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Epilogue
Epilogue
Moore
Five Years Later
She’s always loved storms.
I’m her wildest one of all.
I’ve been let out from my pen, my love for Allie allowed to run free. It was tempered back in the days we lived in Perryville. Even the weekend we spent in the cabin, I was trying not to overwhelm her with the depth of my attachment. Love. Obsession. But in the last five years, I’ve learned how badly she needs overwhelming.
She needs to be taken outdoors and ridden roughly on her back while the rain fires like liquid bullets from the clouds. She needs to be watched, protected, possessed. Needs to know I’m there, even when she can’t see me.
Yeah, the obsession runs free now. Never to be corralled.
I watch from the shed on the edge of our property as she climbs out of her car, dressed for work in a long, black skirt, a heather gray, tucked-in blouse. High heels. My ring on her finger.
God, I’m so proud of my wife.
My Allie.
She’s working at a small news station now, an apprentice to the local meteorologist. Just like she dreamed, she is making a career out of studying the weather. Its patterns and moods. She comes home exhilarated from the work. Excited. Eager to tell me everything. Now that she’s been away from her father for five years, she’s become more animated, quicker to smile, and it makes my heart go fucking wild every single time.
Five years ago, I moved into the small, detached garage with Allie, the landlord charmed by the pair of lovebirds who couldn’t take their eyes off each other. The older woman believed we were college sweethearts in the first blush of love, when in reality, there was nothing innocent about what we engaged in after I moved in. Allie missed a week of classes because I couldn’t keep my cock out of her. We were even more uninhibited than we were at the cabin, because we’d admitted our love. We’d learned that life was a sham without each other. Nothing to hide anymore. Nowhere to hide—and no desire to try.
And nothing has changed.
If anything, we’re much wilder now.
Constantly gut starved for each other.
We’re saved from being co-dependent by our commitment to being emotionally healthy, as much as we can when we’re nursing a constantly deepening infatuation for one another. Allie goes to work for eight hours a day. So do I. The forced separation was excruciating in the beginning, but we’ve learned that it’s worth the pain once we reach this time of day, when we’re both back home, the night spread out in front of us.
I step out of the shed and she sees me, dropping her purse to run in my direction. My heart is locked in my throat, my fingers balling and flexing with the urgency to touch her. My wife. The other half of my soul.
Every piece of lumber I saw, every nail I pound is for her. The construction company I’ve built from the ground up is so she’ll be proud of me. So she’ll be glad she fired that flare gun in the valley one evening, calling me back to her.
I meant what I said.
She was never without me.
I tried. I tried to give her space, so she could recover from her father’s abuse. So she could come to terms with having feelings for me, the boy who bullied her for two torturous years. But in reality, I only made it one day before I found her again. I called my aunt, sick out of my mind, begging to know where Allie decided to attend college. I sold my trailer and followed. Lived in a motel for five months, watching her come and go from classes, the bookstore. Watched her plant flowers in the ground. Keeping my distance was the most painful brand of torture, but I deserved it for those two years of bullying. I’d earned the pain for what I did to the girl I love. So I endured it. I waited.
There’s no more waiting now, though, as my wife crashes into my arms, both of us stumbling a little under the relief of being back together.
“Moore,” she whispers into my neck, her fingers already yanking at my belt buckle, whipping leather through the loops. “Moore.”
“I know, baby.” I hiss a breath when she slides her touch into my jeans, stroking my erection through my briefs. “I know. I know.”
My impatient hands yank up her skirt to her waist, tugging her tight, little thong to one side, drawing her left knee up my hip and pumping home. We stagger, groaning, melting into each other, the act of joining like a balm to our frenzied minds. Taking her mouth in a wet kiss, I bend my knees slightly so she can climb me, wrapping her gorgeous legs right where they belong, around my waist.
And I walk us toward the house I built for her.
Nudging the front door open with my foot, I climb the stairs slowly and she knows, she knows I’m taking her to her favorite room. The room at the very top of the three-story, cabin-style home. The anticipation is there in her sigh, the way she smiles into my kiss and starts to roll her hips.
I have to stop to pump into her perfect heat a few times, no choice, no choice, but finally we make it upstairs to the room and step inside. I lay her down on the bed, the only piece of furniture in the room. Just a king-sized mattress with a fitted white sheet positioned below the double-paned glass ceiling. From her back, she can see directly up to the sky. She can experience the storms while I’m storming inside of her. There has been cloud cover moving in all day. She has anticipated this—and as the lightning show starts overhead, I don’t let her down, my wife’s screams filling the house, the woods that surround us.
“I love you,” I grit into her ear, my sweat dripping onto her skin.
Her eyes go blind, breath catching. “I love you, too. I love you, I love you…”
THE END
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Greta Welding does not date basketball players. Considering I have plans to make her my wife, I have a serious objection to that rule. Unfortunately, my future wife is as stubborn as she is beautiful and if I want her forever, I’ll have to get creative. Her father is my new coach, but that’s not going to stop me, either. If he wants a championship, he’ll give me Greta first.
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