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Sometimes, I get help, using the little vibrator in the nightstand drawer. She likes it when I hold it against her clit if she’s in need of a little coaxing to reach her climax. Tonight, by her breathing, I can already tell she’s going to have no issue at all.
“What made you so wet? I ask, squeezing her ass as I fuck her.
“Sitting there, waiting for you.”
“Yeah, but you were laughing.”
“Still. It turned me on.” She laughs and I capture the sound in my kiss. I thrust faster and harder. She bucks her hips, rising to meet me each time. Every beat that we come together brings us closer and suddenly, I’m right there, the tension tight at the base of my cock and she’s making that whimpering, whining sound I love so much. “Ah…. I’m going to come.”
I collapse on the bed beside her, breathless, euphoric. I don’t need to take control of her, to have her submit to me to fulfill that need. The only need in me, the desire that has to be filled, is being with her.
I grab her up in my arms, pulling her up against me so she can rest her head on me. She casually throws a bare leg over mine, snuggling into my side. I’m so happy, so content in this moment. I think to myself, “I’m cured.”
I realize I mumbled the words out loud when she says, “What do you mean by that?” pushing a lock of my hair back from my face.
Nothing. I kiss her lips. “It’s nothing.” I change the subject. “You know, you’re a hell of a woman. But you’re not much of a submissive.”
Her nose crinkles as she thinks. “You know,” she says. “You’re kind of the one who submitted to me, in the end.”
I immediately feel my male ego prickle to attention. I’m a Bachman. A man of the Brotherhood. I’m the one who should be demanding her submission. “Uh—yeah, I don’t think so, princess. There’s not a submissive bone in my body. I’m alpha. Through and through.” I reach down, giving her ass a good hard spank to punctuate my point.
She yelps, giving a little wiggle. “No, seriously. Listen.”
“I’m listening,” I say, smoothing my hand over her ass cheek. “Cautiously.”
Lazily, she traces the outline of my tattoo with her fingertip. “In the church that day. When you stood up. That was you finally bending your will to meet mine. You knew I wanted you to stop the wedding. Not to be cheesy or sound like a romance novel, but I wanted you to be the one to make the move. To perform the grand gesture. I knew how I felt about you, but I needed you to show me how you felt about me.” She places a warm, open hand over my chest. Right where my heart lies. “And then, you did.”
I grab her hand in mine, staring down at her. “You’re right. I was just waiting for Father Thomas to say the words.”
“And if he hadn’t?” She pulls her hand away from mine, mindlessly tracing my tattoo again. “Said those words.”
The moment hangs between us, the answer to her question the next piece in our story. Like the blue ring and the cabin in the Oregon woods and that moment in the church.
And I tell her the truth.
“I would have done it anyway.” I bring her hand to my lips, kissing the gem of the ring she wears. “I would have burned that church down before I let you marry someone else. You’re mine. All mine.”
She smiles up at me and my whole world feels warm and sunny, like lying on the sands of the Parish with her.
“You like that tattoo?” I lift her fingers from where they rest on the large black circle of ink on my pec.
“You know I do.”
“Do you like this one too?” I ask. Holding out my left arm, I place her fingers over the latest in my collection.
Paisley Bachman Forever
“Oh my gosh. Is that real?” Her hand goes to her mouth in surprise.
I nod.
She stares up at me, a slow, sexy smile of surprise stretching across her lips. “I love it. And I am.”
“You are what?” I ask.
“Forever a Bachman. And more importantly.” She smiles. “Forever yours.”
epilogue
