Epilogue #3
In the polished rooms of our old mansion, every surface was spotless, and every interaction was curated for a camera.
Here, my knees were stained green, my skin was smeared with mud, and the expensive fabric lay abandoned three feet away.
I had never looked less glamorous. Yet, pinned to the earth by the man who had burned his Hollywood empire to the ground just to keep me, I had never felt more wanted.
There were no handlers waiting outside the door, and no PR schedules dictating his focus, leaving him tethered to this patch of dirt.
The tension coiled tight in my core, building toward a breaking point.
I arched my back, seeking a deeper angle as the heat between us built.
Needing to touch him, I reached one hand blindly backward into the empty space behind my hip.
Hayes caught my wrist. He slid his palm down, lacing our fingers together and locking my hand in an unyielding grip against his thigh.
He swept his free arm around my waist, locking his forearm across my stomach. He locked his grip tight, pinning my back flat against his chest as his thrusts became erratic and punishing.
“Hayes, I’m almost there!” I gasped, my head dropping forward toward the mud.
“Ah! Yes, baby,” he groaned, his voice breaking as his hips snapped forward to drive even deeper. “With me! Come with me!”
The climax hit me in a violent rush. My vision blurred as wave after wave of heat rolled through my center, my pussy clenching tight around his thick cock.
“Hayes!” I cried out, my voice echoing across the empty field.
He let out a harsh shout, burying his face in the crook of my neck. The violent, shuddering pulse of his cock twitched deep inside me as his own climax broke. He spilled his hot release, his chest collapsing against my bare back.
Hayes shifted his weight, pulling me with him until we tumbled sideways and collapsed into the flattened grass.
I settled against the crushed weeds, the coastal breeze drying the sticky sweat on my skin.
He propped himself up on one elbow, hovering his chest over mine.
His fingers brushed a loose strand of hair away from my face.
He plucked a bruised pink flower out of the tangles, twirling the stem between his fingers.
“You have mud on your shoulder,” he murmured, his breath hot against my collarbone.
I looked down at the brown smear on my skin, laughing into the quiet field. I nudged his ribs with my knee, urging him off me.
“Pass me my shirt,” I said.
He dropped the petal into the dirt and sat up, reaching into the tall grass to gather our scattered clothes.
He tossed my sweater and denim shorts into my lap.
I pulled the knit fabric over my head, shivering as the evening air began to chill.
Hayes tugged his faded T-shirt on and fastened the button of his jeans.
We dragged the twisted quilt out from the weeds and spread the fabric flat.
I sat cross-legged on the blanket, leaning my shoulder and hip against his side.
He wrapped his arm around my waist, supporting my weight.
I reached for the basket, unwrapping the wax paper from our squashed turkey sandwiches.
The bread was flattened, and the lemonade was warm from sitting in the sun, but we drank it anyway.
The tart, sugary drink coated my tongue.
Hayes took a bite of his food, surveying the destruction of the flower patch surrounding our blanket.
“Ruby is going to take one look at those crushed stems and know exactly what happened out here,” he said, taking a sip of the drink.
“Those were my flowers, Hayes, so technically I am allowed to destroy them,” I replied, taking the bottle from him. “But you can still help me replant them, if you feel so strongly about it.”
He chuckled, resting his chin on the top of my head.
The slanted, golden evening sunlight caught the side of his face.
I looked down at the thick crust of mud caked onto the knees of his jeans.
There was a calm, unguarded peace in his eyes—a clarity that Los Angeles had never allowed him.
He set his sandwich down on the paper, his smile fading.
I used to cling to his words, surviving on empty promises because those scripts were the only things I possessed.
The need for a monologue was gone. Watching him sacrifice his empire and ruin his hands just to stay with us proved it.
I reached out, wrapping my palm over his knuckles.
Lacing our fingers together, I squeezed his rough skin.
“You don’t need to promise me anything anymore, Hayes,” I said, meeting his gaze. “You’ve done enough. We’re home now.”
“You were always my home,” he replied, lifting my hand to press a kiss against my knuckles. “I love you.”
“I love you too, Hayes.”
We packed the wrappers and the empty bottle into the basket. Hayes stood up first, brushing the loose grass from his jeans, and pulled me to my feet. He didn’t let go of my hand. We stepped out of the field and back onto the dirt path.
We walked together toward the farmhouse, the sound of our daughter’s voice drifting through the open window, and stepped back into a life that was private, imperfect, and forever ours.