Epilogue
KAMERON
Three years of marriage, and I still couldn't stop staring at my husband.
Conner stood at the stove in our cabin, stirring something that smelled like garlic and butter, completely unaware that I was watching him from the couch.
He'd rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, and I could see the muscles in his forearms shift as he worked.
His hair was a mess from running his hands through it, and he was humming something off-key under his breath.
He'd insisted on cooking tonight. I'd been on my feet at the roadhouse for nine hours, and the second I walked through the door, he'd steered me toward the couch and told me to stay put.
I pressed a hand to my belly, feeling the small swell there. Four months along, just starting to show. My jeans had stopped buttoning last week, and Conner had looked at me like I'd hung the moon when I complained about it.
Now, watching him move around our kitchen, all I could think about was getting my hands on him. Pregnancy hormones were no joke.
I pushed myself up from the couch and padded toward the kitchen, my eyes fixed on my husband's back. The floorboards creaked softly under my bare feet, but Conner didn't turn around. He was too focused on whatever masterpiece he was creating in that pan.
I slipped up behind him, sliding my arms around his waist and pressing my body flush against his back. My cheek rested between his shoulder blades, and I inhaled the warm, familiar smell of him—soap mixed with a hint of sweat from chopping wood earlier.
"You look so damn hot right now," I murmured against his shirt, my hands splaying over his firm stomach.
He chuckled, low and rumbling, the sound vibrating through me. "Is that so? Just standing here stirring shrimp like some kind of—"
His words cut off abruptly as my hand drifted lower, boldly sliding over the front of his jeans. I felt the heat of him through the denim, the subtle twitch as I cupped him teasingly.
"Like some kind of what?" I whispered, my fingers finding the button of his fly and popping it open with a soft snap.
Conner sucked in a sharp breath, his stirring spoon pausing mid-motion. "Jesus, baby…”
I didn't give him time to finish. My hand slipped inside, under the waistband of his boxers, wrapping around his thick length.
He was already hot to the touch, velvet-soft skin over steel, pulsing faintly as he began to harden in my grip. I stroked him slowly, feeling him swell and thicken with each pass of my fingers.
He groaned, reaching blindly to twist the knobs on the stove, shutting off the burners with a click. Then he spun around, his dark eyes blazing as he yanked me against him.
His mouth crashed onto mine in a hungry kiss, all teeth and tongue. His hands were everywhere—tugging my sweater over my head, unhooking my bra with practiced ease, shoving my leggings down my hips.
Clothes hit the floor in a frantic pile. Naked and breathless, he lifted me effortlessly onto the kitchen island, the cool granite a shock against my heated skin. He dropped to his knees between my spread thighs, his strong hands gripping my hips as he pulled me to the edge.
The first swipe of his tongue had me gasping, my head falling back. He licked me slowly at first, savoring, his mouth hot and wet as he traced every fold. Then he focused on my clit, circling and sucking with just the right pressure, his fingers sliding inside me to curl against that perfect spot.
Pleasure built fast and fierce, coiling tight in my core until I came. I cried out his name as waves of ecstasy crashed over me, my thighs trembling around his shoulders.
Panting, I hopped down from the island, my legs shaky. Conner rose, his cock poking out of his open jeans, glistening at the tip.
I sank to my knees, jerking the denim and boxers down his thighs in one swift motion. I watched as his cock sprang free, hard and heavy in my hand.
Smiling, I took him into my mouth, swirling my tongue around the head, tasting the salt of his arousal. He groaned deeply, his fingers threading through my hair as I bobbed, sucking him deeper, hollowing my cheeks.
"Fuck, your mouth feels so good," he rasped, hips flexing slightly. But he held out only so long before tugging me gently to my feet, his control fraying.
I turned, bracing my hands on the island, bending forward and parting my legs wide. Glancing over my shoulder, I met his heated gaze.
"Fuck me, Conner. Hard."
His eyes darkened at my words, a growl rumbling in his chest. "You want my cock, baby? Want me to fill that pretty pussy?"
"Yes," I moaned, arching my back. "Please."
He stepped up behind me, one hand guiding himself to my entrance. The broad head nudged against my slick folds, teasing for a moment before he thrust in—deep, relentless, stretching me perfectly. I cried out at the exquisite fullness, the way he hit every sensitive spot inside.
When he started moving, I gasped. I closed my eyes as he slammed into me with powerful strokes, his hips slapping against my ass in a rhythmic, wet smack that echoed through the kitchen.
Each thrust sent jolts of pleasure radiating through me, his thick shaft dragging along my walls, the friction hot and intense.
His hands cupped my breasts, thumbs rolling my hardened nipples as he pounded harder, faster. "So fucking wet for me," he groaned against my ear, voice rough. "Love how you take me, baby. Gonna make you come all over my cock."
The dirty words pushed me higher, and when his fingers dipped between my legs to circle my clit, I tumbled over the edge again. My orgasm ripped through me, walls pulsing around him in rhythmic spasms.
Conner followed seconds later, burying himself to the hilt with a guttural roar. His release was hot and pulsing deep inside me as we came together, bodies locked in shuddering bliss.
We stayed like that for a moment, breathless and spent, his forehead resting against my back. Finally, the full weight of the day's exhaustion hit me—the ache in my feet from the roadhouse shift, the pleasant fatigue settling into my bones now that the adrenaline had faded.
Conner pulled out gently and turned me around, his hands cupping my face as he kissed me slow and soft. A different kind of kiss than before—tender, full of something deeper than desire.
"Dinner's probably ruined," he murmured against my lips.
"Worth it."
He laughed, that low rumble I'd fallen in love with three years ago in a snowbound roadhouse. Back when I'd been so sure that real life didn't work like romance novels. That people didn't fall in love in a single night.
I'd been wrong about a lot of things back then.
He helped me back into my clothes, his hands lingering on my belly as he smoothed my sweater down. The look in his eyes when he touched me there—reverent, awed, like he still couldn't believe this was real—made my heart squeeze tight.
"I love you," I said.
The words came easily now. Nothing like those early days when every confession felt like a risk.
"I love you too." He pressed a kiss to my forehead. "Now, go sit down. I'm reheating the shrimp and you're not lifting a finger."
I smiled and let him steer me back toward the couch, settling into the cushions with a contented sigh. Through the doorway, I watched him move around our kitchen, already focused on salvaging dinner.
Three years ago, I'd been afraid to let anyone past my walls, afraid that wanting something this much meant losing it. But Conner had kept his promise. One dinner had turned into a hundred, then a thousand, then a lifetime of mornings waking up beside him.
And now we had this—a cabin in the mountains, a baby on the way, and a love that had only grown stronger since that first impossible night.
I pressed my hand to my belly and smiled.
Some stories really did have happy endings.