thinking about?" Teller asks, turning me in his arms.
"Us. How far we've come."
"We've come pretty far, haven't we?"
"Yeah. We have."
He kisses me softly. "I'm proud of us. Proud of you for giving me another chance. Proud of myself for not fucking it up."
I laugh. "You haven't fucked it up. You've been amazing."
"I'm trying. Every day, I'm trying."
"I know. And it shows."
He's kept every promise he made. He comes home on time. He's present and engaged. He's cut Frank out of his life completely—blocked his number, unfriended him on social media, made it clear that their friendship is over.
It wasn't easy for him. Frank was his best friend for years. But Teller knew that keeping Frank in his life would be a betrayal of our marriage, and he chose us.
He always chooses us now.
"So," Teller says, his hands sliding down to cup my ass. "We have an hour before we need to leave for the airport. Want to make good use of it?"
We're flying to Italy today—the trip we've been planning for months. Two weeks of exploring Rome, Florence, and the Amalfi Coast. Just the two of us.
"An hour, huh?" I grin. "Think you can make me come in an hour?"
"Baby, I can make you come in ten minutes. The other fifty are just for fun."
He's not wrong. He knows my body better than I do sometimes, knows exactly what I need and when I need it.
He lifts me onto the counter, and I wrap my legs around his waist. We kiss deeply, passionately, and I can feel him hardening against me.
"Bedroom," I murmur against his lips.
"Too far."
He pulls my pajama shorts and panties off in one smooth motion, then frees his cock from his sweatpants. He's already hard, already ready for me.
"You sure?" he asks, his cock poised at my entrance.
"Always."
He pushes inside, and we both groan. No matter how many times we do this, it never gets old. He always feels perfect, like he was made for me.
He fucks me right there on the kitchen counter, hard and fast. His hand slides between us to rub my clit, and I'm coming within minutes, crying out his name.
"That's my girl," he growls. "Fuck, you're so perfect. So mine."
"Yours," I gasp. "Always yours."
He comes with a shout, burying himself deep inside me. We stay like that for a moment, both of us catching our breath.
"I love you," he says, pressing his forehead to mine.
"I love you too."
"Ready for Italy?"
"Ready for anything, as long as I'm with you."
He grins. "That's my girl."