Epilogue
TEDDIE
The baby monitor on my desk showed two sleeping angels—Naomi in her crib, thumb in her mouth, and three-year-old Josiah sprawled across his toddler bed like a starfish.
Knox had finally gotten them both down after a marathon bedtime routine that involved four books, two glasses of water, and one very dramatic retelling of how Daddy rescued a cat from a tree last week.
My husband was a hero to more than just our kids. But watching him do the voices for Squirrel Adventures was when I loved him most.
I turned back to my computer screen, adjusting my headphones.
The home studio Knox had built me two years ago wasn’t fancy—just a converted spare bedroom with acoustic panels on the walls, a decent mic setup, and a secondhand mixing board he’d found online.
But it was mine. And somehow, against all odds, it had become a real career.
Two hundred thousand followers. A modest but steady income from streaming.
A song that had been picked up for a truck commercial last spring, which still made me laugh every time I heard it on TV.
Not exactly Nashville, but I wasn’t in Nashville.
I was in Wildwood Valley, with my family, doing what I loved.
I was working on something new tonight—a slower song, more personal than my usual covers. I’d been picking at the lyrics for weeks, trying to get them right. The melody was there, haunting and soft, but the words kept slipping away from me.
I sang the chorus again, eyes closed, letting the music carry me. The red light on my mic glowed steadily, capturing everything.
Warm hands settled on my shoulders.
I startled, pulling off my headphones, and found Knox standing behind me with that slow, lazy smile that still made my stomach flip after four years of marriage.
“Kids are out,” he said, his voice low. His thumbs traced circles on the back of my neck, and I shivered. “You’ve been in here for two hours. I’m feeling neglected.”
“I’m working.”
“Mmm.” He leaned down, lips brushing my ear. “Keep working, then. Don’t let me distract you.”
His hands slid from my shoulders down my arms, then back up, fingers trailing along the neckline of my shirt. I sucked in a breath.
“Knox.”
“Teddie.” He said my name like a prayer, like a promise. “That mic’s still on, you know.”
I glanced at the desk. The red light glowed back at me, steady and unblinking. Recording.
“I should turn it off,” I said, reaching for the button.
His hand caught my wrist, gentle but firm. “Leave it.”
I turned to look at him, heart hammering. “What?”
That slow smile again, darker now, full of heat. “I want to hear what you sound like when I make you come. A private track. Just for us.”
My pulse spiked at his words, heat flooding through me like wildfire.
Knox’s eyes were dark, intent, the same look he’d given me that first day we’d crossed the line from strangers to something irreversible.
Only now, there was no hesitation, no holding back.
Just us—husband and wife. Parents by day, lovers by night.
I swallowed hard, my hand hovering over the controls. “You’re serious.”
“Dead serious.” His grip on my wrist loosened, but he didn’t let go, guiding my hand back to my lap instead. “Sing for me, baby. Or moan. Whatever comes out.”
His free hand slipped under my shirt, palm flat against my stomach, fingers splaying possessively. I arched into his touch without thinking, my breath catching as he pushed the fabric higher, exposing skin to the cool air of the studio.
Knox leaned in closer, awkwardly embracing me with the seat back in the way. His lips grazed the sensitive spot just below my ear, teeth nipping lightly, and I couldn’t hold back the small whimper that escaped me.
“That’s it,” he murmured, voice rough with want. “Let me hear you.”
He spun my chair slowly until I faced him, then dropped to his knees between my legs, hands sliding up my thighs. My yoga pants were thin, practically nothing, and I felt every inch of his touch like a brand.
He hooked his fingers in the waistband and tugged them down in one smooth motion, taking my panties with them. Cool air hit me, then his warm breath as he spread my thighs wider.
“Knox…” It came out as a plea, not a protest.
He looked up at me, that wicked grin flashing before he leaned in. The first swipe of his tongue was slow and deliberate, tasting me like he had all the time in the world.
My hands flew to his hair, gripping tight as pleasure shot through me, sharp and electric. He groaned against me, the vibration making me gasp louder than I meant to.
The red light stayed on, the mic no doubt capturing every sound—my ragged breathing, the wet slide of his mouth, the low, hungry noises he made as he devoured me. He licked deeper, circling my clit with perfect pressure, then sucking gently until my hips bucked off the chair.
“God, you taste so fucking good,” he growled, pulling back just enough to speak before diving back in. Two fingers pushed inside me, curling just right, and I cried out, head falling back against the headrest.
He worked me relentlessly, tongue and fingers in sync, building that tight coil inside me higher and higher.
I tried to stay quiet—habit from years of tiptoeing around sleeping babies—but Knox wasn’t having it.
He sucked harder, thrust deeper, until I was moaning his name like a chant, uncaring if the whole town heard.
The orgasm hit me hard, crashing over me in waves that left me shaking, thighs clamped around his head. He didn’t stop, licking me through it, drawing out every last tremor until I was panting and staring down at him with dazed eyes.
Only then did he pull back, lips glistening, looking utterly satisfied with himself. But I wasn’t done—not even close. I wanted him aching the way he’d just made me ache.
I reached for him, tugging at his shirt until he stood.
My fingers trembled as I hooked them into the waistband of his sweatpants, yanking them down along with his boxers.
He sprang free, hard and heavy, and I wrapped my hand around him, stroking once, twice, before leaning forward to take him into my mouth.
Knox groaned deep in his chest, one hand threading into my hair as I swirled my tongue around the tip, tasting the salt of him.
I took him deeper, hollowing my cheeks, savoring the way his hips jerked forward involuntarily.
The mic would catch it all—his ragged breaths, the wet sounds of my mouth on him, the low curses he muttered under his breath.
“Fuck, Teddie…just like that.”
I worked him slowly at first, teasing, then faster, my hand pumping what my mouth couldn’t take. His thighs tensed under my palms, his grip tightening in my hair as he fought to hold on.
I felt him throb against my tongue, heard the strain in his voice when he finally rasped, “Enough—stand up. Turn around.”
My legs were shaky as I obeyed, spinning the chair so the seat faced away from us.
I bent forward, palms bracing on the backrest, the cool leather biting into my skin.
Knox stepped in behind me, hands gripping my hips as he kicked my feet wider.
He teased me first, sliding the length of him through my slick folds, coating himself, making me whimper with need.
Then he pushed in—one long, steady thrust that buried him to the hilt. I cried out. The angle was perfect, deep. He filled me completely. He stilled for a moment, letting me adjust, his chest pressed to my back as he leaned over me, lips at my ear.
“Listen to us,” he whispered, voice gravel-rough.
The mic was still rolling, likely capturing the wet sounds of him sliding out and driving back in, my gasps, his grunts. He started slow, deliberate strokes that built into something harder, faster, his hips snapping against mine.
One hand slid around to my front, fingers finding my clit again, rubbing in tight circles that had me seeing stars. The chair creaked under my grip, the room filled with nothing but the raw, unmistakable rhythm of us—skin on skin, breath mingling, pleasure building like a storm.
He drove into me relentlessly, chasing his own release now, and when it hit him, he buried himself deep, groaning my name like it was the only word he knew. The pulse of him inside me sent me over again, a second orgasm ripping through me, tighter and sharper than the first.
We stayed like that, locked together, trembling, until our breathing slowed.
Finally, Knox eased out, turning me gently to face him. He reached past me and hit the stop button. The red light shut off.
He kissed me slowly and deeply, tasting both of us on our lips. “Best track you’ve ever cut,” he murmured.
I laughed breathlessly, legs still weak. “Play it back later?”
“Every damn night.”
Later, curled up in bed with Knox’s arm heavy around my waist, I thought about that scared girl in the honky-tonk—the one who’d been too afraid to take risks, too afraid to want things.
She never could have imagined this. A husband who believed in her before she believed in herself, two perfect kids sleeping down the hall, a career built from nothing but a decent mic and a voice worth listening to.
Knox’s phone sat silent on the nightstand. His family had figured things out eventually—his dad and Michael would never be best friends, but they’d learned to coexist. And Knox had learned that he didn’t have to fix everything. Some things, he just got to enjoy.
I pressed a kiss to his shoulder, and he pulled me closer without waking.
Outside, snow was falling on Wildwood Valley. But in here, I was warm.