Epilogue
Weston
Three years later
Three years ago, I had every intention of staying exactly what I was.
Single. Quiet. Up on the mountain. Running the family business, delivering firewood, keeping to myself, and letting the rest of the world do whatever the hell it wanted without asking anything from me.
Simple life.
Safe life.
Then Lexie opened a cabin door and looked at me with those big blue eyes, all soft curves and sunshine sweetness, and that was the end of that.
Now I’ve got a ring on my finger, a wife in my bed, and a house that stopped being mine alone so fast I barely had time to notice it happening.
Not that I’m complaining.
I built her a whole new wing onto the cabin two months after she moved in. Big windows. Shelves for her books. A proper desk facing the mountains. Space for all the notebooks and mugs and little things she swore she did not need and now uses every day.
She tried to argue with me about it.
Said the kitchen table worked fine. Or the porch. Or the couch.
It didn’t.
My girl needed room to build what was hers.
And she has.
Her blog started with mountain mornings and little stories about Lovestone Ridge matchmakers and the charitable biker club, and somehow turned into a full damn career.
Now she’s got people reading from all over, brands asking to work with her, comments piling up by the minute, and women coming through town because Lexie made them fall in love with this place through a screen.
She writes in the mornings, a little crease between her brows when she’s focused, honey-colored hair falling over one shoulder while her fingers fly across the keys.
I could watch that woman work for the rest of my life and never get tired of it.
Same goes for damn near everything else she does.
I hear the back door open and turn in the grass just in time to see her step outside.
My wife.
Three years later, and that word still hits me hard.
She’s wearing one of those little sundresses that ride up her thighs every time the summer breeze catches them, and her hair is loose down her back, honey-gold in the late light.
Bare feet in the grass. Phone in one hand.
Smile on her lips. Soft, curvy body wrapped in thin summer cotton that doesn’t hide nearly enough for a man who still hasn’t gotten over her.
Mine.
The whole town likes to joke that Lexie tamed me.
Say Lovestone Ridge’s grumpiest lumberjack finally went domestic.
They’re not wrong.
Before her, I was planning on dying stubborn and single with a woodpile out back and nobody telling me I needed flower boxes on the porch.
Now I’ve got the flower boxes.
And the porch pillows.
And lemon soap by the sink.
And a wife who curls into my side every night, smiles in her sleep, and makes this whole place feel like something worth coming home to.
Tamed?
Yeah.
By the right woman, a man doesn’t mind it one damn bit.
Lexie crosses the yard toward the blanket I threw down earlier and smiles when she sees me watching her.
“What?” she asks.
“You.”
She laughs softly. “You’ve been doing that for three years.”
“Hasn’t gotten old.”
Her cheeks pink a little. Still. After all this time.
That does things to me.
She lowers herself onto the blanket beside me, tucking one leg under her.
“I posted the nursery ideas.”
My whole body stills.
I look at her.
She tries to act casual. Doesn’t pull it off.
“We’re really doing this,” she says. “Trying.”
Something tight and fierce moves through my chest.
Trying for kids.
For the big family we’ve wanted since the beginning.
I reach for her, drag her into my lap, and kiss her hard enough to make her melt, her soft little gasp sliding right into my mouth like she was made for it.
“We’re doing it,” I say against her lips.
She smiles into the kiss. “That was very caveman of you.”
“Worked, didn’t it?”
She laughs, and I swear there’s no better sound on earth.
I slide my hand up her thigh under the dress, higher and higher until my palm finds warm skin. She sucks in a breath.
“Weston.”
“Yeah.”
“We are outside.”
I glance at the open yard, the trees, the cabin behind us. “Sure are. Just how you like it.”
That look she gives me is half scandalized, half turned on.
My favorite.
I kiss my way down her throat while I work the dress up over her thighs, then lift it over her head and toss it onto the grass beside the blanket. Her skin is warm from the sun, soft as sin under my hands, familiar enough to feel like home and still capable of wrecking me inside ten seconds.
“Roll over for me,” I murmur.
Her breath catches.
Then she does it.
Slow.
Graceful.
Up on her knees on the blanket with a look over her shoulder that damn near finishes me on the spot.
Jesus.
I grip her hip hard.
“Pretty girl.”
Her back arches at that. Bare skin. The round sweet curves of her ass. The slick heat I’ve spent three years worshipping with my mouth, my hands, and every filthy thought in my head.
I drag a hand down her spine, spread her open with my fingers, and just look at her for one hard second.
Wet already.
Glossy and swollen and ready.
For me.
Always for me.
She glances back over her shoulder, breath shaky. “If we actually make a baby out here, I’m blaming you for the story.”
A laugh punches out of me.
“That what you’re worried about?”
“I’m trying to be practical.”
“You’re naked on a blanket in our yard.”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t also be practical.”
I line myself up and push in slow, because no matter how many times I’ve had her, that first stretch still gets me. Hot. Tight. Velvet around me in a way that makes my jaw lock every damn time.
She moans and pushes back against me, and any good intention I had about taking it easy goes straight to hell.
I bury my cock deeper.
“Weston.”
There it is.
That sound.
I brace one hand beside her on the blanket and use the other to hold her hip while I start moving.
Not slow for long.
She’s too soft, too eager, too perfect like this, taking me from behind with the sun warm on her skin and the mountains spread out around us.
The blanket bunches under my knees.
The porch wind chime moves once in the distance.
Lexie’s moans get sharper every time I drive into her, her body meeting every thrust like she needs more, like she’ll never get enough.
Mine.
Still.
Always.
I slide my hand around, find her swollen clit slick with her wetness, and rub her just the way she likes. Her whole body jolts.
“Oh my God.”
“That’s right.”
I keep fucking her deep and hard, giving her every inch, rubbing her faster, listening to the way her breathing breaks and turns ragged. My wife, spread open for me in the summer grass, taking me like she was made for it.
“You gonna come for me?” I ask against her shoulder.
“Yes,” she gasps. “Weston, please.”
That tears right through me.
I thrust harder, feel her tighten, then she comes apart with a cry that goes straight to my spine, her whole body trembling, pussy fluttering around my cock while I keep her there and make her ride every pulsing second of it.
Her whole body shakes around me, and I follow seconds later, groaning her name as I hold her in place and give her everything I’ve got.
After, I ease us both down onto the blanket and pull her back against my chest.
She’s limp and warm and satisfied, hair wild, lips pink and swollen, soft body fitting against mine like it was built there.
I kiss her shoulder.
“You all right?”
She laughs softly. “You ask me that every time.”
“Yeah.”
She turns her face toward me just enough to smile. “Don’t stop. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
THE END
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