Epilogue One-Andrea
Parties are overrated.
And yeah, technically this one is mine.
My photography show. My wedding reception. My moment.
But right now?
There’s no way in hell I want to share him with anyone else.
So when he suggests we “go get ready,” I agree.
Only, I have other plans.
“What are you doing, Baby?” Remy growls, low and dangerous, as I close the door to our suite and throw the lock.
The sound of the deadbolt sliding home echoes like a promise.
“I don’t want to go to the party,” I whisper.
His eyes narrow. Then I see it—the memory sparking there.
The last time I said something like this. When he was supposed to play bodyguard at that gala, and instead, I dragged him into my bed and let him fuck me like I belonged to him.
The night I got pregnant.
My thighs clench with the memory. A sharp ache blooms low in my belly. My body remembers before my brain catches up. Wet. Hungry. So needy I can’t even pretend otherwise.
Now, months later, after the chaos of twins, IUD inserted, body healed, marriage tested and tethered tighter than ever—I know I can’t get pregnant right now.
But that doesn’t stop the fantasy.
That primal craving.
Him filling me, breeding me, painting my insides with his hot seed until it drips out of me.
Just the thought makes me sway against the door, my pulse a drumbeat in my ears.
“Yeah?” His voice is gravel now. He’s watching me, body taut, fists flexing at his sides.
“What do you want, Wife?”
I swallow hard, lifting my chin. “I want you.”
His tongue swipes slow across his bottom lip. “And what’ll you do to get what you want?”
The way he asks—like he already knows the answer, like he already owns me—undoes me.
“Anything,” I breathe. Because it’s true.
I step away from the door, eyes locked on his, and tug at the hidden zipper under my arm. It whispers open, and the golden gown slides down my body in a shimmering puddle at my feet.
For a beat, there’s silence.
Then his groan rumbles low, primal, as I stand before him in nothing but a sheer lace slip.
No bra. No panties. The filmy fabric leaves nothing to the imagination.
And the way he cups himself over his slacks? That thick, unmistakable bulge?
Fuck me, it’s hot.
“Jesus Christ, Andy,” he mutters, stalking closer like a predator. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”
I bite my lip. “Hopefully the same thing you’re doing to me.”
He snarls, catching my jaw in one big, rough hand, tilting my face up to his. His mouth hovers a breath from mine.
“You’re dripping for me already, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I gasp.
His lips crash onto mine.
Bruising. Demanding.
His tongue sweeps in like he owns me—and God help me, he does.
I moan into him, pressing my body against his. The lace catches on the rough drag of his palm as he slides his hand down, cupping my ass.
“Bed,” he orders, but I shake my head, breathless.
“No. Here.”
His eyes flare, then his smirk breaks like the devil himself just got an early Christmas gift.
“Here it is.”
He spins me, bending me forward over the sleek glass table that holds a half-dozen congratulatory bouquets from the gallery crowd.
Flowers scatter, petals falling around me like confetti.
My palms brace against the glass, my nipples hard against the cool surface, as his hand skims up the back of my thigh.
“Fuck, no panties,” he groans. “You are trying to kill me aren’t you, Andy Baby?”
I arch, spreading for him. “Maybe.”
His fingers slip between my folds, and I cry out at the slick, desperate sound of him finding me drenched.
“Well, if I had to pick a way to go.”
“Don’t even tease about that—” but then I’m moaning cause his fingers have found me.
Dripping,” he growls, circling my clit once before pushing two thick fingers inside me. “Like I knew you’d be.”
“Remy!” I choke out, already clenching, already trembling.
Then he pulls free, and I whimper at the loss.
A hiss of fabric, the metallic clink of his belt. And then his cock—not just hard, but steel—nudging at my entrance.
“You ready to be ruined again, Wife?”
“By you? Always,” I pant.
And then he thrusts in, one long, brutal stroke that knocks the air from my lungs and has me crying out his name.
“Remy!”
The table shudders under us as he pounds into me, every stroke deep and relentless, every sound we make tangled together—the wet slap of skin, my gasping moans, his guttural grunts.
“That’s it,” he growls against my ear, fucking me harder, faster. “Take me. Take all of me.”
“Yes, more!” I sob, clutching at the glass.
“You gonna milk me, Baby? Gonna pull every drop from my balls?”
“God, yes!”
And when my orgasm rips through me—violent, electric, tearing me open and putting me back together all at once—I scream his name like a prayer.
He follows, roaring low and filthy, pulsing hot inside me, filling me until I swear I can feel him everywhere.
We collapse against each other, tangled in sweat and heat and love and fury. And when he lifts me after, carrying me to bed like I weigh nothing at all, I know one truth down to my bones.
Parties really are overrated.
This? Him? Us?
This is everything.