Epilogue
Five years later
“Last stop today, then it’ll be your turn for all my attention,” Zane whispers to me as we walk into the third brewery in Germany of the day.
“I’m holding you to that.” I smirk as he opens the heavy wooden door for me to slip inside, smacking my ass as I walk in front of him. Grant and his partner follow behind us since they declared this trip a “business expense” to learn more about brewing.
The space is very similar to the other breweries we’ve visited, with all dark wood, white paint, exposed wood beams, and an overwhelming smell of beer.
Grant is already in heaven as he takes it all in, pointing out different details to Zane that I only vaguely understand even though I’ve been around them and the brewery for five years now.
Grant leads us straight to the bar, and they order the four of us Ein halbes, which I’ve learned means a half liter of beer.
The bartender slides it across the wood countertop, and Zane and Grant clink steins before diving into conversation about the aromas and mouthfeel descriptors as we walk over to a high-top table.
Beer was never my thing before Zane, and while I enjoy it some now, I don’t have any desire to talk about the malt profiles, so I tune them out.
The architectural craftsmanship is stunning here, and Zane scheduled plenty of museums for us on this brewery tour across Europe, knowing I would enjoy them more than the beer. It’s been incredible to see so many works from artists I admire in person.
My own art has been selling so well since Zane completely took over my marketing.
He’s been posting consistently for five years.
I love not having to worry about that side of the business, and not seeing the negative comments has been so amazing for me creatively.
Since he started, I’ve sold multiple six-figure commissions, which doesn’t even feel real.
Now, Zane gets to work as much as he wants at the brewery, and I can paint whenever I’m inspired, which is still most of the time.
A good chunk of my attention has also been on renovating our house.
Well, the design aspects. I’m not physically renovating anything.
But Piet now has a fenced-in backyard and a dog door so he can come and go as he pleases.
Zane still calls him Pete, it’s kind of adorable.
We also turned the basement into our own little sex dungeon.
We’ve built a beautiful—and fucked up in our own way—perfect life, which has now led us to an annual “business trip” with Grant. Eric has yet to join, but he always says maybe next year.
My gaze drifts to the heavy, iron-strapped door tucked under a dark staircase in the corner. It probably just leads to a storeroom or a cellar, but to me, it’s an invitation. A promise of a different kind of darkness, a different kind of art. The kind Zane and I create together so beautifully.
I take a long sip of my beer, the cool liquid doing nothing to soothe the heat building low in my gut. I feel Zane’s eyes on me, and I don’t have to look to know he’s watching me, that he’s followed my line of sight to that door.
In five years, we’ve become wildly in sync together. So much so that we don’t need to talk about what happens next.
Zane stands up and says nothing as he walks over to the bar. He’s pretending to busy himself, but I know it’s a performance. He’s giving me space, waiting to see what I do.
I finish my beer in a few long swallows, the taste of it irrelevant as I think of my plan. I slide out of the table too and walk over to stand beside him, my shoulder just brushing his.
“Bored, Sweetness?” he murmurs, not looking at me. The nickname sends a jolt straight through me. He only uses that word when we’re about to role-play.
“Just admiring the decor,” I reply casually. I nod toward the door. “Especially that. It’s got character.”
He finally turns his head, and a slow, predatory smile spreads across his lips. “That it does. Very… old world.” He pushes off the bar. “I’m going to see if they have a restroom down that hall. Be right back.”
It’s code. It’s the start of the game. My heart starts to beat a little faster as I watch Zane walk away.
I need to give him a moment before I follow, before the real fun can begin.
Out of habit, I run my fingers along the chain that lives around my neck, and I’m reminded once again, with a certainty that settles deep in my bones, that I am his.
Completely. Irrevocably. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Getting kidnapped five years ago by the man of my dreams was the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
So much better than any of my books.
THE END
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