Epilogue
ZAHRA
Warm lips trailed down my neck, across my collarbone, then lower, and lower. I stirred beneath soft cotton sheets, caught somewhere between dreams and waking, my body responding to Oliver's touch before my mind fully caught up.
"Good morning," he murmured against my stomach, his voice morning-rough and full of dirty intentions.
A soft moan escaped me as he sucked a nipple into his mouth. "What time is it?"
"Early enough," he whispered, his breath hot against my breasts, making my muscles jump. "We have time."
Somewhere in the recesses of my sleep-addled brain, I knew we didn't. My parents would arrive at nine.
Emmet was coming by earlier to help us set up.
Parisa and Darryl were already here, staying in the guest room of our Seattle apartment.
And then there was all the food prep, the table setting, the?—
Oliver's teeth grazed my hipbone, and suddenly, breakfast preparations seemed far less important.
"You're trying to distract me," I accused, my voice breathy and betraying how effectively his plan was working.
He dipped his tongue into my navel before glancing up, eyes dark with desire, a wicked smile playing at his lips. "Is it working?"
Instead of answering, I pushed him down, sliding my feet up his body to drape my knees over his shoulders, surrendering to the slow burn he'd ignited.
The teasing heat of his breath against my inner thighs made my core clench with anticipation. Oliver’s hands slid under my hips, lifting me slightly, his fingers digging into my flesh with a possessive edge that made my heart race.
He pressed a soft kiss to the sensitive skin just above my clit, the featherlight touch enough to make me whimper, my hips jerking toward him, desperate for more.
Then his mouth was on me, and I was lost.
His tongue traced a slow, deliberate path along my slit, tasting me with a reverence that made my breath hitch, my fingers tangling in his hair as I anchored myself to him.
He groaned against me, the vibration sending a shockwave of pleasure through my core, and I moaned, the sound raw and needy, echoing in the quiet room.
He parted me with his tongue, the wet heat a delicious torment that made my thighs tremble, my body arching off the bed as I chased the sensation.
“Oliver,” I gasped, my voice a broken plea, my hips rocking against his mouth, seeking more, needing more.
He obliged, his tongue finding my clit with a precision that made my vision blur, circling the sensitive bud with slow, firm strokes that set every nerve alight.
My breath came in ragged gasps, my hands fisting his hair as he sucked gently, the perfect mix of pressure and release pushing me to the edge.
Oliver hummed against me, the sound a low growl of appreciation, and the vibration pushed me closer, my thighs clamping around his head as I writhed beneath him, my body trembling with the effort of holding back.
His tongue flicked faster now, relentless, each stroke a spark that built the tension higher, hotter, until I was a live wire, ready to snap.
Then a gust of cold air blew over my heated pussy, and I whimpered in a mix of surprise and protest. But the sound was swallowed by Oliver’s mouth, plundering mine with unhinged ferocity, my taste on his tongue as his cock stretched me.
I was so close to the edge already that halfway through working himself into me, release tore through me, my body clenching tight around him, a keening cry tearing from my throat but muffled by his kiss, my vision whitening with the intensity of it.
Oliver didn’t stop, his jaw wound tight with a guttural groan, and he thrust hard, bottoming out and immediately starting to pound me with a relentless rhythm.
He fucked me through two more orgasms and still kept a wild pace, continuing until I was a trembling, boneless mess, my chest heaving, my skin slick with sweat, my heart pounding with the depth of what I felt for him.
Then he buried his face in the crook of my neck, his body tensing and jerking with a suppressed roar as he thickened inside me, pulsing, then releasing.
We lay tangled, a sweaty, satisfied mess, lost in the joint beat of our hearts.
Oliver pulled back slowly, pressing a soft kiss to my lips, his eyes dark and hooded as he looked up at me, a satisfied smile tugging at his mouth.
“Merry Christmas, my Lumina.”
“Merry Christmas, my love,” I answered, a broad smile stretching my lips.
Our second Christmas together, and life was on an upward trajectory.
The faint strains of "White Christmas" drifted up from downstairs—Emmet must have arrived—but all I could focus on was Oliver's hands mapping my body, his tongue teasing the hollow of my throat, the delicious friction as he settled between my thighs again.
"God, I love you," he breathed against my lips, his words sending thrills straight to my core.
"Show me how much," I challenged, wrapping my legs around his waist.
He did. Thoroughly. Repeatedly.
By the time we stumbled downstairs, showered, dressed, and wearing matching goofy smiles. The clock read 8:25, leaving just thirty-five minutes before my parents would arrive.
“Morning, Quark,” Oliver greeted him.
"Morning, lovebirds," Emmet winked from where he was arranging presents under our slightly lopsided Christmas tree. "Coffee's ready."
"You're a saint," I said, making a beeline for the kitchen, where Parisa and Darryl were already working, plating the dishes that I’d prepared ahead.
"And you're still loud," Parisa tossed at me with a knowing smirk. "I shouldn’t have let you convince me to crash here instead of staying at a hotel."
“You insisted, Pari,” I reminded her with an eyeroll. “Said you wanted me to bond with my future godchild.”
“Right.” She patted her barely rounded belly fondly. “I forgot about that.”
Oliver kissed my cheek, then turned to Parisa. "Why don’t you take a break? Go boss Emmet around from the couch. His gift composition under the tree is lacking."
Parisa raised an eyebrow, but Darryl ushered her away with a chuckle, the couple disappearing behind the wall separating the rooms.
“That wall needs to go, like, yesterday,” I muttered before pulling out an apron.
The kitchen was my favorite room in the house, but I hated the separation from the family room.
“Someday, when we have our own home, it’ll be everything you’ve ever dreamed of,” Oliver promised.
I smiled at him warmly, then pulled ingredients from the refrigerator, mentally running through the breakfast menu. Cinnamon rolls were already proofing in the warming drawer. I still needed to make the pancakes, fry the omelets, and?—
Warm hands slid around my waist, and Oliver pressed against my back, his lips finding that sensitive spot just below my ear.
"Need help?" he murmured.
"I need you to stop distracting me," I said, trying and failing to sound stern as his teeth nipped at my earlobe.
"But you're so distractable," he countered, his hands slipping beneath my sweater to trace patterns on my bare skin. "And so beautiful when you're flustered."
I turned in his arms, brandishing a wooden spoon like a weapon. "Focus, Beck. We have guests arriving in thirty minutes."
"I am focused." His gaze dropped to my lips, his intent clear. "Very focused."
"On breakfast," I clarified, tapping his chest with the spoon. "Get me the eggs from the fridge, please."
He sighed dramatically but complied. We moved around each other in comfortable synchronicity, the routine familiar after months of cohabitation.
"Do you know the statistical improbability of us being here right now?
" Oliver asked, whisking the pancake batter vigorously.
"The odds of you accidentally finding me on Foxy’s site after ten years, of me accepting your booking, of everything that had to align perfectly for us to end up in this kitchen together?—"
"Were stacked against us to an astronomical height," I finished for him, stealing a quick kiss as I passed. "And yet, here we are."
"Defying probability," he agreed, a smile softening his features. "My favorite kind of anomaly."
"If you two are done being sickeningly adorable," Emmet called from the doorway. "Can I remind you that your parents will be here in about?—"
The doorbell rang, cutting him off.
"Shit," I muttered, glancing at the clock. 8:37. Of course, they were early.
"Language, Lumina," Oliver teased, setting down his bowl to wipe a smudge of flour from my cheek. "What would your mother say?"
"Nothing good," I replied, smoothing down my sweater and taking a deep breath. "Okay, show time."
My parents bustled in with their usual energy. Mom headed straight for the kitchen with— “Just a few extra dishes I'd thrown together."
It was, in fact, a full Persian breakfast spread that had probably taken her hours.
Dad enveloped me in a bear hug, then pulled Oliver into it, wrapping us both in his arms.
"Something smells wonderful," Mom said, eyeing my half-prepared breakfast with a critical eye. "Though you could use more turmeric in those eggs. And some tamarind in the pancake batter. Let me show you."
Just like that, I was demoted to sous chef in my own kitchen, watching as my mother took command.
"We should finish setting up the string lights in the living room," Oliver offered my father, who hurried to accept the excuse to leave the kitchen.
A bit after nine, Tobias and Theo joined us, and we gathered around the table. The conversation quickly turned into a tease fest aimed at the four of us. Two couples born from dating contracts, and apparently, we’d started a trend among the men of Rent-A-Date.
Parisa and Tobias, who had frighteningly matching energy, were hitting it off, filling the space with rolling laughter, and suddenly my house was a home.
Full of joy and love.
I caught Oliver's eye across the room, which shone with the same contentment I was feeling. It made my heart flutter. He belonged here with our makeshift family, with me.
When it came time for gift exchanges,