46. Epilogue
Epilogue
post Vegas wedding
The apartment had settled back into its usual rhythm—soft, steady, full of the scent of roasted coffee, lavender detergent, and the subtle powdery sweetness that clung to Lola’s skin.
Our daughter had finally found a semi-consistent sleep stretch, and my body, though still catching up from everything it had carried, was learning to exhale again.
“You good?” I asked as I loaded the dishwasher, wiping my hands on a dish towel.
He was leaning against the counter, barefoot in joggers, smirking like a man with a secret. “I’ve got something to show you.”
I gave him a skeptical look. “If it’s another framed shot of you kissing the Stanley Cup, I might divorce you before we’ve even got the license back.”
He chuckled, pushed off the counter, and came toward me with that slow, predatory stride that always made my knees a little less reliable. Then he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his joggers and dragged them low, just enough.
Right above his knee—inked clean, dark, and permanent—was my name.
Mallory.
The lettering was sharp, intentional. Feminine but not delicate. A name branded into skin like it was always meant to live there.
My breath caught.
“You didn’t,” I whispered, heart already thudding.
“I did,” he murmured, stepping close enough that I could feel the heat of him through my tank top. “Because you’re it for me. The only woman I’ll ever get down on my knees for.”
He brushed a kiss against my jaw, checked the baby monitor—Lola was out cold, limbs splayed, looking like a tiny queen asleep in her crib—and turned back to me with fire in his eyes.
Then he dropped to his knees. Right there on the kitchen tile, palms sliding up my thighs, fingertips curling around my hips.
“Jaymie,” I breathed, back arching as he pulled my shorts down in one smooth, deliberate motion. “Are you serious right now?”
“ Deadly,” he said. “I just inked your name on my body, Mal. You think I’m stopping at a tattoo?”
He kissed my inner thigh, open-mouthed, slow, his stubble scraping just enough to make me twitch.
“You’re mine,” he growled. “Let me prove it.”
And then his tongue was on me—warm and wicked, sliding through slick heat like he had all the time in the world.
He moaned against me like I was his favorite meal, and I shattered so fast I nearly lost my balance.
He held me open, kept going, licking deeper, firmer, until I was gasping and grabbing for him, nails in his hair, hips rocking against his mouth like I couldn’t get enough.
I came with a cry, thighs trembling, hands clawing at the edge of the counter.
But he didn’t stop. Didn’t let me catch my breath. When he finally stood, mouth wet, pupils blown, I yanked him down into me, desperate. His joggers dropped to his ankles. He lined up and pushed in all at once—thick and hard and home.
“Oh my God,” I moaned, head falling back against the cabinet.
“You like seeing your name on me?” he asked, voice rough as he drove into me again.
I could only nod.
“Say it.”
“I love it,” I gasped. “Fuck—Jaymie, I love you.”
His grip tightened on my thighs as he started to move faster, fucking me right there on our kitchen counter like I was the only thing keeping him alive.
Every thrust was a vow. Every kiss, a reminder that this wasn’t some Vegas high.
This was ours. And when we came—together, shaking, ruined—I clung to him like a lifeline, panting against his shoulder, the name on his knee still burning into my mind.
He looked at me after, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth, and whispered, “You’re forever.”
And I believed him.
Because even in the aftermath, even with my legs still wrapped around his hips and the baby monitor blinking on the counter, I’d never felt more like someone’s everything.
We moved like fire—clashing, clinging, completely lost in each other.
And as we fell apart together on that countertop, my name still inked into his skin, I realized this wasn’t the end of the story.
It was the beginning.