Epilogue
RYLIE
Devon's construction office was dark except for the light spilling from his desk lamp.
Perfect.
I pulled into the empty lot, killed the engine, and sat there for a beat, heart thudding like I was twenty-three again and sneaking out past curfew. Except I was twenty-eight now. Married for four years. Mother to Carter, who’d just turned three, and Paisley, eighteen months of tutu-wearing energy.
The Thai food in the passenger seat released fragrant steam that fogged the windshield. I’d ordered all Devon’s favorites. But that wasn’t why I was here.
I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror. Hair down in loose waves I’d actually had time to style. Mascara still intact, untouched by sticky toddler hands. Lips painted deep red—the shade Devon only saw on rare occasions and usually ended up wearing courtesy of me.
And underneath the belted trench coat?
Well. He’d see.
My phone buzzed with a text from my mother-in-law. Both kids asleep. Carter made us read Goodnight Moon four times. Paisley refused to take off her tutu. They’re angels. Don’t rush back. Enjoy your evening.
God bless that woman.
Devon’s parents had been begging for a sleepover for months, but between his work and my three days a week at Dr. Hanson’s clinic, we’d never made it happen.
Until tonight.
His crew had wrapped up early for the day, and I knew he'd be here alone finishing paperwork. He always stayed late on Fridays, catching up on bids and invoices while the office was quiet.
I was about to make his week.
I grabbed the takeout and stepped into the cool October night. The trench coat swished around my bare thighs—because what I had on underneath barely counted as fabric.
The side door to the construction office was unlocked, the way it always was when Devon was working late. I slipped inside, my heels clicking softly on the worn hardwood floor.
The front room was empty—just desks and filing cabinets and the faint smell of sawdust that clung to everything Devon owned. Light glowed from his office at the back—the corner room he'd claimed when he and his crew moved into this building five years ago.
The door was cracked. I heard him talking, low and steady. Probably on the phone with a supplier or reviewing bids. Always working.
God, I missed him. Not just his body—though yes, absolutely—but him.
The way he listened to my rants about difficult pet owners.
The way he got up with Paisley at two a.m. without a single complaint.
The way he still looked at me like I was it, even when I smelled like spit-up and had no idea when my last shower was.
I set the takeout on the reception desk and unbuckled the trench coat. Then I knocked on his office door.
“Come in,” he called, distracted.
I pushed it open.
Devon sat behind his desk in a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, blueprints spread in front of him, pencil tucked behind his ear. His hair was a little longer than usual, curling at the edges. He glanced up, pencil still in hand—and froze.
The pencil clattered to the desk.
“Rylie.” My name came out strangled. His eyes widened, then darkened, trailing from my face to the coat still wrapped around me. “What are—”
I untied the belt.
The coat fell open.
His sharp inhale was the only sound in the room.
I was wearing black lace. A ridiculous amount of it, considering how little fabric was actually involved. A bra that pushed my breasts up in a way that defied physics. Panties that were more suggestion than coverage. Thigh-high stockings with a seam running up the back.
Devon stood slowly, eyes locked on me like I was the best thing he'd seen all week.
"I knew you'd be here alone," I continued, letting the coat slide off my shoulders. It pooled at my feet. "I brought food. Thai. Your favorite."
He moved around the desk, predatory and focused. "I don't give a damn about the food."
"No?" I tilted my head, trying for innocent and landing somewhere closer to desperate. "Then what do you give a damn about?"
He closed the distance between us in two strides, hands framing my face, mouth crashing into mine.
The kiss was hungry. Possessive. The kind that said mine and finally and I've been starving for you. I melted into him, hands fisting in his flannel shirt, pulling him closer. He tasted like coffee and frustration and home.
When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard.
"Do you have any idea," he growled against my lips, "how long it's been since I've had you to myself?"
"Six weeks," I whispered. "Two days. And approximately four hours."
"You've been counting."
"Haven't you?"
His hands slid down my sides, over the lace, burning through the thin fabric. "Every damn second."
"Then stop talking," I said, already working the buttons on his shirt, "and do something about it."
Devon’s mouth curved into that slow, wicked grin that still made my knees weak. In one effortless move, he hooked his hands beneath my thighs and lifted me, setting me on the edge of his desk like I weighed nothing.
Papers scattered. A coffee mug tipped and rolled, forgotten. All I could feel were the rough paper against the backs of my thighs and the heat of his palms sliding up to my hips.
He kissed me again—slower this time, deliberate—then trailed his mouth down my throat, teeth scraping lightly over my pulse before he dropped lower. When his lips closed over one lace-covered nipple, I arched hard, fingers threading through his hair.
The lace was wet in seconds, his tongue teasing until the fabric rasped deliciously against sensitive skin. He moved to the other breast, giving it the same torturous attention, until I was panting his name like a prayer.
Then he sank to his knees. Big hands pushed my thighs wider, spreading me open for him. He looked up once—eyes dark and feral—before his mouth descended.
The first slow lick over the lace had me gripping the edge of the desk. The second made me whimper. By the third, I was trembling, thighs shaking against his ears.
He hooked a finger under the soaked strip of fabric and tugged it aside, exposing me completely. Then his tongue found my clit—no teasing now, just perfect, relentless pressure.
He knew exactly how I liked it. Firm circles, then quick flicks, then that wicked suction that made my vision blur.
Pleasure coiled tight and fast, climbing so quickly I barely had time to gasp his name before I came, pulsing against his mouth, thighs clamping around his head as wave after wave crashed over me.
He didn’t stop until the last shudder left my body. Only then did he rise, his eyes never leaving mine.
I was still dazed and trembling when he tugged the ruined panties down my legs and let them drop to the floor. My fingers fumbled frantically with his belt, the button, the zipper—god, I needed him inside me now.
He sprang free, thick and hard and perfect, the head already slick. I wrapped my hand around him once, twice, then leaned forward and took him deep into my mouth.
The taste of him—salt and heat and Devon—made me moan around him.
My tongue traced the vein underneath, then swirled over the tip while my fingers cupped his balls, rolling them gently.
His hands fisted in my hair, hips jerking once before he forced himself still, letting me set the pace.
I took him deeper, hollowing my cheeks, loving the way his breath hissed out above me.
“Rylie—fuck—enough,” he growled, voice ragged.
He pulled back, hauled me to the very edge of the desk, and lined himself up. One hand gripped my hip while the other slid between us, thumb settling over my still-throbbing clit.
Then he slammed home.
I cried out—sharp and helpless—as he filled me in one brutal thrust. He was big everywhere, and the stretch burned so perfectly, I saw stars.
He didn’t pause, didn’t give me time to adjust. He pulled back and drove in again, deeper, harder, setting a punishing rhythm that had the desk creaking beneath us.
Each stroke dragged over that perfect spot inside me, his thumb circling my clit in tight, ruthless strokes. Pleasure coiled again, impossibly fast, tightening low in my belly. I wrapped my legs high around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper.
“Devon—oh God—right there—”
“Come for me again, baby,” he rasped, voice raw. “Let me feel it.”
That was all it took. I broke a second time, harder than the first, clenching around him so tight his rhythm faltered. I felt every pulse as he spilled inside me, hot and endless, our bodies locked together while we shook and shuddered through it.
For a long moment, the only sound was our ragged breathing and the faint tick of the wall clock. Eventually, he lifted his head, pressed a soft kiss to the bite mark he’d left, and laughed quietly against my skin.
“Jesus, Ry,” he said.
He eased out of me carefully, then grabbed a box of tissues from the drawer to clean us both up with gentle hands. I slid off the desk on wobbly legs and belted the coat loosely around my waist—nothing underneath but flushed skin and his marks.
Devon tucked himself away, buttoned just enough to be decent, and retrieved the forgotten takeout bag from the reception desk. We settled into the two ancient chairs in his office, knees touching, sharing spring rolls and pad thai straight from the containers.
Between bites, he stole kisses that tasted like chili sauce and us. "We should do this more often," he said, twirling noodles around the plastic fork, eyes soft on mine.
"Steal nights at your office and defile your desk?" I teased.
“That too.” He reached over, brushed a thumb across my lower lip. “But mostly just…us. Like this. I miss you even when you’re right there.”
My heart flipped over in my chest, same as it had the first time he ever said he loved me. I leaned across the corner of the desk and kissed him, slow and sweet.
“We’ll make it happen,” I promised. “Date nights. Babysitters. Whatever it takes.”
He smiled against my mouth. “Deal.”
I sat back, licked sauce from my thumb, and thought about the diabetic cat who’d brought us together five years ago. I owed that damn cat a lifetime supply of tuna—and maybe a little hard hat to match Devon's.