Epilogue
The house was too quiet.
I stood in the kitchen, holding a mug of decaf, listening to the absence of noise. No tiny feet pounding the floor. No questions about breakfast or the color of the sky. No Leilani insisting Lucky needed a tutu.
Our three-year-old was at Peyton and Warrick’s for the morning. Peyton had practically shoved me out the door when I dropped her off, hands planted on her hips.
“You’re six months pregnant. Go home. Rest. Let your husband take care of you.”
I’d agreed—mostly because my back ached, my ankles were swollen, and a quiet morning sounded like heaven.
Now, standing alone in the silence, I wasn’t so sure.
Lucky lifted his head from his bed by the fireplace, watching me with those too-smart eyes. He’d grown from a skittish rescue into a gentle shadow, letting Leilani use him as a pillow and following me everywhere.
“Where’s Daddy?” I asked him, even though I already knew.
The workshop.
Roarke had been out there constantly for two weeks, working on something he refused to show me. “It’s a surprise,” he’d said, that rare smile tugging at his mouth.
The baby was due in three months, and we still didn’t have a crib. Every piece of furniture in our bedroom had been crafted by his hands. Of course he was building something.
I set the mug in the sink and headed for the back door. The air outside was crisp with sawdust and pine. Fall had settled over the mountains, leaves blazing gold and rust.
The workshop sat fifty feet from the cabin, expanded twice since we’d married.
His custom furniture business had taken off in ways neither of us expected—a write-up in a regional magazine, a waitlist of clients, pieces shipping as far as California.
I helped with the bookkeeping between my own work, drafting legal documents from home for a firm in Charlotte.
It wasn’t the property management career I’d once imagined, but it let me be present for Leilani while still using my paralegal training.
We’d built a life that worked.
The whir of a sander drifted through the open door. I stopped in the doorway. Roarke stood shirtless despite the chill, bent over the workbench. Sawdust clung to his skin, the light catching the flex of his shoulders as he sanded a curved piece of wood. A crib rail.
My heart skipped a beat. Five years in, and he could still do this to me.
He must’ve heard me, because the sander went quiet. He turned, that slow smile spreading across his face.
“Thought you were resting.”
“House was too quiet.” I stepped inside, breathing in wood shavings and varnish and him. “You’ve been out here for hours.”
“Wanted to finish the rails today.” He wiped his hands on a rag, his eyes sweeping over me. “You okay? The baby?”
“We’re fine.” I rested a hand on my belly. “She’s been kicking all morning.”
He crossed to me in three strides, his palm warm against the curve of me. We waited—and right on cue, she kicked.
His expression softened completely. “Strong girl.”
“Like her sister.”
He kissed me, slow and tender. When he pulled back, his eyes had gone dark.
“Leilani’s not back until noon?”
“Peyton’s keeping her for lunch.”
“Good.”
His hands slid to my hips, heat blooming low in my belly—then I tensed. “Roarke…”
“What’s wrong?”
I glanced down at myself. The stretched shirt. The swollen curves. The body so different from the one he’d first undressed five years ago.
“I’m huge,” I admitted. “I know you say you still want me, but—”
“Hey.” He tipped my chin up. “You’re carrying my daughter. You’ve never been more beautiful.”
“You have to say that.”
“I really don’t.” He pressed my hand to the front of his jeans, already hard. “Does that feel like I’m just being nice?”
Heat rushed to my cheeks.
“I want you,” he said roughly. “Every day. You’re mine, Josie—and I’ll spend my life proving it.”
His mouth claimed mine again, hungrier now, his hands finding the hem of my shirt.
“Here?” I breathed.
“Here.” He backed me into the workbench. “I’ve been thinking about this for weeks.”
“The door’s open.”
“No one for miles.” His teeth grazed my ear. “But I can close it.”
I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed his belt and pulled him closer. “Leave it open.”
His groan vibrated against my throat. “That’s my girl.”
Roarke’s hands were already under my shirt, rough as they moved deliciously over my sensitive skin.
He shoved the soft cotton up and over my swollen breasts, and the cool air hit my nipples at the same instant his hot mouth closed around one, sucking hard enough to make me gasp.
My fingers dug into his shoulders, sawdust clinging to my palms.
“Fuck, Josie,” he growled against my skin, voice thick. “These are so full. So perfect.”
He switched to the other breast, tongue flicking, teeth grazing just enough to send a sharp jolt straight to my clit. I was already soaked, the pregnancy hormones making everything slick and swollen and so much more sensitive. Every pull of his mouth felt like it tugged directly between my legs.
I fumbled with his jeans, popping the button, dragging the zipper down. His cock sprang free—thick, heavy, the head already glistening. I wrapped my fingers around him, stroking once, twice, loving the way he hissed through his teeth and thrust into my grip.
“Need to taste you first,” he muttered, dropping to his knees right there on the sawdust-covered floor.
He yanked my leggings and panties down in one rough motion, careful of my belly but not gentle anywhere else. The moment my pussy was bare, he spread me with his thumbs and licked a long, slow stripe from entrance to clit.
I cried out, loud and shameless, the sound echoing off the workshop walls.
His tongue circled my clit in tight, relentless strokes while two thick fingers slid inside me, curling just right.
The stretch was perfect—too much and exactly enough all at once.
My hips rocked against his face, chasing the pressure building fast and bright behind my pubic bone.
“Roarke—oh God—don’t stop—”
He groaned into me, the vibration pushing me closer. His fingers pumped faster, slick sounds filling the air along with my panting moans and the wet suck of his mouth. My thighs started to shake.
“Come for me, baby,” he rasped against my clit. “Let me feel this pretty pussy squeeze my fingers.”
That did it.
My orgasm hit like a freight train—sharp, blinding, rolling through me in heavy waves. I screamed his name, fingers knotted in his hair, hips jerking as I rode his tongue and fingers through every pulsing contraction. He didn’t let up until I was whimpering, oversensitive and trembling.
He stood, mouth shiny with me, eyes wild. “Turn around.”
My legs felt like jelly, but I obeyed, bracing both hands on the workbench. The crib rail he’d been sanding sat right in front of me—smooth, curved, beautiful—and the thought of him fucking me over the piece he’d handcrafted only made me hotter.
He kicked my feet wider, notched the broad head of his cock at my entrance, and pushed in slowly. We both moaned—long, low, broken sounds.
He felt enormous like this, stretching me wide, filling every inch. The slight downward angle let him sink impossibly deep, the head nudging me in that achey, perfect way that made my eyes roll back.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he gritted out, hands gripping my hips. “Even pregnant. Still so damn perfect.”
He started moving—slow at first, letting me feel every thick inch dragging out, then slamming back in. The workbench creaked under my palms. Sawdust drifted down around us like dirty snow. My breasts swayed heavily with each thrust, nipples brushing the wood, sending fresh sparks through me.
“Harder,” I begged. “Please—Roarke—”
He gave it to me.
His hips snapped forward, skin slapping skin, wet and obscene. His balls smacked my clit with every stroke. I could hear how soaked I was—every thrust pushing out more slick, dripping down my thighs. His grunts turned animal, raw, matching my rising cries.
One hand slid around to my clit, rubbing fast, firm circles while he pounded into me from behind. The angle was brutal—perfect—hitting that spot inside that made white light explode behind my eyelids.
“I’m close again—fuck—Roarke—”
“Me too,” he snarled. “Gonna fill you up. Gonna come so deep inside this sweet pussy—”
His fingers pinched my clit just right.
My second orgasm ripped through me harder than the first—violent, consuming, my walls clamping down on his cock like a fist. I screamed, body locking, thighs shaking so badly, he had to hold me up. The pulses were endless, milking him, pulling him deeper.
Roarke groaned my name like a prayer—low, wrecked—and then he was coming too.
Hot, thick spurts flooded me, each one accompanied by a ragged thrust and a guttural sound torn from his throat.
He buried himself to the hilt and held there, hips jerking, pumping everything he had into me while my pussy fluttered and clenched around him, drawing out every last drop.
We stayed locked together, breathing hard, his chest pressed to my back, one arm banded protectively around my belly. His cock twitched inside me once, twice, still half-hard.
Finally, he eased out of me and turned me gently, pulling me against his chest. I rested my cheek over his heart, listening to the rapid thump slowly steady.
“I love you,” I murmured against his skin.
“Love you more.” He pressed a kiss to the top of my head, then pulled back with that rare, full smile. “Want to see what I’ve been working on?”
He helped me get dressed—slowly, carefully, stealing kisses along the way—then led me to the corner of the workshop where a drop cloth covered something large. He pulled it away with a flourish.
The crib was gorgeous. Hand-carved spindles, smooth curves, a little mountain range etched into the headboard. It matched Leilani’s perfectly—the one he’d made when I was pregnant with her.
“Roarke.” My voice cracked. “It’s beautiful.”
“Figured our girls should match.” He ran his hand along the rail he’d been sanding when I walked in. “Still needs a coat of finish, but it’ll be ready in time.”
I wrapped my arms around him, belly pressing between us, and held on tight.
Through the open workshop door, I could see Lucky lying on the cabin porch, watching us with those calm, knowing eyes. The same dog who’d been too scared to leave his kennel five years ago. The same dog who’d brought us together.
“Hey,” Roarke said softly, tipping my chin up. “What are you thinking?”
I smiled, remembering a panicked drive up a dark mountain road, a blocked driveway, a man who said he liked my voice when the rest of the world had told me to be quiet.
“Just thinking about how everything happens for a reason,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow. “You know, I’m starting to believe you’re right about that.”
His arms tightened around me, and we stood there in the sawdust and the morning light—two people who’d stumbled into each other’s lives and decided to stay. Behind us, the crib waited for our second daughter.
Ahead of us was a lifetime of noise and chaos and love.
I couldn’t wait for all of it.