Epilogue
Clara
It had been the loveliest morning so far.
Beckett had woken me with soft kisses to my shoulder, neck, and lips.
He’d asked me months ago for permission to sometimes wake me up with kisses and touches on different areas of my body.
I couldn’t think of a better way to greet the morning than with his mouth on me.
I had agreed with the caveat that I wanted to be fully awake before he moved lower than my belly, but anything above my belly button was fair game.
It had been a busy few weeks at the ranch, prepping the Lodge for any guests staying over for the holidays, keeping the trails cleared, and ensuring the animals were cared for with the colder weather settling in.
We hadn’t had a morning together since the start of the month, and he’d been so exhausted in the evenings that we hadn’t been intimate in a few days.
Beckett had spent the better part of the morning using his mouth, fingers, and cock to bring me to the point of orgasm – more than once.
After our stomachs could no longer be ignored, Beckett had carried me to the kitchen and set me on the counter.
He gave me a quick kiss, poured a fresh mug of coffee into my favorite mug, and asked, “Do you have any requests for breakfast?”
I gratefully accepted the mug and shook my head. “Not really.”
He contemplated for a moment before offering french toast and eggs.
“Perfect. Do you want me to move out of the way?”
Beckett’s green eyes flashed in warning. “Don’t you dare.”
The thought of hopping down just to see if he’d chase me was intriguing.
But he’d already started to pull ingredients from the fridge and cookware from cabinets. I’d have to find out if he’d chase and catch me another time. Maybe later tonight.
For now, I enjoyed my coffee and the view of him bare-chested and in flannel pants as he moved around the kitchen.
“What time are we supposed to be at mom and dad’s today?”
I had started calling Nora and Thomas by ‘mom’ and ‘dad’ a couple of months ago. At first it had been an accident. A slipped “Thanks, mom,” when she dropped off some cookies at the boutique store one afternoon.
We’d both froze on the spot, then her face had broken out into a knowing smile, hugged me and whispered, “You’re welcome. I’m proud to call you my daughter.”
I’d spent a solid five minutes crying in my office before I was able to compose myself.
Then later that week, Beckett’s father had come by the cabin one evening to watch a football game with his sons – they rotated who hosted each week.
I had no doubt the man orchestrated a moment alone with me in the kitchen when he quietly asked if I would consider calling him, ‘dad.’ I hugged him as hard as I could.
“Ma said we could show up any time after eleven.” Beckett’s voice brought me back to the moment.
I glanced at the clock. “Do you have anything that needs to be wrapped?” I’d finished wrapping everything two nights ago but wasn’t sure if Beckett had even started.
“Nope. Ready to go. I even put everything in that big storage bin that’s in the second bedroom.”
It didn’t take long for Beckett to finish cooking. “Do you want to eat there or at the table,” he asked as he passed me a plate laden with food.
I hopped down and accepted the plate, “Table.” I’d probably make a mess otherwise.
After breakfast was done, I only half-heartedly protested when Beckett wouldn’t let me clean up. I left him to it and went to get ready for an Ashland family holiday gathering.
I’d bought a knee-length dress just for today, the deep green matching well with my favorite brown ankle boots.
I was putting my earrings on when Beckett came into the bedroom.
“You look beautiful,” he kissed my cheek before he went to get ready.
I pulled out the small-ish box from where I’d hidden it under the bed and settled into the oversized chair in the corner. There was a separate gift for him to open in front of the family, a set of framed photos of us at each stage in our lives.
It had been so difficult to choose from the plethora of photos, but I’d managed with help from his mother.
We’d decided on one of us at the playground when we were about seven, one of us making silly faces at each other when we were teenagers, one of us riding side by side on a trail in our early twenties, and then one of our engagement photos.
But I’d also wanted to get him something more intimate, just between us. My nerves were starting to eat at me when he finally stepped into the bedroom, dressed in his nice jeans and the flannel shirt I loved so much.
“Before we go, I have something for you.” Beckett said as he held up the gift and sat on the comically large footrest that matched the chair. Wrapped in dark green paper, the giftbox was long and thin, a gold ribbon folded across and from end to end with a gold bow where the ribbons met.
“It looks almost too pretty to unwrap,” I teased as I held it. I couldn’t imagine what he’d come up with but opened it at his urging.
The silver chain and locket nestled on the cushion in the box was delicate and lovely. But it was the engraving of a wren on the front of the oval that brought tears to my eyes.
“Oh, Beckett,” I whispered. I hardly knew what to say. “It’s beautiful. Where did you find it?”
“I had it made for you. The jeweler said we can add something to the inside, if you’d like. I thought maybe ‘my little wren,’ or our initials, or even our wedding date, but couldn’t decide.” He tried to hide a sheepish grin, but I pulled him in for a kiss.
“I love it. Thank you.”
“Anything for you, Clara.” Beckett helped clasp the chain around my neck, and the smoothness of it settled against my skin.
I blushed at his words.
Worried that my gift for him wasn’t as sentimental, I whispered, “I have something for you, too.”
I tried to resist fidgeting as he took the box and started to open it.
“For the longest time I couldn’t decide on what to get you for the holidays. But then a couple of months ago I overheard a customer talking about a local photographer who specializes in a particular niche …”
Beckett’s eyes widened. “Oh?”
I handed him the box and waited as he carefully unwrapped it, my leg bouncing with nerves.
The photographer, Caterina, had been so wonderful to work with, and made sure I was comfortable during the session. I was surprised at how quickly she’d been able to return the final product.
As he slowly flipped through the leatherbound album, Beckett whispered, “Oh, little wren, did you do this just for me?”
It had certainly started that way – a fun, naughty gift for the man who was equal parts friends and lover. A private, physical representation of the change in our relationship. Then, during the session, my confidence and empowerment grew into something more.
“Do you like it?”
“It’s incredible. These are … incredible. I can’t think of another word, my brain stopped working about two seconds after I saw the first picture. I don’t even know what to say, except thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Relief flooded me, and I smiled at him. “And I have something else to give you that’s safe for your family to see.”
Beckett laughed and put the album next to him. “Good, because I’m not telling a single person that album exists.”
He slid off the foot rest to kneel between my legs. He was tall enough that even on his knees and me seated, we were nearly eye-level with each other.
“I love you, Clara.”
“I love you, too, Beckett.”
He leaned in and kissed me, his lips soft and inviting. He slid his hands around my hips to cup my ass. The growl he let out reverberated through me.
I wanted to spend the entire rest of the day tangled up with him, but we had somewhere else to be and other people to see.
Reluctantly, I pulled away and rested my forehead against his. “We need to go.”
“I have a sudden dislike of the outside world,” he said as he stood, then held out his hand for me.
I laughed. “It won’t be that bad.”
Without stepping away, He pulled me in close to nuzzle against my neck. My body trembled with anticipation and desire.
He bent down and traced my ear with his nose. His voice was gravelly as he whispered, “Let’s go celebrate, and when we get home I’m going to feast on you.”
I hope you enjoyed WANTING THE MOUNTAIN MAN with Beckett and Clara! Thatcher meets his match in the next Foxhollow Ridge story, CHOOSING THE MOUNTAIN MAN.