Epilogue

"You grew up here?"

Dylan chuckles at my bewildered expression. It's freezing, and the ground is covered in white, fluffy snow. His enormous childhood home is at the edge of a cul-de-sac, in a town fifteen minutes outside of D.C. The front has elegant, gray brick, white window trims, two giant, wintergreen doors, and when he rings the bell, it sing-songs a chipper tune and my knees clatter together.

Max can't possibly be more excited and barks until the door finally opens, and he bursts in. An older gentleman with auburn burnt hair streaked with gray chuckles before he faces me. "You must be Justice."

"Niki, this is my dad, Daniel Jacobs."

I take his hand and he gives me a warm smile. "It's my pleasure," I say, and I hope he doesn't notice the slight nervous tremble in my voice.

"No, the pleasure is definitely mine. Welcome home. Here, let me take your coat."

"Where's Mom?"

"I'm right here–Oh, Quin, she's absolutely beautiful."

Quin?

A woman maybe in her late fifties, with dark, mid-back waves and bright hazel eyes, meets up with us at the entrance, and she smiles a big contagious grin. I barely hand off my coat to Dylan's dad when she pulls me into a hug. She smells like a cinna-bun and freshly brewed coffee. I like her.

"And this is my mom, Isadora."

"Ay, Quin, tu siempre tan serio. Call me Isa. It's so great to finally put a face to our text threads."

"It's great to meet you, Isa. Both of you."

"Come, let's sit down and chat. I made snacks."

Dylan takes my hand and we follow his parents into the large kitchen, open to a connected dining area. The space is elegant but homey and warm. The ice in my lungs begins to melt. I'm not fond of the cold. I'd never left California until Dylan took me all over the world to his favorite places and then we explored new places together. We'd been ice fishing in Alaska, sun bathing in Malaga, and cave diving in Quintana Roo.

We sit at the large, oval mahogany dining table, and Isa gives each of us a plate. Dylan packs his with fried plantains, bollitos de yuca, arepitas, and chicharrones de pollo. I grab two of each and thank Daniel when he serves me sangria. Isa suddenly reaches over the table and yanks Dylan's wrist to examine it. She smooths her thumb over his newest addition–a small, black, majestic-looking fox.

"Another tattoo, Joaquin?"

Daniel laughs. "I'm surprised you can spot any new ones. He's completely covered, love."

I finally break my silence. "I'm sorry, Joaquin?"

Dylan's parents stare at him, and he grins, his mouth full. Once he swallows and takes one long swig of his drink, he clears his throat. "My given name. We changed it once I was adopted. My choice."

I blink, maybe one hundred times in three seconds, and raise my shoulders. I thought I had learned everything there was to know about Dylan, whose non-undercover last name is Jacobs. I'd been texting with his mom for over a month now, planning to bring Dylan over for his birthday in February. Turns out, he's a Valentine's Day baby. He hadn't been home in over a year, and Isa was grateful that I agreed for us to visit.

"Mom's the only one who still calls me that."

No one touches the topic again, not until we're cleaning up and Dylan joins his dad in the garage to check out the new snowblower. I tried not to laugh at the mention of it. From what I hear, it barely snows here. But we all deserve to dream. I'm helping Isa clean up the dishes when she clears her throat.

"Quin's birth mother chose that name. It's special. I couldn't let it go."

"Why did he change it? I mean, why did he choose another name?"

"I think he wanted a fresh start. He was so little when he lost her. The system wasn't good to him; foster homes were hell. I think that instead of being reminded of his mom, it connected him to all that he wanted to leave behind. He wanted to start over, completely."

I watch Isa carefully fill the dishwasher and then follow her to the kitchen island and gladly accept the cup of coffee she offers.

"I couldn't conceive and I was spiraling. I wanted a child so badly, and then we met Joaquin. He had the most beautiful and expressive eyes. He never said a word, but he didn't have to. I made up my mind the minute I saw him. His process was to turn the page and never look back."

I smile at her. "And your process was to allow him to heal, in whichever way he chose to do that."

She nods. "He was incredibly introverted. His only friend was always his cousin, Olivia, my sister's daughter. Never brought friends home. He kept to himself, studied hard, worked even harder."

Isa shrugs and takes a sip from her coffee. I get the feeling she doesn't want Dylan to hear her telling me all of this, because once we hear them conversing in the hall, she wipes a tear forming in the corner of her eye and stands to serve them.

"So, when do you two get back to work?"

Dylan and his father joined forces and together they founded the corporation I now find myself a part of, Untamed Fox. Olivia, Jason, and Sara work with us to apprehend human traffickers and sexual predators. Mike lost it and blew up Dylan's phone for weeks, trying to change his mind. He finally let him go–I think he understood Dylan's need to move on to something bigger.

"Next week," Dylan grins.

He's eager to get back to work. More like desperate. Especially since we work together now.

"I like your mom."

Dylan pulls me close and then lifts me to set me on the counter. He opens my legs and positions himself between them. It's late, and after spending the afternoon touring his childhood hometown, I was too eager to take a hot shower and rummage through his parents' fridge for a late-night snack.

"Yeah, she's cool," he says lazily while he snakes his hand up my calf and palms my thigh roughly.

My hand moves up to push him away. "We cannot get frisky in your mom's kitchen, rookie."

He shrugs. "It's their fault. They're the ones who decided to go out and leave us alone. Now, shut up and lean back."

"Dylan, no."

"Don't make me ask twice, fox."

I open my mouth to protest and he flips me over in one swift move and pulls down my shorts. He presses my back down and separates my legs with his free hand. I squeal in disapproval but freeze when his lips graze my ass, and then he bites. I squirm beneath him, but my hips rise on their own, searching for more.

"What happens if they walk in?"

"Relax, they're not going to catch us. Besides, we came down for a snack."

My body responds to his touch and I'm already dripping, trembling, as he trails his fingers up my inner thigh. He parts my legs, spreading me wider, and groans.

"You look good enough to eat, little fox."

I push my hips up, and when he loosens his grip, just for a second, I roll off the island and land awkwardly on the balls of my feet in a very unsexy humph. "You're going to have to hunt down your snack, rookie."

I make a break for it and sprint off. I leave the shocked-looking face, mouth agape, perfectly sculpted man alone. Last I notice, he's scooping up my shorts and smirking devilishly before he stalks after me. His steps are calm, but purposeful, while mine are loud and clumsy. I want to make it so that he's chasing me all over the massive home, but I barely make it six steps up the stairs when he snatches my ankle in a tight grip. Instinctively, I reach for the wooden banister, my shoulders burning when I try to tug myself forward, but his strength overpowers me.

"Now, if they walk in, the first thing they'll see is me fucking you on their steps."

I lean sideways and look behind his looming torso. The staircase sits directly in front of the double doors.

"Dylan, you wouldn't."

His eyes darken; the nightshade black threatens to swallow me. He turns me so I'm facing him and I lift my foot and press it against his bare chest. "I'll shove you back," I warn.

Dylan grabs my ankle and easily peels my foot off, then he rubs the sole and massages up toward my calves. He slowly spreads me open and kisses my knee, then trails tiny kisses up my thigh.

"Tell me to stop."

I don't… can't. I stare at his movements, watch him drop to his knees just a few steps below, and then he dips his head down until I can only see the top half of his face, his nose buried between my legs. He inhales deeply and moans.

"I didn't think so, fox."

Dylan peels the last of my clothing off at the slowest pace possible. He palms my breast, my nipples hard underneath his calloused hands, and my head lulls back. The cold wooden steps cause my skin to pebble, but his body heat warms me, sending a shiver up my spine. He works his way down, tasting until he's just where I want him. I can't take my eyes off of him—it's addicting. His hunger, his obsession, it's contagious, and it forces me to drop my knees back, allowing him access–baring me completely.

Dylan's torturous tongue finally lands on my pussy, moving slowly at first, as if savoring his favorite snack. His pace quickens and my hips buck. He moves suddenly, and I think he's going to stop, so I grip the back of his head and shove his face closer. If he was enjoying me before, this is something else entirely. Dylan desperately feasts, licking up my slit and drawing circles over my clit until it's the only sensation I manage to feel. I don't notice the cold, hard steps beneath me, the echo of my yelling his name, his fingers digging into the insides of my thighs, or his stubble rubbing against the sensitive skin at my center.

I come undone, thrashing against his face, riding the wave of my release until I think I just might drown him. When I finally remove my hands, he stays in place and rests his cheek against my inner thigh.

"Eres mía, Niki."

Before I can respond, Dylan flips me and lifts my ass up, then spreads my knees apart. A sass-filled complaint stings the tip of my tongue, and I'm about to try to get away again when the head of his rock hard dick slides between my legs and slowly circles the sensitive skin of my clit.

"Going somewhere?" Dylan smirks.

I lick my lips and I want to nod, then slip away, but my seditious body responds to his touch like a ravenous tramp. I shake my head and bend down to look at where he tempts me.

"That's what I thought," he chuckles, and then he sinks until his balls touch my clit. "Fuck, Niki. You're so tight."

I tighten my muscles and revel in what it does to him. His shoulders tremble, and the bruising grip on my inner thighs holds me in place. My hips elevate and grind against his, desperate for movement. I almost regret my actions when Dylan pulls out to then ram into me over and over until I'm a panting mess.

I'm fully aware of my predicament. I'm splayed naked on all fours, on the steps of Dylan's parents' house, which happen to be directly in line with the front door. Our sex languidly runs down my thighs, mixing with my sweat covered skin to coat the step I'm on. But I don't give a fuck. All I want is for Dylan to keep hitting that sweet spot deep inside that brings me closer to my peak.

My kneecaps hold the pressure of our bodies colliding into one another, but the sloppy sounds of Dylan's cock slipping in and out numbs the pain, holding me prisoner in our little slice of heaven. He wraps his hand around my waist and dips low to rub his thumb over my clit, then he brings it to my lips. His thumb glides over my tongue and I suck.

"Good girl," he purrs. "Now, come for me, fox."

And I do. My body responds to his command the second he speaks. The pressure building inside rushes through all my limbs and lands at my center. My pussy pumps him until he too finds his release. His hips lose the steady rhythm of his control and he snaps, grunting my name, professing his love for me, until we're both spent and naked on the steps.

"They were never going to walk in, they're at a benefit. I just love fucking you when your pulse is racing."

I roll my eyes. We didn't continue on the steps and we never did get our snack. Well, at least not from the kitchen. We fucked in the hall, the shower, and finally made it to his bedroom. Dylan drapes his arm over me and tucks me closer to his ribs. I trace the intricately etched ink marks on his skin and he shivers.

"I was going to give you your birthday gift tomorrow, when everyone was here. But I'd rather do it now, when it's just you and me."

I feel him watching me, curiosity stewing in his onyx eyes. We are expecting Jule, Jas, Olivia, and Jason to join us for his birthday party. We even managed to convince Piper to drag Charles out of his cave and into the bitter cold. It was a rather pleasant surprise to learn that Dylan didn't hate birthdays as much as I did. He wasn't thrilled to celebrate himself so much as he was to be gathering with our loved ones. As meticulous as he presented himself, Dylan loves letting loose almost as much as he loves his work.

I scurry away and squeak when he playfully swats my ass. After digging to the very bottom of our suitcase, hidden behind a pile of journals I refuse to travel without, I produce a manilla folder. His eyes don't leave me, slightly annoyed that he has zero clue as to what I'm up to. It's incredibly difficult to keep shit from my obsessively compulsive man. Nothing happens without him first knowing about it. But I was super careful about this.

"I know why you never looked up details about your past," I say, and Dylan perches up to lean on his elbows, a cautious look cloaking over his sharp features. He's nervous.

I move to smooth my fingers over his brows, an attempt to soothe the tension. Dylan has a single, very vivid memory of his birth mother. She was young, a teen, and full of life. She adored him, and he refused to look up details that would tarnish the little he had of her. He owned one photograph of the two and that's it. He didn't want the reality to wash away the memory he had stored away–her look, scent, voice, their history. But I was absolutely sure that what I found would only reinforce it.

I open the folder and slowly drop its contents between us. A couple of documents, a photo, and a link. "I found a video that a shelter released in an attempt to advertise their programs. Your mom was in the art room when they recorded and—" I grab my phone from the bedside table and type in the link. "It's a short clip of a ‘Mommy and Me' painting class."

I hand him the phone and freeze when he presses play. The singsong voice I'd been replaying since I found the video feels familiar now, but I watch Dylan's eyes gloss over when it finally collides with the voice he stored in his head. The video is simple, a young woman paints with her toddler-aged son. She's singing a lullaby to him, eager to keep him steady, perched on her lap. He dips his fingers in green paint and turns to smudge her face with it and she laughs. The video ends, but Dylan replays it over fifteen times before he finally looks up.

"Thanks, little fox. You have no idea what this means to me."

For months, I wondered what I could give him for his birthday. Both a gift and a way to thank Dylan for everything he's done for me. I was shattered beyond understanding, and he became my tonic, a healing remedy and my ultimate peace.

I lean forward and take his face in my hands. "But I do. I love you, Dylan. Infinity."