Epilogue #2
"God, Colt," I breathe, my fingers tangling in his sandy blonde hair, tugging just hard enough to make him groan. "No, it's—Don't get too excited, okay?"
My heart is beating a little faster than it should be, but I reach for my tote bag by the sofa. My fingers close around the stiff folder inside, and I pull it out, resting it on my lap.
Colt’s gaze drops to it. “What’s this?”
“The new designs,” I say, still catching my breath. “For the Butter Batch brand. The official franchise logo, packaging… everything.”
I open the folder, and on top is a single sheet of heavy, matte paper. And on it, printed in crisp, beautiful detail, is the new logo for Butter Batch Bakery.
It’s not the whisk I drew in my notebook all those years ago. It’s not some sleek, corporate graphic that has no soul either.
It’s Morgan’s drawing.
Artfully recreated, yes. Cleaned up, given dimension and warmth.
But it’s unmistakably her three stick figures: a tall one with yellow scribbles for hair, a medium one in a green apron, a small one with a tiny unicorn horn.
They’re holding hands. And in the corner, remains that single, perfect red heart.
Beneath them, in the elegant script I chose out, it says: Butter Batch Bakehouse. Made with love.
Colt goes completely still.
For a long moment, he doesn’t speak. He just stares at the paper, his eyes tracing every line as his breath catches.
Then he looks up at me, his blue eyes wide, glistening. “Zoey. That's us. That's… our family.”
“And it’s going on everything,” I say, my own throat tight. “The bags. The boxes. The signage for the new kiosks at The Den. The franchise locations, when they open.” I swallow. “It’s the heart of the brand. Because it’s the heart of… this.”
He looks from the logo to me, and the emotion in his gaze is so raw it steals the air from my lungs.
“It’s perfect,” he whispers.
“Yeah? You really like it?”
“Sweetheart, it’s the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen.”
He leans in then, his forehead pressing against mine. Our noses brush. His breath is warm on my lips. “I love you,” he says, the words a vow. “So damn much.”
“I love you too.”
He pulls me back on top of him, kissing me with a soft, sweet, melting press of his lips that tastes like chocolate milk. But it ignites fast. It always does with us.
His hand cups my face, tilting my head to deepen the kiss. My fingers curl into the soft fabric of his sweatshirt, holding him close. The folder slides off my lap, forgotten on the floor.
He pulls back just enough to murmur against my mouth, “Morgan’s playlist is loud, right?”
“Very loud,” I agree, already breathless, my heart pounding and heat pooling low in my belly.
“And her door is shut.”
“It is.”
His eyes darken with pure heat. “Good.”
In one smooth movement, he stands, lifting me and laying me back against the cushions. He follows me down, his body covering mine, all hard muscle and warm weight.
"Oh Colt," I gasp, arching into him.
His mouth finds my neck, sucking lightly at the sensitive spot just below my ear. I moan, my hands sliding beneath his sweatshirt, seeking skin.
He’s always so warm. So hot.
“Missed you,” he growls, his lips trailing lower.
“I missed you too,” I pant, tugging his sweatshirt up. He helps me pull it over his head, tossing it somewhere toward the television. My gaze catches on the deep cut of his abs, the ridges so defined I want to trace them with my tongue.
God, he's built like a damn fantasy, every inch of him powerful, tempting, and now… forever mine to touch.
He makes quick work of my sweater, then the clasp of my bra. When his hands finally, finally cover my breasts, his thumbs brushing over my nipples, I cry out.
"That's it, let me hear you."
He swallows the sound with another kiss, deep and demanding as I reach for his cock. He strips my leggings and panties down my legs with impatient hands as I fumble with the drawstring of his sweats, pushing them down over his hips until he’s free, hard and heavy in my hand.
He groans, his hips jerking with every long stroke I make. “Fuck, Zoey.”
“Now,” I beg, wrapping my legs around his waist. “Please, Colt.”
He doesn’t make me wait.
He slides into me in one slow, devastating stroke, and I feel every thick inch of him stretching me, filling me so completely that my breath catches in my throat.
The sensation is overwhelming. That perfect, aching fullness that makes my inner walls clench around him, desperate to hold him there forever.
We both gasp, our foreheads pressing together, our eyes locked in something that feels more intimate than the connection between our bodies.
"Oh god," I whimper, my nails digging into his shoulders as he seats himself fully inside me. He's so deep, hitting places that were neglected for far too long, but not anymore.
"Yes, oh…" I moan louder, shifting my hips. "Yes, Colt. More."
My hips roll instinctively, needing more, needing everything.
I don't need to hold back anymore. Not my dreams, not my voice, not the sounds building in my chest that I've spent years learning to swallow and hide.
Colt has changed everything. Not just for me, but for my daughter too. I spent eight years of training myself to be silent, to be smaller, to take up as little space as possible while I handled everything alone.
But not anymore.
"Fuck, you feel incredible." His jaw clenches, his thrusts growing stronger. "So tight. So wet. Like you were made for me."
I moan at his words, at the way his cock throbs inside me, at the raw hunger burning in those blue eyes that won't look away from mine.
He watches me the whole time, his gaze intense, worshipful.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice ragged. “My beautiful, brilliant, perfect woman.”
The praise goes straight to my core, tightening everything. I’m already close, teetering on the edge.
He feels it, and one of his hands slips between our bodies, his fingers finding my clit, circling exactly the right way.
That’s all it takes.
My orgasm crashes over me, a wave of pure, blinding pleasure that rips a choked scream from my throat. Colt follows me over, his own release shuddering through him, his hips stuttering as he buries his face in my neck with a groan.
Afterward, we lie tangled together on the sofa, a mess of limbs and discarded clothes. The TV is still on, muted, showing highlights from a different game. Morgan’s playlist has ended, leaving the apartment in peaceful quiet.
Colt’s fingers trace my bare back, and I’m sprawled half on top of him, my head on his chest, listening to the steady, strong beat of his heart.
“I love you,” he says again, his voice sleepy and satisfied.
“I love you too,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to his skin.
He shifts, just enough to look down at me. “You know,” he says, a slow smile touching his lips, “when I walked into your bakery that first morning, I had no idea what I was walking into.”
I smile back. “A tray of muffins?”
“Yeah.” He kisses my forehead, his lips lingering. “But the best kind of muffins.”
I close my eyes, breathing him in.
Turns out, the best things in life aren’t the ones you plan for. They’re the ones that walk through your door at seven in the morning, drop a tray of muffins, and never leave.
– THE END –