Epilogue
LARK
The street fair piece hung above our bed.
Kit had mounted it the morning after I showed up at Lumaire—raw edges, torn paper, faded cotton strip, no frame. It was the first thing we saw every morning and the last thing the light touched before we fell asleep. Five years, and he’d never once suggested framing it.
Greer and Aria were with Kit’s parents for the night. I’d dropped them off at four, both of them in paint-stained overalls because neither of my daughters owned clothes without paint on them.
Greer had her father’s focus—she sat cross-legged on the studio floor and worked a single canvas for an hour without speaking. Aria worked like me—three pieces at once, bare feet, humming, following whatever felt right.
Our twins were three. They were already better than I’d been at twenty.
I unlocked On a Lark at seven and didn’t turn on the overhead lights.
Just the track lighting along the west wall, dimmed low, throwing warm pools across the hardwood.
I’d cleared the center of the gallery floor that afternoon—moved the display pedestals to the edges, rolled out a drop cloth, and set two jars of body paint on the floor beside a bottle of wine and two glasses.
Kit’s text came at 7:15. The gallery?
Door’s unlocked. Walter’s expecting you.
Three minutes later, I heard the door open and close. His footsteps on the hardwood—unhurried, deliberate, the same cadence as the first time he’d walked into this room five years ago.
He stopped when he saw the floor. The drop cloth. The paint.
I was sitting cross-legged in the center of it. Barefoot. Same spot, different stakes.
“Happy anniversary,” I said.
I lifted the hem of my sundress slowly, letting the thin cotton slide up my thighs, over my hips. Then I pulled it over my head in one smooth motion.
I wore nothing underneath. The cool air of the gallery prickled across my bare skin, tightening my nipples as I dropped the dress aside. Kit’s eyes darkened, taking me in like I was the only piece in the room that mattered.
I crooked a finger at him. “Come here.”
He glanced over his shoulder once, checking the locked door and the empty street beyond the windows, then started toward me. His shirt came off first, revealing the strong lines of his chest and shoulders. Shoes kicked aside. Belt unbuckled.
By the time he reached the center of the drop cloth, he’d shed everything. His cock stood thick and hard, flushed dark with need, bobbing with each step.
He picked up the bottle of wine, poured two glasses, and handed one to me.
While I twisted open the jars of body paint—rich cobalt and cadmium yellow—he took a slow sip, gaze never leaving my body.
I dipped my fingers into the yellow and traced a bold stripe down the center of his chest, following the trail of dark hair that led lower. He shuddered under my touch.
We drank and painted in silence at first, the only sounds our breathing and the wet slide of fingers on skin.
I dragged cobalt across his ribs, marking the sharp cut of muscle.
He swirled warm yellow over my collarbone, then lower, circling my breasts until I was squirming.
Each stroke wound the air tighter between us. My pulse throbbed between my legs.
Soon, his control snapped. He set his glass aside and lowered his mouth to my inner thigh, licking away a streak of paint with long, deliberate strokes of his tongue. Higher. Higher.
Then his mouth was on me—hot, hungry, perfect. He licked and sucked, tongue circling my clit before plunging inside me. I cried out, fingers threading through his hair as he devoured me. He didn’t stop until my thighs shook and pleasure crashed through me, sharp and blinding.
I pushed him down so he was seated on the drop cloth and straddled his lap, kissing him deeply. The taste of wine and paint and my own arousal mixed on our tongues.
His hands gripped my ass as I reached between us, guiding his cock to my entrance. I sank down slowly, taking every inch until he filled me completely. A low groan tore from his throat.
He bent his head to my breasts, licking and sucking my nipples while I began to ride him—slow rolls of my hips at first, then faster, chasing the friction we both needed.
“Fuck, Lark,” he rasped against my skin.
“You’re so fucking hot. So wet for me. I’m the luckiest bastard on earth—every day, every night, it’s you. ”
His words pushed me higher. I rode him harder, grinding down, taking him deep. Our bodies moved together in a slick, urgent rhythm, paint smearing between us. His hands guided my hips, thumbs pressing into my skin as he thrust up to meet me.
The pressure built again, tighter, hotter, until we broke together—my walls clenching around him as he spilled inside me. Our cries echoed off the gallery walls, raw and unrestrained.
We collapsed onto the drop cloth in the dim gold light, chests heaving. His hand rested on my hip, thumb lazily tracing the streak of cobalt that curved along my ribs. My fingers, still stained cadmium yellow from his shoulders, rested against his chest as our breathing slowly steadied.
The gallery was quiet. Walter stood by the door in the dark, same chipped ceramic expression, same mild disapproval. The warm July air pressed against the windows.
“Fate or design?” I asked.
Kit looked at me—paint on his jaw, paint on his chest, the street fair piece artist’s colors mixed with mine on his skin.
“Both,” he said. “It was always both.”
She corrected a billionaire in front of his entire team. He never recovered.