Epilogue The Lark Sings #2
He moved slow and deep, each thrust pressing him to the hilt. Each stroke dragged against her, making her gasp. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him closer, deeper. He gripped her hips, holding her still while he drove into her.
The pace quickened. His hips snapped forward, hard, claiming. Not with force, but with need, with love, with the desperate hunger of a man patient long enough.
"I want my release inside you," he said. "I want it to take. I want to watch your belly grow again. I want to feel our child kick. I want to hold you while you labor. I want to be in the room this time. I want to see. I want to be there."
"You'll be there."
"I'll be there. For all of it. Every moment. Every appointment. Every ultrasound. Every heartbeat. I'm not missing anything this time."
"Then don't miss this," she said. "Don't miss now."
He thrust deeper, harder. The pace broke. His rhythm became urgent, desperate. His mouth found her neck, biting, marking her. She cried out. Pain and pleasure blurred. His teeth on her skin, his cock inside her, filling, claiming, and loving.
She felt the pressure crest. The climax hit. Her body shuddered; her walls clutched around him. She cried out, a broken gasp. Her body shook, trembled, gripped him, and pulled him deeper.
He followed with one final, deep thrust. She felt him thicken inside her.
Then came the hot spurt of his release, filling her, spilling out, thick and hot, and claiming her.
He groaned, a broken sound. His body shuddered, and his arms shook.
He collapsed against her, his face in her neck, his breath hot on her skin.
She held him, his body heavy on hers, his heart pounding against her chest. Two hearts, one rhythm. His release inside her, hot and thick, perhaps made something new; perhaps it started a life.
He didn't pull out. He stayed inside her, pressed deep, his cock softening but still filling her. His hand found her stomach, pressed flat against the skin, the place where their children grew.
"I love you," he said. "Not because of a will. Not because of a clause. Not because of Eleanor's plan. Because you're mine. Because I'm yours. Because we made this. Together."
"Together."
"No more secrets."
"No more secrets."
"No more contracts."
"No more contracts."
"Just us."
"Just us."
He kissed her, soft and deep, a married kiss. His tongue touched hers. She tasted him: salt, love, and forever.
They lay in the dark. The ocean sounded outside. The baby monitor was quiet. Lark still slept. The cottage held them.
His hand rested on her stomach, his thumb tracing circles. The same gesture he had used since the beginning, since the breeding month. His hand on the place where life grew.
"Tell me something," she said.
"What?"
"Tell me something you've never told me."
He grew quiet, thinking. She felt his chest rise and fall against her back, his breath on her shoulder. His body curved around hers, protective, possessive, loving.
"When I was in the military," he said, "I had a plan. If I survived, if I got out, I'd buy a quiet house on the coast. I'd learn to cook. I'd get a dog. I'd live alone. That was the plan."
"What happened?"
"You happened. The hallway. The green dress. The kiss. The plan changed. The house became a cottage. Your meals replaced my cooking. The dog became a baby. You replaced being alone."
"That's beautiful."
"It's terrifying. I planned my whole life around being alone. Then you walked in and ruined it."
"Sorry."
"Don't be. Ruined is better. "Ruined" is full. Ruined are Lark, the cottage, the roses, and you. Ruined is everything I never knew I wanted."
She turned in his arms, facing him. His face in the dark, his green eyes, his jaw, the mouth that was on her body, the mouth that spoke her name like a prayer.
"I have something to tell you too," she said.
"Tell me."
"When doctors said I'd never have children, when they told me about the scarring, the damage, I grieved. Not for the children I wouldn't have, but for the experience. For the pregnancy. For the feeling of something growing inside me. I thought I'd been robbed."
"And now?"
"Now I have Lark. I had the pregnancy, even the hard parts. Even the NICU. Even the surgery. I had it. I want it again. Not because I was robbed, but because I was given. You gave it to me. Eleanor's crazy, manipulative, brilliant plan gave it to me."
"She gave us the door."
"You walked through it."
"We walked through it together."
She kissed him softly, her mouth on his. His hand tightened on her hip. She felt him stir again, still hard, still wanting. The hunger never quieted.
"Again," she said.
"You're going to kill me."
"What a way to go."
He laughed, a rough sound. He rolled her onto her back, his body over hers. His mouth moved to her neck, biting softly. His hands explored her body, her breasts, her hips, the scar on her belly where their next child might grow.
"This time," he said, "slow. I want to take my time. I want to feel everything."
"You said that last time."
"Last time I was impatient. This time I'm patient."
"You said you'd been patient long enough."
"I lied. I can be patient for a few more minutes."
She laughed. He kissed the sound from her mouth, his tongue touching hers, swirling, and tasting it. His hands moved down, between her thighs. His fingers found her slit, wet and ready. His release from before was still inside her.
He pressed two fingers inside, stroking slowly. She gasped, her hips rising. He found the spot and pressed. She trembled.
"You're so wet," he said. "Full of me."
"Always."
"I want more. I want to fill you up again. I want to spill inside you until it takes hold. Until you carry my child. Our child."
"Then do it."
He removed his fingers and positioned himself. His cock pressed against her opening, thick and hard. He pushed inside, slow, inch by inch, filling her. She gasped. He was thick. Her body stretched around him, taking him in. When he was fully inside, he stilled.
His forehead met hers. His breath was ragged. She felt him throbbing, hot, hard, and ready.
"Mine," he said.
"Yours."
"Always."
"Always."
He moved, slow and deep. Each thrust felt like a lifetime, each stroke a promise. His hands gripped her hips, holding her still. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him deeper. The pace was maddeningly slow and deliberate. She felt every inch, every nerve touched.
His mouth found her breast. He sucked gently, licked, and swirled his tongue. She arched. The sensation shot through her. Her nipples were tender, still nursing Lark. But his mouth, the warmth, the pull—it undid her.
"Come with me," she said. "Inside me. I want to feel you."
He thrust deeper, slow and hard. The pace quickened. His hips snapped forward, claiming her not with force, but with love, with need, with the desperate, aching hunger of a man who had found his home.
She felt the pressure crest. The climax hit. Her body shuddered. Her walls clutched around him. She cried out, a trembling sound. Her body shook, gripped him, and pulled him deeper.
He followed with one final, deep thrust. She felt him thicken, then the hot spurt—his release—filling her, spilling thick and hot. He groaned, a broken sound. His body shuddered. His arms shook. He collapsed against her, his face in her neck, his breath hot on her skin.
He stayed inside her, not pulling out. He held her, his cock pulsing, his release filling her, hot and thick. Maybe making something new. Maybe starting a life.
His hand found her stomach, pressing flat on the place where their children grew.
"I am here," he said. "I am not going anywhere."
"I know."
"Not to Boston. Not to the company. Not anywhere you are not."
"I know."
"We are home."
"We are home."
They lay in the dark. The ocean sounded outside. The baby monitor was quiet. Lark slept in the next room. The cottage held them: the roses in the garden, the illustrations on the nursery walls, the life they had built.
Not from a contract. Not from a clause. Not from a dead woman's plan. From love. Reckless. Forbidden. Real. Permanent.
The breeding had begun again, but this time with rings on their fingers. No secrets. No contracts. No clauses. Just two people who had found each other in a hallway in Cambridge, lost each other for five years, and found each other again in a house full of roses.
Just two people who chose each other. Every day. Every morning. Every night.
Just two people. In love. In a cottage. On a cliff. Above the sea.
Lark woke crying. Cillian brought her to bed. They lay in the morning light, a complete, growing family.
Outside, roses bloomed. The ocean whispered. A lark sang.
End