Epilogue
SCOOP
I opened the door and nearly dropped my gear bag.
Camille stood in the kitchen, barefoot, backlit by the late afternoon sun, and wearing a fireman’s uniform. Well—part of one.
The T-shirt was mine. The pants weren’t regulation, but they were snug in all the right places. She had nothing on underneath, judging by the way her nipples poked at the fabric, giving me an instant hard-on.
My mouth went dry. My body kicked into overdrive. And for a second, all I could do was stare.
“Where are the boys?” I asked, kicking the door shut behind me.
“At my parents’,” she said, walking toward me slowly, her hips swaying, that knowing smile pulling at her lips. “They took them for the weekend.”
“The whole weekend?”
She nodded. “Dropped them off two hours ago. They’re probably already building a Lego replica of Dad’s auto body shop.”
I let out a low groan. “Remind me to send your parents a gift basket.”
She laughed, and God, that sound hit me square in the chest.
“My parents are still uptight,” she said. “But it kind of works now. Especially with two wild boys running around. Structure’s good.”
I was already walking toward her, pulling off my jacket as I moved. “And we get a quiet house for two whole days.”
She nodded. “I thought we could make the most of it.”
“I like the way you think.”
When I reached her, I wrapped my arms around her waist and pulled her in close, pressing my forehead to hers. “God, I missed you.”
Her hands slid up my chest, settling at the base of my neck. “I missed you too.”
Between her teaching schedule, my shifts at the station, and the chaos of raising two boys, time alone like this had become rare. We were always passing off parenting duties, swapping grocery lists, and squeezing in kisses between bedtime stories and backpacks.
But right now? It was just us.
I kissed her hard, deep, slow. The kind of kiss that said “you’re mine” and “thank God we found each other.” Her fingers tangled in my shirt, tugging me closer, and when I felt the brush of her breasts against my chest, I lost it.
I broke the kiss long enough to look down at her. “You wearing anything under this?”
She shook her head and unfastened her pants, letting them fall to her ankles, revealing she wore nothing beneath them. “Fuck me.”
“That’s the plan.”
I lifted her onto the kitchen table in one smooth motion, then reached for the hem of her T-shirt and dragged it up over her head. She raised her arms for me, breath catching as I tossed it aside.
“I should warn you,” she said, breathless, “I’ve been thinking about this all day.”
“Yeah?” I stepped between her thighs, running my hands up the smooth skin of her legs. “Me too.”
She reached for me, wrapping her arms around my neck as I kissed her again—messy, hungry, and perfect. I grabbed her hips and pulled her to the edge of the table.
Her breath hitched as I dropped to my knees before her, my hands sliding up the inside of her thighs, spreading her wide. The scent of her arousal filled the air, sweet and intoxicating, and I groaned against her skin before pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to her inner thigh.
Her fingers tangled in my hair, tugging gently. “Please.”
I didn’t make her wait. I leaned in and licked a slow, deliberate stripe up her slit, savoring the way she shuddered beneath me. Her taste exploded on my tongue—warm, salty, and perfect. I circled her clit with the tip of my tongue, teasing, before sealing my lips around it and sucking gently.
Camille gasped, her hips jerking against my mouth. “Oh, fuck yes, just like that.”
I licked and sucked, alternating between slow, maddening circles and firm, relentless pressure. Her thighs trembled around my head, her breath coming in ragged little moans. I slid two fingers inside her, curling them just right, and she cried out, her back arching off the table.
“Don’t stop—fuck, don’t stop?—“
I didn’t. I worked her with my mouth and fingers, listening to every hitch in her breath, every broken whimper, until her body went taut. Her grip on my hair tightened, her thighs clamping around me as she came with a sharp, breathless cry, her hips grinding against my tongue until she was shaking.
I kissed my way up her stomach and her chest, finally capturing her lips as she panted against me. She tasted herself on my tongue, her kiss hungry and desperate.
“Need you inside me,” she murmured, her nails scraping down my back.
I didn’t hesitate. I stood, gripping her hips and pulling her to the very edge of the table before sliding into her in one smooth, deep thrust. She gasped, her head falling back, her breasts bouncing as I set a relentless pace.
The table rocked beneath us, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the kitchen, mingling with her moans and my ragged breaths.
I couldn’t take my eyes off her—the way her nipples tightened with each thrust, the flush spreading across her chest, the way her lips parted every time I drove into her just right.
“You feel so fucking good,” I growled, gripping her hips harder, my rhythm turning rougher, deeper.
She met me thrust for thrust, her legs locking around my waist, her fingers digging into my shoulders. “Harder. Please…”
I gave her what she wanted, slamming into her until her cries turned high and desperate, until her body clenched around me, pulling me right over the edge with her. I came with a groan, burying myself deep, my forehead pressed to hers as we both shuddered through the aftershocks.
For a long moment, the only sound was our ragged breathing. Then Camille laughed, breathless and bright, and I kissed her—this kiss much slower and sweeter than my earlier, more passionate ones.
“Best homecoming ever,” I murmured against her lips.
She grinned. “Just the start of the weekend.”
And it was. Because after years of chaos, of stolen moments and sleepless nights, of balancing love and life and two wild little boys, we’d found our rhythm. Our happily ever after.
And damn, was it sweet.
A biker comes to the aid of a damsel in distress in Wrong Number, Right Biker, the next book in the series.