Epilogue

Epilogue

Parker

Eight years later

There is something so delicious about being able to make my husband come at the drop of a hat. One might assume that after two babies and eight years together, he’d have gotten used to me. Learned how to control himself, control how he responds to my touch. My body. Well, he hasn’t. I can still send him over the edge with three hard strokes. This man I love like crazy has it bad for me. Just like I have it bad for him.

When he accused me of being a tease all those years ago, I took it with a grain of salt. Although, there was no denying that I enjoyed making Daws sweat. Eight years later, I’ve embraced that playful side of me—much to the misery and delight of my sexy beast of a husband.

I walk into our bedroom in a frilly pink teddy and watch his Adam’s apple bob in his throat, his hands paused in the act of removing his shoes. “Shit,” he mutters thickly. “That’s a new one. Did you make it yourself?”

“Mmmhmm.” I turn in a slow circle between his long, thick, outstretched legs, giving him a chance to take in the finer details. The pink lace barely containing my breasts, the sheer material draping down over my stomach, the hem brushing the waistband of my matching thong. My silver five-inch heels. “Made it just for you.”

His breath is already rattling in his chest, a tell-tale bulge appearing in his lap. “Parker,” he warns, shaking his head. “You know I won’t last with you wearing that little thing.”

Lust slithers up my ribcage and hardens my nipples. What woman wouldn’t want to be desired like this? To a point that a man can’t keep from spilling at the sight of you.

Oh, Daws always makes sure I reach my peak.

Sometimes he’s inside me, cursing and straining to keep from coming.

Begging.

Groaning.

Panting.

Other times, when he can’t hold back, he finishes me with his tongue.

What will tonight bring?

When I saw this pink lace in the fabric shop, it made me think of him. Mostly that it would drive him wild. But I also got a sense of nostalgia thinking of the first time he brought me home and we ate pink, strawberry frosted donuts in bed together between bouts of lovemaking. I woke up alone the next morning to rain pattering on the window of his apartment. Only a minute passed before he returned, hair wet from the rain, a diamond ring in his pocket.

We haven’t spent a night apart since.

Not unless Daws is working a late shift at the bar or I’m scrambling to put final touches on a new line before a show. Over the last eight years, my brand has dovetailed into two aesthetics. One is my edgy womenswear collection. The other is my even more popular plus-size men’s line. Sometimes I even convince my husband to model for me. He makes me pay him in kisses and it’s so not a hardship.

“You’ll last me for me, won’t you?” I whisper, straddling his lap, sliding forward until my softness presses to his erection and listening to his rough intake of breath. “I want to come while you’re inside me so deep, Daddy.”

Daws groans long and loud, turning his big body and throwing me down on the bed. His thick body flattens me, stealing my breath with its weight. I love this part. Watching him fumble for his zipper, his face contorted in pain. We don’t role play very often. We don’t need to. Mostly I just love to call him the D word to remind him he’s in charge.

With a grunt, he drops his heavy cock out onto my stomach, the tip leaving a trail of moisture on my teddy. Our mouths lock together and we roll together on the bed, side to side, wrestling his shirt off as we kiss, my thighs opening in welcome.

Finally, my husband’s gloriously broad, hairy chest is on display and now it’s my turn to start panting. God. God, he’s the hottest man alive, all salt and pepper hair and weathered skin. Faded tattoos and a bullet hole in his shoulder. And a lifetime of desire banked in his eyes.

“You’re so sexy,” I murmur, dragging my fingernails down hard over his nipples.

His shaft jumps between my legs and he curses through clenched teeth.

Lord, he gets me wet. The thong is already plastered to my intimate flesh, a buzz of hunger riding up and down every inch of my skin. “Can I lick them?”

His swallow is audible. “Not if you want to come on my dick.”

“Shh…” I lever myself up and slide down slightly, putting my mouth on level with his left nipple. My tongue circles the dusky disc and he shudders, bucks his hips. “You can handle it.”

“I can’t. I can’t.”

Feeling wicked, loving how he’s pacing the edge of the cliff already, I close my teeth around the whole thing and bite down.

“FUCK!Parker.” He drags me back up the bed and shoves my thighs open. “My little cock tease wife is at it again, isn’t she?” My thong is yanked to the right and he spits on my sex—a hard, meant shot of saliva—before filling me with eight fat, glorious inches. “Ahhhh Jesus,” he says choppily, his neck losing power to drop his head forward. “Can’t believe I get to come in this pussy. Can’t believe I don’t have to use a condom. Still can’t fucking believe it.”

I slide my hands into the loosened back waistband of his trousers, grabbing as much of his beautiful beefy ass as I can. “Well I can’t believe all of this is mine.” My nails skewer his flesh and his shaft judders inside me, his breath coming in spurts. “All. Mine.” I clench the walls of my womanhood around his steel length. “This too.”

He falls on me like an animal, groaning into my neck, slamming into me five times before stopping, his frustration evident. “Have to stop. I’m going to bust. You’re doing it on purpose.”

“Doing what?”

“Being Parker. Being my perfect wife.” He bares his teeth against my ear. “Being a hot little fuck for Daddy.”

I gasp when his words make me clench involuntarily, my flesh starting to quicken.

“Yeah, that’s right, pretty baby. Two can play at this game.”

He rams himself deep and the headboard cracks against the wall. One, two, three thrusts. And moaning, both of us clawing at flesh, we have to stop. It’s too much. He’s too thick and I’m too tight and it’s always like this. We’re insatiable and it’s new every single time.

“Goddammit,” Daws rasps, wrapping a hand around my throat. “You’ve had my dick hard for eight motherfucking years. I can’t get enough. This obsession is permanent. Gets deeper every day. I’ll never get enough.”

“I’ll never get enough of you either, husband,” I gasp, willing him to tighten his hold on my throat—and he does. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he heaves, his hips beginning to roll again, involuntarily, his jaw slackening with pleasure. “Jesus, it’s happening. I can’t hold it. Come with me.”

And I do.

I’ll follow him anywhere. Forever.

THE END