EPILOGUE - LIAM
“Ready, Liam?” the pastor asks, poking his head into the small anteroom where I’ve been pacing for the past fifteen minutes.
I nod and follow him out to the dais, where I take my place for the ceremony.
The tuxedo’s custom-made, so it’s not that it doesn’t fit.
It does. When I tried it on for Emma, she’d nearly ripped it right off of me; she’d thought it was too sexy.
It’s just that this church is hella hot.
Between the heat, the staring, and the fact that I just want to marry Emma already, I feel like a sausage in a pressure cooker.
Emma’s parents, Miguel and Joanna, sit in the front row, on either side of my mom, Mary.
She’s frail and looks significantly older than her years, but she’s been clean for several years, and her doctors thought she was well enough to travel to Boston for our wedding. That alone feels like a miracle.
Teammates from Chicago and Boston are here, as are some of Emma and Talia’s friends from their respective workplaces. There are even a couple of our old high school friends.
When the music starts and the doors open, Laddie is the first to march down the aisle. He’s in a tuxedo like mine, and he wears a pair of sunglasses. He waves to people as he walks, and they all grin at him as he passes. He comes up the steps and joins me on the dais, holding my hand.
I lean down. “Did you remember the rings?”
He makes a show of patting his little pocket and then smiles. “Yeah, I’ve got ‘em, Dad.”
Next comes Talia. She’s stunning in an emerald-green gown, her hair blazing against it.
She looks exactly like her mother, fiery Irish-American genes on full display.
Emma, on the other hand, has always favored their father: dark, wavy hair; warm, golden skin; eyes that pull you in and don’t let go.
Somehow, they both have their parents in them, but also look completely different.
I look down at my own son and think about how funny genetics are. If I’d met Laddie alone on the street, I’d have instantly known he was mine; we look so much alike.
The music shifts, and everyone rises.
And there she is.
Emma fills the doorway. Her dress is so perfect, with its spaghetti straps and tight bodice.
She told me the skirt was a ‘tulip shape.’ I still don’t know what that means.
I just know it amplifies her curves in ways that make me feel very nervous that I might pop a boner right here in front of all these people.
As usual, Emma lets her natural beauty do the talking. She wears minimal jewelry and makeup. Her amazing hair hangs loose around her shoulders, but small braids at the top and on the sides twist in with flowers and sparkles.
She smiles softly as she makes her way down the aisle, and when she gets about halfway, she finally looks at me, and I let loose a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
By the time she reaches me and hands her bouquet to her sister, my hands are shaking. She turns to face me, slips her fingers into mine, and the pastor starts talking.
He could be saying anything. Reciting the words to American Pie. Reading Goodnight Moon. Chomping bubble gum. I have no idea. All I can see is Emma.
All I can hear is my own uneven heartbeat.
Only when Emma squeezes my hands do I snap out of the trance I’m in and realize everyone’s staring at me, waiting.
Our guests chuckle, and I clear my throat.
“Sorry,” I say, shaking my head with zero shame. “My wife is so stunning, I kind of forgot where I was.”
Then we say our vows. Just the traditional ones we picked with the pastor, nothing fancy.
I’ve poured my heart out enough times lately to fill a whole damn novel, and Emma knows exactly how I feel.
Still, repeating those words, in sickness and in health, for as long as we both shall live, hits me harder than I expect.
My throat tightens, and I have to blink fast.
She says her vows back to me, steady and clear, and I slide the ring onto her finger. She does the same for me.
Simple. Perfect. Ours.
“By the power vested in me,” the pastor says, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
Just like that—we’re the Callaghans.
We changed Laddie’s last name, too.
I kiss my wife, probably more passionately than is appropriate, and then pick up our son. Emma holds my free hand, and we march out of the church.
Many hours later, Laddie is tucked away at Auntie Tal’s for a sleepover, and I finally have my wife all to myself in an insanely fancy suite at the Ritz-Carlton.
Emma stands in the middle of the room, swaying to a song that, I think, is older than we are. Fiona Apple, I think she said, was the name of the artist.
“You look so sexy right now,” I murmur, sliding my hands to her waist and pulling her in so we sway together.
She smiles up at me. “Well, the feeling’s mutual. You know how I feel about that tux.”
“Like you wanna rip it right off me?” I lean in, letting my breath skim across her lips.
Her smile turns wicked. “Bingo.”
“No need for violence,” I tease, stepping back just far enough for her to watch. “Let me undress for you.”
Her eyes darken instantly.
“Liam…” she breathes, already sounding turned on.
I loosen the first button of my shirt.
Then the second.
Her breath catches with each click. I drag out the third so long she’s practically vibrating.
“You’re torturing me,” she whispers.
“Good things come to those who wait,” I say with a smirk.
She eagerly reaches for my belt, but I swat her hand away with a tsk. “Uh-uh. Hands off.”
“Bossy,” she murmurs, biting her bottom lip as I undo the buckle myself.
“Yeah?” I grin. “You complaining?”
“Not even a little.” Her gaze is lustful as she takes in every inch of me that gets exposed. “I like this striptease way too much. It’s ridiculously hot.”
I grin lazily, slipping off my shoes and letting my pants fall to my ankles. “Oops. My pants fell off.”
She laughs. “Oops indeed.”
My wife.
God, I’ll never get tired of saying that.
She steps forward and rubs my cock through my black boxer briefs. The boy is well-trained, jumping at just the slightest attention.
I slip the thin straps of her dress over her shoulders, then trail fingertips over the swell of her breasts. She shivers, closing her eyes.
When I reach for the zipper at her spine, I murmur, “I kind of hate taking this off you. You look incredible in it.”
“I love it too,” she says softly, “but it’s tight. I was worried it might not fit when I put it on.”
“Why would you worry about that?” I ask, easing the zipper down.
But she doesn’t let the dress fall.
She holds her arms close, keeping it pinned to her body.
At first, I assume she doesn’t want it to get wrinkled, but then I look at her face and see that her expression has changed.
Emma has always been self-conscious about her body.
She shouldn’t be, because she’s every fantasy I’ve ever had, but I know the look on her face.
I lean in and kiss her neck, “Em,” I say against her skin. “I’ve told you you’re perfect.”
She swallows. Her hands tremble where they clutch the fabric.
“I’m pregnant,” she blurts.
Everything stops. I back up and look at her quizzically. She nods, her lower lip quivering.
“Seriously?” I ask.
She dares to look ashamed. She looks away from me, at the floor. She says, “I’m sorry.”
“You’re…sorry?” I ask. I can’t believe I heard her right. “Why would you be sorry?”
She looks up at me, eyes shining. “I, uh, I had an IUD, and it was overdue for a replacement around the time we moved, and I just never…I forgot to make an appointment, and I guess it, uh…failed?”
“And you’re sorry?” I sound like a broken record because I don’t get it.
“We didn’t talk about this, Liam. We didn’t talk about whether or not we’d want another kid.”
“Okay, well, let me make my feelings known. I want another kid. I wanted the first kid, and I want the second one too, and more if God wills it. I want to make babies with you, Emma Reyes. As many as you want. I want a family with you. I want you. I want it all. So I have no idea why you’re sorry because I am over-fucking-joyed. ”
“Really?” she asks, her expression brightening.
“Really.”
She drops her dress to the floor, and I pull her close, hands on her cheeks as I kiss her deep and slow.
Our bodies do the talking for a good, long while after, and it’s very early in the morning when we lie tangled in the sheets, and I press my lips gently to the faint swell of her belly, whispering a few private words to my soon-to-be second child.
Then I trail lower, kissing the warm mound between her legs.
Her breath catches, and I smile against her skin, ready to worship her all over again.
She’s so sensitive, so responsive. We have been loving each other all night, and we should be spent and tired. But I cannot get enough of her.
“We should sleep,” she murmurs, voice thick with pleasure and fatigue.
“Mm-mm,” I breathe, sliding my hands under her thighs to coax her. “Let me put you to sleep with a story.”
She laughs, breathless. “I don’t see how licking my pussy counts as a bedtime story.”
“Well then,” I say, dragging my tongue deliberately up the length of her slick heat, “let me… illustrate.”
Her back arches, her fingers tangle in my hair, and her soft gasp tells me she’s already losing the argument.
And I’m nowhere near done telling her this story.
THE END.