Epilogue

My early-morning alarmdrags me from a restless night of tossing and turning, and I fight myself not to hit snooze. For three days, Tate's been out of town for an installation at a recently renovated museum, and sleeping in our bed alone has been rough. We FaceTime every night before saying goodnight, but nothing compares to sleeping with him wrapped around me.

Thankfully, he's scheduled to be home today. Last night, before we whispered our final goodnights, he promised to be home for breakfast. I've got a surprise planned, though, so breakfast will have to wait. I bring up the app on my phone that shares our locations and see he's about an hour west of town. The little icon for his phone shows he's moving fast, so I need to be faster.

I got most of my plan ready last night before leaving the Diddled Fiddle, so this morning, I only need to grab a quick shower to rinse off and wake myself up before jogging from our loft above Bishop's Glazing and over to the bar. I deactivate the alarm, knowing it'll send an alert to his phone.

After he fixed my plumbing last year, and I caught him, ahem, clearing his own pipe, as well, he insisted on alerts going to his phone, too. Sure enough, my phone buzzes with an incoming text, seconds after I get the code to rearm the system keyed in. There's no real need to reset the alarm, but I know Tate will realize it means I'm on site, and it's not a break in or any reason to worry about my safety. Scaring him isn't in the plan.

Baby, what set off the alarm? Everything okay? I'm almost there. I'll meet you @ the Fiddle. - Tate

It's all good, Tater-head. Just another plumbing issue. See you soon! -Me

I set down my phone after checking his location one more time. Now, it looks if he's only about ten minutes out. Damn, he must be speeding to get here. For a second, I feel a little guilty and hope he doesn't wind up with a ticket, but I'm already too far into the plan to back out now.

I grab the pile of pillows and sleeping bag I left on my desk before locking up last night and make my way to the men's room where everything changed for us a year ago. Sure, it's a little weird to have such a fondness for a bar bathroom, but I don't care. I toe the doorstop under the edge of the wooden door to keep it propped open and toss the sleeping bag down on the freshly sanitized floor.

I've had this plan in mind for several weeks. And the timing of a professional deep cleaning was perfect to ensure the room's as pristine as a bathroom could ever be. The whole place was closed yesterday and will open tonight for a now recurring Tawdry Trivia Night event. But before then, we're going to have our own, private, repeat event.

I drop my clothes in a pile just outside the bathroom door before sinking onto the plush little nest I've made with the sleeping bag and pillows. I haven't even touched myself yet, and already arousal thrums hot and heavy in my veins. My brain knows this is my building, there's no one here but me, and that nothing illicit is going on. My body's having an entirely different reaction, though, the thrill of doing something so intimate in a normally public space sending wave after wave of erotic shivers over me.

I lean against the tile, a pillow between my lower back and the wall to keep my hips tilted in the perfect position to show Tate every detail when he gets here. I've left the bright overhead lights turned off, but brought a battery-operated lantern to sit on the sink. Its soft glow creates a bubble of golden light all around me.

Cool air teases over my bare skin, and I let my knees drop to the side, the sprawl opening my hips and spreading my lower lips. The move exposes my already pulsing clit to the gentle breeze of the air conditioning. My panting breaths and the snap the lube bottle's cap when I flip it open are the only sounds. I turned the sound system off last night, wanting to make sure I hear Tate's arrival this morning.

A soft hum joins the quiet surrounding me when the petals of my favorite toy powers on. Shaped like a blooming rose with petals that tickle and tease surrounding a pulsing hole that creates air suction around my clit, this toy takes me from zero to a sixty in moments.

Since Tate and I got together, this toy hasn't gotten nearly as much use as it once did. The few times he's tried to play with me using it, the intensity sent pulled us both over the edge too quickly. Today, though, I want to drive him wild and make him lose control before he has a chance to take over.

I never would have guessed he'd be such a dominant lover, but I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Throughout our friendship, Tate always tried to take charge of making sure I was taken care of. He solved every problem I let him, and pouted when I tried to refuse. In the bedroom, he's the same. The man has a four orgasm rule, for crying out loud, insisting it's his job to ensure I'm wrung out and high on orgasms before he takes his pleasure. Every. Single. Time.

I never knew there was such a thing as being cum drunk, but Tate constantly proves it's real. As real as the climax this toy has me racing toward. The sound of the alarm being deactivated followed by his heavy boots hurrying down the hallway pushes me even closer to the edge.

"Oh, fuck! Oh, oh, ohhhhhh yessssss!" I let my cries rise, the powerful vibrations from my rose working my sensitive clit into a painfully achy knot. My insides clench helplessly, searching for the torturous stretch of the impossibly thick cock they're used to squeezing around.

"I see you're kicking off masturbation month without me." Tate tries to deliver the witty comment as if he's calm and collected, but his hands shake as he tears at his clothes. He gets naked faster than I think I've ever seen.

His knees slam to the floor between my feet, the sound painful, despite the padding of the fluffy nest I've made us. He brushes away the toy from my center, eyes locked on the mess I've made with lube and my own cream.

"Is this what you do when I'm gone, baby? You sneak over here and play with my pussy like a naughty vixen?" His voice is deep with lust, and a glossy dribble of precum drips from his swollen tip to pool on the shiny fabric of the sleeping bag.

Before he can dive between my thighs like he always does, claiming it's his second favorite place to be, second only to being balls deep inside me, I push myself to my knees and topple him onto his back. With his head on the pillow I'd been resting against, I throw a leg over his shoulder and back myself up until his nose budges against my tight asshole. Tate loves playing with my ass, though he hasn't yet asked if he can take it.

I arch my back and drop my shoulders until I can blow cool air over the purpled head of his throbbing erection. The lamplight glow casts shadows over his wide shaft, the veins pulsing so fast from his racing heart the whole thing bobs and dips manically.

"It's not naughty to celebrate my new favorite holiday," I murmur just before licking his tip.

My tongue forms a point that pokes into the slit at the very center of his broad helmet head, searching for salty cum, and he attacks my pussy in retaliation. His teeth graze over my clit, tugging it into his mouth and sucking with a rhythm no silicone toy can match. I grind my hips back even as my face dips low to plunge down over his straining cock.

His spongy end reaches the back of my throat, and normally, this is where Tate's hands in my hair would pull me off him. He's so careful not to gag me, but today, I want to take him deeper into my throat than he's ever allowed. This position gives me more control than he ever lets me have, and I'm taking advantage of it. I let my elbows bend, the weight of my body forcing me lower, pushing his cock deeper into my throat until I feel it pressing into the muscles there. I swallow, breathing through my nose as his shaft sinks deeper and deeper into me.

"FUCK, Jill! Fuck, fuck, fuck. FUCK!" Tate's shout echoes so loudly my ears ring, but I push deeper. Until my nose is buried against the soft, trimmed hair at his base. Bruising fingers clench over my hips and lift me into the air. His body practically levitates from the floor as he arches to reverse our positions and spin me to face him.

I barely have time to register the change before his mouth crashes over mine and his cock shoves deep into me. He bottoms out in a single thrust, forcing my body to strain to accept his wicked girth without preparation. The suddenness sends a bolt of white-hot pain through me before the pleasure of having him buried in me takes over.

"Never. Leaving. My. Pussy. Again," he grits out. Each word is punctuated by a punishing thrust that pushes me farther and farther up the floor until the only thing between my head and the wall is his protective hand cradled over the back of my skull.

"Gonna live in this pussy, baby. Fucking wreck it. Fill it up and breed it." Lately, Tate's been making the filthy promise to put a baby in me more and more often. At first, I chalked it up to dirty sex talk, but I'm pretty sure he's serious.

"Breed me then. Do it. Fuck me like you own me," I challenge. Yeah, I've still got the implant that will keep him from actually getting me pregnant, but the fantasy is hot.

"Like I own you? Fucking right, I do. Now, be a good girl and take. This. Cock." His four orgasm rule forgotten, control lost, Tate pounds me through his orgasm. I feel each throbbing pulse of his cum filling me, and it drags me into my own climax, proud that I broke his control. He fucks me like an animal, slamming into me long after there's no cum left to splash between us. Until I'm wrung out and boneless beneath him.

He gently sets my head onto the pillow, and he rests on his elbows above me. I stare into his eyes, captured by the absolute devotion shining in them, until his fidgeting hands in front of my face block my view. He pulls something—a ring, my pleasure drunk brain supplies unhelpfully—from his right pinky before rooting around for my left hand. He raises our entwined fingers and pushes the circlet of platinum onto my fourth finger.

"I guess you could say, we've polished off the month already, yeah?" He smirks.

"Your pun game needs serious work," I choke out, the laughter clenching my muscles around his still-firm cock. Sometimes, I think he comes up with these silly puns to share after sex, just so he can make me laugh and twitch around him, a final shivery tickle to squeeze his softening cock from where he likes to leave it pressed into me.

"You know you love my puns." he teases.

"I know I love you." I counter. "Now I caught you, and you caught me. We're even."

"Even maybe, but you're still mine."

I lift my lips for a kiss to seal the deal, my agreement needing no argument. I am his. And he is mine.