Epilogue
The bookstore looks different at five o’clock than it did five years ago.
My display is still by the front window, and I still keep it stocked with books I love.
But there’s a kids’ section now, tucked into the back corner where the extra inventory shelving used to be.
Small chairs, a rug with constellations on it, and board books in low bins that tiny hands can reach.
A stuffed bear sits in the reading chair—a bear I didn’t put there.
Mack did. He brings something new for the corner every few weeks and pretends he doesn’t.
Mack’s mom has the girls tonight. Scarlett is three and Luna is only one, and they both keep us more than busy. My mother-in-law drives up from Denver once a month and spoils them in ways I pretend to disapprove of, and Mack pretends he didn’t coordinate the whole thing.
The bell rings. Mack fills the doorway in his station uniform—the same dark tee, the same boots, the same grin.
The ring catches the light when he leans over the counter and kisses me, the way it has every evening for four years.
He crosses the shop, leans over the counter, and kisses me, and I can smell smoke and soap and the coffee Lea slipped him on his way through the courtyard.
“I need to show you something,” he says.
“What?”
“It’s at the station.”
“Mack.”
“Trust me.”
I lock up the shop and walk with him down Prospect Street in the late light. His hand is around mine, and he’s talking. He’s always talking. I’m laughing at something he said about Dean and a ladder drill when we turn the corner and the station comes into view.
It’s empty. The bay doors are up, the overhead lights are on, and the engine is parked inside, gleaming under the fluorescents. No crew. No noise. Just the truck and the big quiet space and Mack pulling me through the bay door with that grin.
“You didn’t,” I say.
“Cleared it with Holt.”
“You told Holt?”
“I told Holt I needed the station for an hour. He didn’t ask questions. Holt never asks questions.”
He lifts me up onto the engine, his hands sure under my thighs, and the metal is cold through my jeans.
The bay doors rumble down behind us with a heavy finality that echoes through the cavernous space.
Overhead lights flick off, plunging everything into shadow except for the faint amber spill from the streetlamps outside.
Mack’s boots hit the running board, then he’s crowding me into the open cab of the truck. The space is suddenly small and intimate, thick with the scent of diesel.
“Mack,” I breathe, but it’s half laugh, half plea.
His mouth is on mine in seconds, hot and demanding, tongue sliding against mine like he’s been starving for this all day. My back hits the cool leather of the jump seat and I arch into him, fingers digging into the stiff fabric of his uniform shirt.
The echo of our breathing fills the cab—ragged, urgent. Outside, nothing but silence and vast empty bays. Inside, only heat.
He strips my sweater over my head in one rough motion, lips trailing down my throat, teeth grazing my collarbone.
My bra disappears next. The contrast is dizzying—cold air on my skin, his mouth burning as he sucks a nipple between his lips.
I moan, the sound bouncing off the metal walls, and he growls against me, the vibration shooting straight between my legs.
“Been thinking about this since I left this morning,” he mutters.
He shoves my jeans down my hips. I kick them off along with my shoes, clumsy in the tight space, but he doesn’t care.
His palm slides up my thigh, fingers finding me already wet and aching. Two thick fingers push inside without warning and I cry out, hips jerking against his hand. He works me open with steady strokes, thumb circling my clit until my thighs shake.
But he doesn’t let me chase it. Instead he drops to his knees on the narrow floorboard, broad shoulders spreading my legs wider.
The position is filthy and perfect in the cramped cab—my back against the cool leather seat, one leg hooked over his shoulder, the other braced against the dashboard. Cold metal presses into my skin wherever he isn’t touching me.
Then his mouth is on me, hot and insistent, tongue dragging slowly through my folds before circling my clit with devastating precision.
I moan, loud and unrestrained, the sound swallowed by the close metal walls.
He licks and sucks like he has all the time in the world—long, filthy strokes of his tongue followed by tight, focused suction—while two thick fingers curl deep inside me, stroking that perfect spot until stars burst behind my eyelids.
My hands fist tight in his hair, holding him right where I need him as the pleasure coils tighter and tighter.
“Mack—oh God?—”
He doesn’t let up. His tongue flutters fast over my clit, fingers thrusting steadily, until the orgasm crashes into me hard and sudden.
I come with a sharp cry that fills the empty station, thighs trembling around his head, hips grinding desperately against his mouth as wave after wave rolls through me.
Only when the last tremors fade does he rise from between my legs, lips shiny and eyes blazing with hunger. In one smooth motion, he moves to the wide jump seat and pulls me with him.
“Fuck, Ellie,” he growls, voice low and rough as I straddle his lap. “Look at you—soaking my face, coming so pretty on my tongue like a good girl. Think you can handle more?”
I tug frantically at his belt. He helps me shove his pants down just enough, and then he’s free—hard, heavy, and pulsing in my palm. I stroke him once, twice, but he’s already too impatient. He removes my hand, grips my hips, and guides me down.
I sink onto him in one slow, relentless motion.
A broken moan tears from my throat. He’s so thick, stretching me open, filling me so completely I feel him everywhere. The sensation is overwhelming—burning pleasure edged with that perfect bite of too much—my walls still fluttering and sensitive from my first orgasm.
“That’s it,” Mack groans, the sound deep and filthy, reverberating off the metal walls.
“Take every inch, baby. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?
Getting fucked in my truck like you own it.
” His hands grip my ass hard, fingers digging in as he guides me.
“Whole damn station’s empty and you’re still trying to be quiet. Let me hear you.”
I brace my hands on the cold metal roof above us and start to ride him, slow at first, savoring the drag and stretch with every roll of my hips. The contrast hits me again—his scorching heat inside me, the chill of the truck’s interior against my bare skin.
The cab fills with the wet, obscene sounds of our bodies meeting. The slick slide of him moving in and out, the rhythmic creak of the seat, my gasping moans echoing back at us.
He thrusts up to meet me, harder, deeper, and I cry out sharply. Every stroke hits that perfect spot, sending sparks racing up my spine. The truck rocks steadily now, a constant reminder of exactly where we are—in the middle of the station, surrounded by cold metal and silence except for us.
“Shit—you feel so fucking good,” he rasps against my neck, biting down lightly. “So tight. So wet. Come on, Ellie. Let the whole bay hear how pretty you sound when you come on my cock.”
The dirty words, the sheer heat of him, the knowledge that we’re doing this here—on the engine, in his world—push me over the edge. I shatter around him with a sharp, echoing cry, clenching tight, my whole body trembling as pleasure crashes through me in pulsing waves.
He follows right after, burying himself deep with a guttural groan of my name, hips stuttering as he comes hard inside me, pulsing with every aftershock.
We stay locked together, panting, sweat cooling on our skin. Eventually he shifts us, and we climb down and settle against the side of the engine, breathless under the dark station lights.
We’re sitting on the floor of the bay in the dark, my head on his shoulder, his arm around me, the station quiet and enormous around us. Through the bay windows, Prospect Street glows amber under the streetlamps.
“You’re still here,” I say.
He presses his mouth to my hair. “I’m still here.”
I close my eyes. Five years ago, I watched the world through a bookstore window and told myself I was comfortable there. Five years ago, a man walked through my door and made me laugh out loud and I saw something behind his grin that changed everything.
I’m not behind the glass anymore. I haven’t been for a long time.