Epilogue

EPILOGUE

CROSS

THREE MONTHS LATER

I knock on the door to Genevieve’s private studio. “Butterfly? You ready for me yet?”

She lowers the music so that I can hear her call out, “Almost. I’m just getting my new costume on. Then I’ll show you the piece I plan on auditioning with tomorrow.”

Leaning with my shoulder against the wood, I smile. “You don’t have to get dressed up for me for that. You know I love you in anything. Especially when I get to watch you dance.”

“Who are you kidding, Cross? You love me in nothing best.”

“Mm,” I agree. “And that’s because, when you’re gloriously naked, I get to see just who you belong to.”

Genevieve laughs. “That’s on you, babe. You told me not to get a tattoo that represents someone until you’re sure they’re a permanent fixture in your life. You covered your whole damn heart with a butterfly for me. You knew I had to one-up you.” Fabric rustles, and I can only imagine the delicious leotard that’s wrapping its way up Genevieve’s delectable body. “And I did, didn’t I?”

“Your cross is barely two inches tall,” I remind her.

She squealed the entire time, too, gripping the armrests so tightly as I tattooed her, she left fingernail dips in the leather. It wasn’t from pain, though, but because her tat is in an area very sensitive to vibrations. I refused to hurt her, and if I overdid it with the numbing cream, that was because I wanted her first experience with my needle to replace the questionable memories of her first time with my cock.

Genevieve is a fucking angel. She knows how much I still struggle with the aftermath of our time being held by Winter, and it’s so much worse that that sick fuck seems to have fallen off the face of the planet. Not even Tanner can find him, and if the Sinner’s tech expert hasn’t found any sign of Johnny Winter since our rescue, there’s a good chance another one of his victims caught up to him before we did.

And if I try to convince myself of that so that I don’t pull a Damien and lock Genevieve up in our new home in the hopes that no one can ever get to her again, that works, too.

I refuse to see my butterfly caged again. She deserves to be free, and I’m glad she’s not worried about Winter and his goons coming after her. She shouldn’t be. Between her brother and me, anyone who puts her in their sights will end up in a shallow grave, and that’s if they’re lucky…

“So?” she retorts. “It might not be as elaborate as some of your tattoos, but isn’t it the placement that counts?”

“You’re right,” I agree. “And that’s why I have your butterfly covering my heart.”

Genevieve snorts. “Big deal. I let you tattoo a cross on my pussy.”

I laugh. Something about Genevieve’s blunt way of getting straight to the point… I fucking love it.

Almost as much as I love her .

“Okay. You win.” I rap my knuckles against the wood, then push away from the door. “Ready now?”

“Five minutes. I just want to stretch a little first, make sure I’m loose and limber before I show you the piece.”

“I can help you out with that,” I offer, meaning every word.

I think about just how flexible my butterfly is, and how she let me massage her last night in particular after another long training session in her studio. I don’t know what I enjoyed more: the feel of her soft skin under my calloused, rough hands, the gentle moans that escaped her when I rubbed out a particularly tense muscle on her back or her calf, or how she was so relaxed by the time I was done, she just laid there as I buried my face in her pussy, capping off her pleasure with an orgasm that had her yanking my hair and screaming.

Good thing our new home is far enough away from our neighbors. Genevieve’s screams belong to me, and only if it’s when she’s coming all over me…

Too bad she doesn’t take me up on my offer now. She warned me when we were first talking that while art is my life, dance is hers. After she missed that audition while we were being held captive, part of Genevieve died; when she was forced to shoot Noah, so did another part. I can’t bring her back to the woman she was before she pulled the trigger.

But ballet? She wasn’t ready to move on from it. I knew that, even when I was torturing myself by staying away. Damien knew it, too. That’s why, when her controlling older brother ceded the tiniest bit of it by picking out a house that would work for both my needs and Genevieve’s, he made sure there was a front room to serve as my sterilized tattoo parlor, a back room that was a duplicate of Genevieve’s dance studio at her brother’s home, and an upstairs where we can build out life together.

Just like how I’ve been scouring the internet for local dance companies that were accepting new dancers, or performing centers hosting auditions for upcoming ballets.

I found one. It’s a small theater in Springfield, and they’re putting on a month-long show of Romeo and Juliet in the new year. In so many ways, it’s the perfect opportunity for Genevieve to dance professionally again, after she couldn’t reschedule the meeting she was supposed to have the day after the fire.

She was so disappointed to miss out on Riverside’s Christmas ballet, but if she can get a lead part in Romeo and Juliet …

Another snort. “I’m sure you could. Now, go. The longer you distract me, the longer until I’m ready to let you in.”

“I’ll be down here, so just shout when you are.”

“Will do!”

Genevieve’s private dance studio is at the back of the first floor. Down the hall, past the bathroom, there’s another door that separates my studio from her half. I open it, and because I closed my shop up for the night earlier, I don’t bother closing it so that I can hear Genevieve when she calls for me.

Instead, I sit down at my desk, anxiously tapping my fingertips against the top. Normally, I would reach for my iPad or a notebook or something to distract myself with, but since I don’t want to get too distracted in case I miss it when Genevieve is ready to invite me into her studio, I pull open my drawer instead.

And there it is.

I take out the tiny crystalline figure, holding it lightly between both my pointer fingers and my thumbs. It’s about an inch or so high, and depending which way I turn it, the colors shift from different shades of purples and pinks.

I know what it is, too. It’s a hummingbird. One of those small birds with the fast wings and a long needle-like beak. I know what it is… I’m just not sure what it was doing in my old studio.

To make it even more mysterious, after the arson investigators came and combed through the ashes of Sinners & Saints—paired up with two guys in Rolls’s clean-up crew—this was one of the only things that survived the heat of the blast on the ground floor.

It’s a trinket. Cheap. It should’ve imploded in the flames, and the reason it didn’t… the reason why I’m staring at it now, trying to make sense of it… is because of how it was found. Tucked just inside my studio, positioned in a fireproof box that definitely wasn’t mine, both Rolls and Devil came to the consensus that whoever poured the gasoline and lit my place on fire left the box behind for someone to find.

As if we had any doubts, the arson investigators confirmed Mickey’s babbling confession. That fire was set to kill, and since someone—and odds are it’s the same someone—glued my window shut so that I couldn’t use the fire escape, it’s pretty obvious that I was the intended victim even without Mickey’s gloating before I took care of him.

So what’s up with the hummingbird? After Rolls had a couple of guys sweep through my old place to make sure they recovered anything I might need, they recovered the small fireproof box and that was about it. I didn’t recognize it, but I took it—then almost immediately forgot about it.

Can you blame me? In the same night, I was technically jobless, homeless, and terrified that Genevieve would realize that choosing me as her partner would only put her in more danger. The fire triggered my childhood trauma, and though I’ve accepted I’ll never be free of it—or ever get over surviving when my family didn’t—it was a bit of a blessing, finally killing off the ghost of my stepfather at the same time as I strangled Mickey.

That was three months ago. Since then, things have completely turned around.

As his way of showing he accepts our relationship, Damien bought Genevieve the narrow, two-floor house that she accepted as a space of her own. It’s a toe over the line into Dragonfly territory, but as long as I can ride my bike over to the Playground and get there in no time, Devil was gracious enough to look the other way when it came to one of his top Sinners shacking up with a Dragonfly.

And if anyone thinks that Devil’s gone soft since becoming a girl dad? Just think about what he did to Dave—and what he plans to do to Johnny Winter once he gets his hands on him—and you won’t have to worry about the Devil of Springfield losing his edge anytime soon.

But the hummingbird…

Someone went through a lot of trouble to plant the figure in a fireproof box so that, after my old place burned down, it would still be there for someone to locate. Obviously, that someone wasn’t meant to be me, but because it was my shop, Devil decided to give the box to me without even opening it first.

I didn’t want it. It was Genevieve who took it, and though I spent a few nights on Rolls’s couch because Damien has his limits—and letting his baby sister’s lover stay in the manor, plowing her under his roof was definitely one of them—until Genevieve threatened to go no-contact with him if he didn’t let her come stay with me, I wasn’t sure what ended up happening to it.

Once the initial furor over the fire died down, Devil arranged for Genevieve and me to spend a few weeks in a Sinners-owned hotel on the West End, all while Damien pushed his people to get our joint studios completed. We eventually moved in about a week ago, and as Damien’s Dragonflies—led by Genevieve’s scowly cousin, Vincent—moved her entire wardrobe into our rooms upstairs, she handed me the fireproof box and told me to open it when I felt ready to.

Because it was important to her, I used a pair of scissors to jimmy it open. Neither one of us could understand what the significance behind the hummingbird was, but I told Rolls and she told her brother, just in case.

That was supposed to be the end of it. Still, barely a week later, I can’t keep myself from taking it out, looking it over, and wondering why it’s so damn important?—

“Babe? I’m ready.”

I palm the hummingbird, then place it securely back into the open drawer so that I don’t accidentally smash it. Later, I tell myself. I’ll figure out the mystery of the hummingbird later.

Rising up, I use my hip to bump the drawer closed. “Coming.”

Well, no. That would be great if I was, but since Genevieve made it quite clear that she needs to concentrate on her big audition tomorrow, and it’ll be impossible for her to do that if I get her under me, I won’t be coming tonight.

Damn it.

I swear, though, that woman is more than just my addiction. She’s the air that I breathe, the rhythm of my heart beating, the fire that keeps me going. I went years in between finding someone to lose myself into before forgetting about them once I finished, but since that night outside of the Playground, I consider it time wasted if I don’t have her snug pussy wrapped around my cock at least once a day.

She wants this part, I tell myself. She deserves this part.

She’s been dancing her ass off for days, proving that she still hasn’t lost her talent and her grace. My dick can wait?—

—though, I have to admit, the poor thing doesn’t quite get why when I let myself into Genevieve’s studio and see what she’s wearing.

It’s a costume alright, but my first impression is of those harem girls from old cartoons. Or Jeannie, right? That television show my mom watched on re-runs growing up, with the blondie in the gauzy costume. Only Genevieve’s is white fabric so incredibly sheer, I can make out the curves of her hips, the swells of her tits, and, mi amor, the black cross peeking out from the top of her freshly shaved pussy.

I run the back of my hand over my mouth, sure I’m fucking drooling.

She preens, running her hands down the swoopy, draped fabric that covers her from tits to ass. Going up on the balls of her dancer’s feet, showing off her pretty pink toenails—and her immaculately shaped body—she gives me a daring look as she pointedly asks, “What do you think?”

That I’m about to jack off to the vision of you in this costume.

No, Cross. That would be fucked-up. She wants you to watch her perform the piece she’s going to audition with tomorrow, not yank your cock all because she’s the most stunning creature you’ve ever seen before.

So, swallowing the lump of obvious arousal lodged in my throat, I tell her honestly, “I think if you show up at the audition like that, it doesn’t matter if you’re a little rusty. When they’re looking at you in this, they won’t notice if your toes aren’t pointed as much as you want. They’ll be mesmerized, mi mariposa.”

And that’s if I can resist the urge to drape her in my leather jacket so that no one else can glimpse this beautiful creature that I’m lucky enough to call mine .

Her lips curve upward, a daring smile. “You’d actually let me leave the house like this?”

“Could I stop you?”

She moves into me, patting my chest. “Good answer, babe. But this isn’t what I’m wearing to my audition tomorrow.”

Thank fucking God. “It’s not?”

“No. That one is way more see-through.”

I grab Genevieve by her hips, pulling her up against my chest as I bend my knees a little. “You’re killing me, butterfly. You know that, right?”

Oh, she does. And she loves it.

My butterfly drapes her arms over my shoulders, our faces on the same level as she leans in, nipping my bottom lip. “Just wait until you see me move in it.”

My cock twitches. “I’m dying to.”

She grabs my face, clutching my cheeks as she gives me a quick peck. Letting me go before I can place my hands on the small of her back and deepen her teasing kiss into something that’ll get the both of us into trouble, she dances over to the other side of the room.

“Stand over there,” she orders, squatting down gracefully so that she can turn the music on—and give me a perfect view of the cleft of her ass through the fabric.

I hate to move, but if that’s what Genevieve wants… “Here?”

“Perfect.”

The music starts, she strikes her opening pose, and I stand in one place as my Genevieve, my lover, my muse, my butterfly starts to dance.

Usually, Genevieve has her hair up in a tight bun when she’s practicing. For some reason, she’s left her golden hair down in soft waves. As she spins, it whips around her, a stunning contrast to the sheer white fabric that seems to float all around her.

It’s beautiful. Everything about this woman, from her body to her talent to her inexplicable ability to forgive… she is beautiful. I’ve already accepted that I can’t exist without her. To do so would be madness, and I’ve had enough of that to last me a lifetime. For as long as she’s content to be mine, I’m going to keep her.

But when I look at her, I still see flames, but I feel hope. I feel love .

And, like always when Genevieve dances, I’m inspired .

I don’t know how long she’s actually dancing for. She makes it look so effortless, and I could watch her forever, but it seems like no time at all before she goes down on one knee, the other folded to the grand beneath her in her final pose before she pops back up, sweeps her hair over her shoulder, and asks me expectantly, “So? What do you think?”

Honestly?

“I need my pen.” I pat my pockets, reaching up to my ear to check if I’ve kept one there. Shit. I’m empty-handed. “Let me go grab my iPad. I have to sketch something real quick.”

Genevieve knows that that’s the highest compliment I can pay her. This sudden need to draw my butterfly swaddled in clouds, wrapped up in a cyclone made up of golden threads… I have the image in my head, one I’m suddenly desperate to get down.

I have room on my thigh. It would be a perfect spot to ink it once I have the design just right?—

“Wait.”

I’m sure my eyes are wide and frantic. My fingers are twitching like they used to when I over did the caffeine. I need to draw?—

Genevieve wraps her arms around my neck again, pressing her tits against my chest, taking all of my need to draw and, just like that, transferring it straight into a need for her .

“What’s the rush?” she asks. “Stay here. With me. Draw later.”

If I stay in the studio with her, I’ll fuck her, and we both know it.

“Genevieve,” I groan.

“What’s the matter, babe?” she whispers against my lips.

“I’m trying so hard to behave, mi amor,” I whisper back, brushing mine against hers. They’re so lush and plump, and her taste… God, her fucking taste … “You have an audition tomorrow. You need to eat, to hydrate, and then get a good night’s sleep.”

“Do you know how often people tell me to behave?” Her eyes twinkle mischievously. I never thought I’d see that spark again, but then it came back the night I bent her over my motorcycle—and I’m so incredibly grateful it never left again. “Well?”

“Just as often as you tell them to fuck off?”

Her chuckle is warm on my skin. “Exactly. And speaking of fucking…” She drops her hand, cupping my cock possessively before letting out a sound of pure approval. “I think you’re more than ready for me.”

I squirm under her forceful hold, doing everything I can not to buck up against her palm as I grate out, “I mean this with all my love, Genevieve, when I tell you that I don’t think anyone is ever truly ready for you.”

“Maybe not,” she says, a hint of a tease in her voice, “but it’s always fun to see you try.”

Such a tempting minx. I shake my head, hair falling in my face. Genevieve likes it long, and I’ve been growing it out these last couple of months. It’s nowhere near the length it was before I cut off most of it last winter, but when she can’t keep her hands away from it, it’s perfect .

She runs her fingers through the strands, pushing it out of my eyes so that I can look dead into hers.

I see the lust there. The desire. The temptation…

“You need to prepare for your audition,” I tell her, not sure if I’m trying to remind her—or convince me.

“No, I don’t.”

“Genevieve…”

“No. Really. Wait.” She bites down on her bottom lips for a second, hiding a teasing smile. “Did I forget to mention that my audition was canceled tomorrow?—”

My stomach goes tight. After all her hard worK this past week, it was canceled? Or did she cancel it? “Butterfly, no?—”

“—because I already got the part.”

My stomach lurches, then calms. “What?”

She nods. Then, a wide grin on her gorgeous face, she uses her hands on my shoulders to brace herself before jumping up. Her long legs wrap around my waist, and though she has phenomenal core strength and can hold herself up, I’ll never miss the opportunity to get my hands on her ass.

I kiss her quickly, then nuzzle her neck. “I’m so fucking happy for you. But, wait…” I lift my head, searching her face. “Without auditioning at all?”

She shrugs, still holding tightly to me as she does. “Of course. I mean, I’m Genevieve Libellula, after all.”

I’ve never forgotten that for a minute.

I squeeze her cheeks. “Don’t tell me your brother used his pull to get you in.”

Though, if I’m being honest, I wouldn’t blame him if he did. Hell, if I could use my Sinners brand to make life easier for Genevieve in Springfield instead of the opposite, I would. I just… I never thought she’d accept that.

And I’m right.

“Please. This is the ballet world. When they hear ‘Libellula’, it’s not Damien they think of. It’s me.”

I raise my eyebrows at her. Hearing that pride and cockiness in her voice… I palm her ass a second time, pressing her against the noticeable bulge in my jeans. Everything about this woman revs my engine, but Genevieve knowing her worth… if I wasn’t afraid of tearing the delicate material that probably cost an arm and a leg, I’d undress her in a heartbeat so that I could get inside of her.

She knows, too. Even though we’re both dressed, she arches her back, riding me, making it seem like we’re fucking in the mirror surrounding us. I get distracted by the sight of her lithe and graceful body, anything to keep from coming in my jeans like an inexperienced fool, as she does everything she can to make me lose control.

Believe me. She doesn’t have to try too hard, only she did, didn’t she? If she knew she didn’t have the audition tomorrow after all…

“So why did you put on a show for me tonight? The dancing… unh… and the costume?”

“Two reasons, Cross, baby. One: because you love to watch me dance?—”

I do. I always will. “Mi mariposa...”

Genevieve grins, then releases me. Just her arms, though, as the strength of her legs and her core keep her wrapped around me as she bends her back far enough that the ends of her hair skim the studio floor.

I don’t know what it is that she does exactly, but she reaches behind her, tugging one of the sweeping pieces of see-through fabric, before shaking her entire top.

Suddenly, to my surprise—and the downfall of my self control—the fabric falls apart. What I thought was a complete costume seems to have really been fabric wrapped all around her, falling like a cocoon as she pulls herself back up, her tits right in my face.

“And two,” she adds, “because I couldn’t wait to see your face when I did that.”

The fabric has pooled at her waist. No longer giving a shit at all if I rip it to shreds, I grab a handful, tugging it until I have a gloriously naked Genevieve Libellula in my arms.

“Like it, babe?”

My answer is to hoist her up with one arm, giving me enough room to unbutton my jeans, yank the zipper down, and get out my cock before positioning her right on top of me.

Forever ready for me, Genevieve is so hot, so wet, so slick, her pussy so hungry for her man, I barely get the head in before her greedy little cunt is swallowing me whole.

She knows that I’m the guy for her. She proved it when she invited me to fuck her the fist time, the second time, and now, every time I work myself into her tight snatch, I revel in it even knowing that there will never be a last time.

Not for my muse and her artist.

This isn’t the first time we’ve fucked in her studio. The night we moved into the place, she insisted on christening every space—except for my part of the business floor—but while I wasn’t about to get come all over the surface where I plan on inking my clients, Genevieve absolutely insisted on watching me fuck her in the room full of mirrors.

And that’s what we do right now.

“Yes.” Her groan of pleasure is thick and throaty as I jerk my hips, seating myself inside of her. Her nails dig into the material of my shirt, her pussy squeezing me so tightly, I just about nut then and there.

I send another silent thank you over to Savannah, who was the one who insisted on taking Genevieve to get an IUD after she decided she was nowhere near ready enough to get pregnant. We’re on the same page there. Devil will go to war to protect baby Clare, and if Rolls and Nicolette have a kid next, good for them, but I just found my muse. She inspires me. She chose me. I have no intention of sharing her anytime soon, and with birth control, I don’t even have to think about stopping until I’ve given her every drop of come that I have.

And my dainty ballerina will take it all because she’s mine, I’m hers, and no one will ever separate us again.

Not her brother.

Not my own trauma.

Not anyone in the goddamn world.

This is my butterfly, and like the ink on my chest, we’re fucking permanent .