Epilogue
Reece—Five Years later…
F ive years. It doesn’t sound like much when I say it out loud. But I feel every second of it when I look at her.
She steps out of the black car in a white dress that clings to her like a second skin. No bra. No coat. Just satin, skin, and the kind of confidence that used to be wrapped in sharp sarcasm and now drips from her in soft, lethal waves.
My wife. Still the most dangerous thing I’ve ever touched.
Her heels dangle from one hand, a grin playing on her lips as she approaches me with that slow, teasing sway that should be illegal on a quiet Chicago sidewalk.
“Let me guess,” she says. “You rented it out again?”
I take her in, hair twisted up like she didn’t try too hard, eyes glowing under the golden streetlights, a hint of that perfume I bought her for our first Christmas curling through the air between us.
“I had to,” I say. “Tradition.”
She raises a brow. “Our tradition is getting drunk at a dive bar where the floors are sticky and the jukebox is cursed?”
“Our tradition,” I correct, stepping closer, “is coming back to the place where I first realized I was fucked.”
She laughs. “You were halfway to fucked when I sat down at your table.”
“No,” I admit, my fingers brushing the exposed curve of her back. “I was fucked the second I saw you walk in the door.”
I open it for her, and she steps inside.
The tables are empty. The jukebox hums quietly in the background with something old and soulful.
Our booth, the one we’ve christened a few times since that first night I rented this place out, is set with white linens, a bottle of wine, two glasses, and a single vase filled with peonies.
She pauses, not saying a word, only staring.
“This is…” she breathes, blinking slowly. “You remembered everything.”
I step up behind her and press my mouth to her shoulder. “I remember every version of you I’ve ever met. But this one, this one’s my favorite.”
She turns, eyes glassy. “You’re gonna make me cry before the wine’s even poured?”
“I figured I’d start strong.”
I pour us each a glass and guide her into the booth. She slides across the cracked vinyl and stretches her legs out, one bare thigh brushing mine.
She’s not wearing panties. I know it before I confirm it. But I confirm it anyway with one slow slide of my hand under the table, brushing the inside of her thigh until I find slick, heated skin. She inhales sharply.
“Reece…”
“Five years,” I murmur, pressing my thumb against the spot that makes her hips twitch. “And you still get wet for me like it’s the first time.”
She grips the edge of the table, her breathing shallow. “You’re going to make me break this wineglass.”
I ease my hand back slowly. Deliberately. Let her sit in it.
Her glare is full of heat. “You’re mean.”
“You love it.”
I raise my glass and clink it gently against hers.
“To us.”
“To depravity,” she replies.
“Same thing.”
We sip and set the glasses down. Then I pull a small frame from my coat and slide it across the table.
She furrows her brow as she picks it up. Inside is her old résumé. The one she emailed me when she applied to be my assistant. Across the top, scribbled in black ink in my handwriting, it says:
Most overqualified woman I ’ ve ever hired.
Also the only one I ever begged to stay.
Now my wife, my muse, and the reason I believe in second chances.
Her lips part. Her eyes dart to mine. And she launches herself across the table into my lap.
“This is stupid,” she whispers, burying her face in my neck. “This is so stupid and sweet and gross and I fucking love you.”
I chuckle against her hair. “I should’ve had it engraved.”
“Next year,” she mutters.
She pulls back enough to look at me, her legs still straddling mine, her body warm and pressed against my chest.
“You know what I remember most from that night?”
I shake my head.
“You watched me. But not like the other guys in that bar. You looked at me like you wanted to take me apart. Like you already knew what was under the armor.”
“I did,” I say softly. “I still do.”
She shifts on my lap, slow and purposeful, grinding against the bulge she’s definitely noticed. I grip her hips and she smirks.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warn.
“Why?” she purrs. “Afraid I’ll make you come in your dress pants?”
I growl low in my throat and tighten my grip. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Exactly,” she murmurs, her pussy grinding down hard against my cock. “You know you can’t say no to me.”
“Not here.”
“Then take me somewhere else.”
She leans in, lips brushing my jaw. “You’ve got five years of anniversary sex to give me, baby. You really going to waste time drinking wine?”
I glance at the flickering candle. The empty booth. The low jazz. And then back to her. No panties. No shame. No hesitation.
“Come on,” I say, standing with her in my arms.
She laughs as I carry her toward the back door, the frame still clutched in one hand, her shoes abandoned beneath the booth. The second the door clicks shut behind us, I pin her against the brick wall.
Not roughly but firmly. Like I need her still. Like I never stopped. Her hands cup my face, nails scraping my jaw like she’s trying to mark me with every second we waste not fucking.
I brace one hand beside her head and the other beneath her ass, holding her steady as I lean in.
“You still wreck me, Skye Blackwood.”
She smirks. “Good. I’d hate to think marriage made you soft.”
“I’m hard right now.”
Her eyes sparkle, wicked and wild. “Prove it.”
I drag my mouth down her neck, tongue tracing the edge of her collarbone as she lets out a gasp that makes my cock throb.
“No bra. No panties. You came to this bar to get ruined.”
“I came,” she whispers, “because I knew you’d take me apart.”
I growl and capture her lips, thrusting my tongue into her mouth in a kiss that borders on brutal. She moans, hips grinding against mine, dress hiked up to her hips now, bare skin against my slacks. I can feel her heat. Her slickness. She’s soaked for me already.
“You’re so fucking wet,” I murmur, sliding two fingers between her thighs. I don’t tease this time. I sink in. Deep. Rough. She claws at my shoulders.
“God— Reece?—”
“You want my cock in you, baby?” I thrust my fingers harder, curling them just right. “Or should I just make you come like this and leave you begging in a back alley?”
“You’re such a bastard,” she pants.
“You like it.”
I add a third finger. She’s tight. Pulsing. Already close.
“I could make you scream right here. Against this wall. Let anyone walking past hear how good your pussy sounds when it sucks me in.”
“Do it,” she hisses. “Make me scream.”
I yank my hand away. Her cry of frustration makes me grin.
“Not until you tell me,” I say, grabbing her chin, forcing her to look at me.
“Tell you what?”
“What forever feels like.”
She blinks, dazed.
“Tell me, Skye. Tell me how it feels to be mine. Five years later. Still dripping for me.”
She breathes hard, eyes locked on mine.
“Like this. Like you wrecking me and putting me back together in the same breath. Like every time you touch me, I remember who I am.”
I fucking lose it. I drop my slacks just enough, wrap her thighs tighter around me, and slide home in one desperate, punishing thrust. She gasps, then screams my name. And that’s all I need.
I fuck her against the wall, her dress bunched around her waist, my hand around her throat, my cock buried so deep she can’t breathe without me.
“This pussy,” I growl, thrusting hard, “is mine.”
“Yes. Fuck. Yes, Reece?—”
“I should’ve claimed you here five years ago. Should’ve made you walk out of this alley with my cum running down your thighs.”
She shudders.
“I still can,” I whisper, biting her earlobe. “Still can make you come until you beg me to stop. Until you forget your name. Until you remember you’re only mine.”
Her head falls back, exposing her throat. I lean in, licking the sweat from her skin. She tightens around me, her moans getting higher, needier.
“You close, baby?”
“God, yes?—”
I pull out. She whimpers. Actually whimpers . Then I flip her, press her chest to the brick, and bend her over. She plants her hands against the wall. Her legs shake. I grab her hips and slam back in. She screams.
“Fuck, Reece. Oh my God?—”
I pound into her, filthy and rough, watching my cock disappear into her over and over. Her back arches. Her thighs quake.
“You feel that?” I groan. “That’s what being fucked by someone who owns you feels like.”
“I’m yours,” she gasps. “I’m fucking yours.”
I reach around and rub her clit, fast and hard. She shatters. Her body jerks, her knees nearly giving out, her orgasm loud and raw and messy. I grab a fistful of her hair and keep going, slower now. Deeper. Crueler.
“I want you dripping all night. Every time you shift in your seat, I want you to feel how full I left you.”
“Yes, please. Oh God, please?—”
I pull her back against my chest, hand around her throat, and fuck her slow, possessive, like I’ve got all night.
“I love you.”
And I come. Hard. Growling her name like a fucking war cry as I spill inside her. We collapse together, breathing hard, her head on my chest, our skin slick with sweat and sex and everything we’ve survived to get here.
I kiss her temple. Her cheeks. Her mouth. She blinks up at me, dazed and glowing.
“I think you fucked me to death.”
“Not yet,” I say. “But I plan to.”
She laughs, weak and breathless. She’s still catching her breath when I ease her down. Her legs are unsteady. Her skin flushed. Her eyes so glazed over with bliss it makes my chest ache.
“Shoes,” she mumbles, glancing toward the back door.
I nod. “I’ve got you.”