Epilogue #2
The house creaks under us…old wood, old stone, the wind blowing outside.
The stairs are narrow; photos going back generations hang on the walls: Adam at six on a fat pony, Fiona with her front teeth gone, a thirty-year-old wedding picture of Skye and Jamie, Jamie in a kilt, Skye laughing at something out of frame. Beautiful. Home.
I stop on the landing, staring at little Adam grinning in his picture. The same bandit’s grin. At six.
“Adam.”
He leans into me, his arms circling my body. “Aye, love.”
I lean back, giving him my weight. “You were cute.”
“…aye, I was.”
“You were adorable. ”
He chuckles. “Get in the room, hen.”
“Your cheeks …”
He scoops me up and carries me the rest of the way.
Kicks the door open, steps in, and pushes it shut.
We’re in his childhood bedroom. It has big, low-beamed, white walls, a wide bed under the window, a wooden trunk at the foot, and an old desk with a row of books.
The curtains are drawn back, and we can see the dark loch outside, reflecting the moon.
My husband sets me on the bed and stands over me. The grin is gone as he looks down at his wife in his childhood bed.
“Sweetheart.”
“…yes.”
“Take off your dress.”
I reach back with shaking fingers, find the zipper, drag it down, and shrug out of the sleeves, while Adam’s staring with his hand on his belt, his full lips parted, those Mad Scot eyes blown black.
And Lord, we’ve done this so many times in the last two weeks, and it still feels like the first time. Every damn time.
I push my dress over my hips, down my legs, and kick it off. My bra and panties follow. And through it all, his eyes never leave me…
And now I’m naked in Adam Maksimov’s childhood bedroom, in his family home, on his land, in the Highlands of Scotland.
“Adam.”
“Mm.”
“Are you going to…”
“Aye, hen. In a minute.”
He’s just looking. That porch-on-day-one look.
The kitchen-counter look. The altar look.
The , I am takin’ my fuckin’ time lookin’ at what’s mine, look.
His eyes slowly traveling down my body. They linger, go again, come back, like he can’t decide where to land: my thighs, the soft of my belly, my full breasts.
His voice drops to gravel, “ Christ, look at ye. All fucking mine.” His hand flexes at his side. “I could spend a year on your thighs alone.”
I burst into flames. All over. Tingling, shaking, breath short, pussy spasming, clit throbbing, nipples painfully hard.
And wet, so fucking wet I feel it between my thighs.
But Adam just keep looking at me. Until I’m fucking whimpering.
Before he’s even fucking touched me. Just his eyes .
Him. Big, tall, wild, fucking feral for me. Only then does he move.
His shirt goes over his head, revealing ink, bare chest, muscle, and the dark line coursing down his belly. Then his hand goes to the buckle of his belt and slowly works it.
“Mrs. Maksimov.”
“Yes,” I breathe out, taking in all that’s my fucking husband.
“D’ye know what I’ve been thinkin’ about all night.”
I shake my head, feeling like I’m about to pass out if he doesn’t touch me in the next five seconds. “…no.”
He nods slow, beard twitching with one of his arrogant smirks. “Aye, ye do.”
I bite my lip. “…tell me.”
“I’ve been thinkin’,” he drawls, dragging his belt out of the loops of his slacks, “about my wife on my lap in the pub. In a dress that runs too short on her thighs. My hand on her the whole time. And every one of those bastards wishin’ tae God they had what I got.”
“Adam…”
“My wife.” His voice is all rasp now. “My wife. In my pub, in my village. On my fuckin’ thigh.”
He drops the belt. The rest follows. And now he’s naked, hard all over, his monster cock curved up against his belly, the steel bar at the tip making my mouth water… Then Adam climbs on the bed, over me, and plants his hands at the sides of my head, his face an inch away from mine.
“Baby, your parents …”
“Are at the far end of the house, love. And I wouldn’t fucking care if they were two feet away. I’m takin’ ye in my bed, in my house, on my land.” He leans to whisper in my ear, “and I’m goin’ tae make ye scream. ”
Lord.
Then he kisses me. Deep and slow, with a hand in my hair, his thumb at my jaw, his other hand sliding down my body, palming my breast, dragging over my belly, finding me dripping wet and slipping between my thighs with a low ‘ Christ, woman’ against my mouth.
“Always so fuckin’ ready for me.”
“Always, baby…”
“Aye, hen. I’ve got ye.”
His hand goes around my throat, the weight of it claiming. Then he settles between my thighs, lines up and pushes inside me slow. My eyes roll back as the piercing drags through my flesh, my body opening for him, his eyes never leaving mine.
“There.” His forehead drops to mine when he’s all the way in, hips flush to mine. “There, lass. Fuck. Mine. Mine.”
“Yours.”
“In my fuckin’ bed.”
“In your bed, honey.”
“On my fuckin’ land.”
“Adam,” I gasp when he rolls his hips in a wicked grind.
“Mine.”
He moves slow at first, then faster, harder, and I scream into the side of his throat, his hand still cradling the back of my neck, his mouth at my temple, his low ‘ aye, hen, aye, fuckin’ scream for me.
’ The headboard knocks against the wall, and somewhere far in the back of my head I vaguely remember that Skye said behave , and her son is so not behaving.
My husband comes inside me on a groan that goes on and on, his hips locked to mine, his face buried in my hair, and I crash right behind him the way I always do, curling tight around him like I’m trying to keep him there.
Then the room goes quiet except for our breathing and the wind outside.
He doesn’t pull out. My man always stays inside me for as long as he can.
He kisses my hair and whispers something against my temple in Russian or Scots or both; the words running together in his brogue. And I don’t need a translation. I know.
I run my hands down his back, legs crossed around his waist, squeezed his magnificent ass, before traveling back up, over his broad shoulders, cup his neck. I run my fingers through the thick curls of his hair.
“Adam.”
“Mm.”
“I love you.”
He goes still. Because it’s the first time I’ve said it out loud.
Two weeks of him whispering those words into my skin, of me nodding against his throat with my heart so fucking full I can barely breathe.
I’ve said yes, whimpered his name, called myself Mrs. Maksimov, but I hadn’t said these words yet.
They fall out of me. Now, on his land, in his bed, with him still inside me and his face in my hair.
Adam lifts his head, looks at me, and his eyes go fucking wild.
“Say that again.”
I swallow the lump in my throat, feeling my eyes well up. “I love you, Adam Maksimov.”
“Aye.” His voice cracks. “Aye, lass.”
He doesn’t say it back. He doesn’t have to…he’s said it a hundred times already. Tonight’s mine. He just looks at me with his blue eyes, his slow grin returning, and kisses me softly. Then my husband pulls the comforter over us, his mouth on mine, his hand sliding between us…
THE END.