She let out a sleepy laugh and snuggled in a little closer.
“I might have to knock you up again the second this one’s out,” I mused, thoughtfully. The idea was fueled by the imageof her beneath me, naked with a round bump in her belly and gasping for breath as she climaxed.
Her laugh faded as my cock swelled under the leg she’d thrown across my lower body. I cracked one eye open, saw her wide stare, and smirked. “Dead serious, baby.”
Before she could form a reply, I rolled on top of her again, guiding myself into her slick heat, and growling, “But for now, we’ll just get in some more practice.”
EPILOGUE
RYLIN
6 months later
Ayear ago, the idea of my desserts being the centerpiece at a Nighthawks charity event would’ve felt laughable. Tonight, it was reality.
The venue buzzed with that easy energy that I’d learned only came once the football season was officially over. Laughter came more easily. No one was counting calories or tracking stats anymore. And my dessert table had become a focal part of their celebration.
I took a slow lap around it, smiling as I noted the evidence. Empty platters stacked neatly at the back, smudged with crumbs and powdered sugar. Staff are hustling fresh trays out from the kitchen. Guests hovering not-so-casually nearby, pretending they weren’t waiting for refills.
A reporter stopped me mid-step. “Do you have a cookbook coming out?”
“Not yet,” I replied easily. “But I’ve been thinking about it.”
Another donor leaned in, wineglass in hand. “Are these available anywhere? My daughters would love them.”
“Only at The Tight Line for now. But that might change.” The confidence in my voice didn’t surprise me. I had earned it.
As I spoke, my hand drifted to my belly—round and unmistakable beneath my dress. The engagement ring on my finger caught the light. My wedding band was nestled snugly beside it. Right on cue, the baby shifted, a firm little nudge that made me laugh softly and excuse myself for a moment.
“Already has opinions,” I joked, earning a ripple of laughter.
As I headed toward our table, I thought about how much had changed since I met Micah. Not just professionally, but personally.
I hadn’t just found success. I’d found my footing.
The disbelief wasn’t there anymore. Just pride.
A familiar warmth appeared behind me as Micah rested his hand at my hip, and I knew without a doubt that I was exactly where I belonged.
The noise softened until the cavernous room felt smaller somehow—like it was shrinking down to just us.
Micah shifted closer, his palm sliding over to cup my belly. “How’re you feeling?”
I smiled up at him. “Amazing.”
His answering grin was pure satisfaction, and he leaned down to kiss me. When he pulled back, his brows lifted. “I meant physically. Your feet okay? You hungry? Need to sit?”
I laughed softly. “You lasted longer than I expected.”
He didn’t even pretend to apologize.
Over the past six months, his protectiveness had deepened. Not into something suffocating. It was thoughtful. Like my comfort stayed in the front of his mind.
“I could eat,” I admitted. “But I didn’t manage to grab one of the mini peach pies. I’ve been craving them all week.”
He laced his fingers through mine and guided me the rest of the way to our table. At the center of it sat a plate covered with anapkin. He smirked, letting the moment stretch, then flicked the white linen back.
Two mini pies sat beneath it. One peach. One cherry.
