Epilogue #2
Her fingers work at my shirt. Mine move under her dress, up her thighs, over the warm bare skin above her stockings. She opens for me without hesitation, and when I find her cunt through the thin fabric of her underwear, she’s already wet enough to make both of us go still.
Her eyes meet mine. No hiding.
I push the fabric aside and stroke her with two fingers, slow at first, watching her face as my thumb finds her clit.
Her lips part. Her eyes flutter, then open again because she wants to watch me too.
I circle her clit with steady pressure, and her hips lift into my hand, impatient despite the sweetness of the moment.
“You are beautiful,” I say.
She swallows. “Don’t become romantic now. I won’t survive it.”
“I mean it.”
“I know. That’s the problem.”
I lower my mouth to her breast through the dress, then tug the neckline down until her tits spill into my hands. Her nipples are already tight, her skin warm, and when I take one into my mouth, her fingers clamp hard around my shoulder.
“Damir.”
I suck her slowly, then harder, using my tongue until her body tightens under me. My hand keeps working between her legs. Her cunt gets wetter against my fingers, her clit swollen under my thumb, and every small sound she makes goes straight to my cock.
This time I don’t rush. This time I want to feel her choose every second.
I move to her other breast and take that nipple into my mouth, sucking until she arches so hard her back leaves the sofa. Her thighs close around my hand, and I press my fingers deeper, curling them inside her while my thumb keeps its rhythm on her clit.
She comes with my name in her mouth. Her orgasm rolls through her in a tight, helpless shudder, her cunt clenching around my fingers, her body pulling inward and then opening under me again. I keep my mouth on her breast until she pushes at my head with a shaky breath.
“Too much.”
I lift my head. “You always say that after you take more.”
She glares at me, but her eyes are wet and soft now. “I changed my mind about the romance. Go back to being impossible.”
“I can do both.”
“Unfortunately.”
I unfasten my trousers, and she reaches between us to help, her hand closing around my cock with enough certainty to make my breath stop. She strokes me once, then again, eyes on mine the whole time, and the sweetness shifts into heat so quickly I almost lose patience.
I move over her, nudging her thighs wider with my knee. “Tell me if anything hurts.”
“I will.”
“Tell me if you want me to stop.”
“I will.”
“Tell me you love me again.”
That stills her hand. For a second, she only looks at me. Then she smiles, and this time it’s real. “I love you.”
I kiss her as I push inside.
She takes me slowly, her body tight and wet around my cock, her hands gripping my back as I fill her inch by inch.
I keep the pace controlled because she’s still sensitive and because the child inside her changes nothing and everything about how I touch her.
She wraps her legs around my waist and pulls me closer when I pause.
“I’m not glass,” she whispers.
“No.”
“Then move.”
I do. Slow, deep strokes at first, each one making her breath catch against my mouth.
Her body welcomes me, soft and hot, her cunt gripping me in a way that makes my arms tense with the effort not to take more than she can give.
She tilts her hips, and the angle changes.
I feel her response immediately, the way her nails dig into my shoulders, the way her mouth opens without sound.
“There,” I say.
She nods, breathless. “There.”
I keep hitting that place, steady and deep, while my mouth moves over hers, her jaw, the side of her neck below the bruise but never over it. Her hands slide into my hair again, holding me close, and when I slip one hand between our bodies to rub her clit, she breaks against me almost at once.
Her second orgasm is softer but deeper, her body clenching around my cock while she whispers my name into my mouth.
I follow a few strokes later, burying myself inside her and holding still as I come, my forehead pressed to hers, my hand spread over her lower stomach with a care that makes her breath catch.
When it’s over, neither of us moves for a while.
I stay inside her until my body softens, then ease out carefully and pull her dress down enough to cover her before gathering her against me on the sofa. She comes willingly, cheek against my chest, one hand resting between us over her stomach.
“I was scared to tell you,” she says after a long silence.
“I know.”
“You made that fear worse.”
“I know.”
Her fingers press lightly into my shirt. “Don’t do it again.”
“I won’t.”
“And don’t say that unless you mean it.”
I kiss the top of her head. “I mean it.”
She’s quiet for another moment. Then she says, “Are we really going to be okay?”
I look down at her, at my wife in my arms, at the ring still tied to her finger, at the hand she keeps over our child. “No,” I say honestly. “Not easily.”
She lets out a small breath that is almost a laugh. “That was not comforting.”
“It was true.”
“Try both.”
I hold her tighter, careful not to press too hard. “We are going to be okay because we will stop deciding alone.”
She turns her face up to mine. “That was better,” she says.
“I am improving.”
“Slowly.”
I kiss her once, softer than before. “I love you.”
Her eyes close briefly. When they open, there’s still fear there, and grief, and anger that will take longer than one confession to leave. But there is trust too. Not full. Not blind. Enough to begin.
“I love you too,” she says.
Outside the music room, the house remains quiet, but for the first time in weeks, it doesn’t feel like a room waiting for the next wound.
It feels like a place where something might survive.
The End.
My dearest reader, thank you for reading Marrying the Savage!
P.S. If you enjoyed reading Marrying the Savage, then I think you’ll enjoy Marrying the Silver Fox! Swipe to the next page for a quick sneak peek…