Fuck, I love this woman.
She lines me up, and I press in, slow at first, the heat of her making my vision go blurry. She throws her head back, mouth open, eyes rolling up as I bottom out and set a punishing rhythm. Our kitchen isn’t secluded—the window over the sink opens right onto the alley behind the laundromat—but I can’t bring myself to care, not with her grabbing at my ass and her voice echoing off Formica like she’s trying to let the whole neighborhood know what we’re doing.
Skin on skin, she claws at my shoulders, her breath hitching with every thrust. I want to devour her, to brand her bone-deep, pummel into her like we’ll never have another night. Her hands fist in my hair, my tongue in her mouth, her heels digging into my back as I fuck her so deep, she shifts back with each thrust.
“God, Bones!” She trembles in my arms, eyes losing focus, and I want her to break first, to fall apart around me so I can put her back together the way I like her.
Her nails bite down as she jerks me even deeper, and then she’s pulsing, pussy fluttering, wild sound clawing up her throat. Thesight of her makes me lose it. I can barely stutter out her name before I’m pouring into her, holding her so hard our ribs could crack. My vision goes white, red, then black. The world comes back in fits and starts to fade back in on the two of us, glued together and panting in the kitchen, her arms wrapped around my neck and her forehead pressed to mine, sweat beading between us. I keep her locked down on my cock, buried to the hilt, her body still pulsing around me in aftershocks that make her breath stutter every time I flex my hips. For a minute we just hold, just stay.
Finally, she lets out a shaky laugh, her lips ghosting over my jaw. “God, you’re good at that,” she whispers, voice hoarse.
“You’re pretty fucking amazing yourself,” I rasp against her mouth, tasting the salt of her. I slide my hands under her thighs and hoist her up, still impaled and still inside, carry her awkwardly through the bedroom door while she laughs at me the whole time.
I set her down on the bed, watching the way her hair fans over the pillow, sweat damp and wild. She immediately pulls me down with her, both arms and both legs wrapped around me, locking me in.
She’s smiling, drunk on something that isn’t booze, and I kiss her slow this time, letting her come down. She runs her fingers along my jaw, thumb skating the spot under my eye where I shatter easiest.
“I love you,” she says, pulling back a little to look into my eyes. “I fucking love you, Bones.”
I brush my nose against hers and press a soft kiss to her lips. “I love you too, swan,” I say. “Always have. Always will.”
She releases me long enough so that I can get a cloth to clean us up. Then when I’m back in bed beside her, she curls against my chest, her breathing evening out almost immediately. Exhaustion catching up with her.
But I stay awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Stone at the hospital. About Josie in surgery or ICU or wherever they have her. About whether this was Summit’s response to losing the zoning battle.
And I think about Emma, asleep in my arms, wearing my patch instead of my tracker. About how I spent years watching over her from the shadows, and now she’s choosing to stay in the light with me.
The tracker was about my fear. The cut is about her choice.
That’s the difference. That’s everything.
She shifts in her sleep, mumbling something that sounds like my name, and I press a kiss to her hair.
“I’ve got you, swan,” I whisper. “Always.”
She settles deeper into sleep, her hand pressing into my chest like she’s holding on even in dreams.
And I realize this is my happy ending. Not perfect, but real.
Emma Armstrong, property of Bones. Mine.
EPILOGUE - EMMA
One Month Later
“Remember, the plié comes from here.” I place my hand on my lower abs. “Your core supports the movement. Not just your legs.”
A sea of faces watches me intently as I demonstrate, sinking into a grand plié with control. My ankle holds steady—no wobble, no sharp pain, just the dull awareness that it’s been through hell and survived.
Ten weeks post-surgery. Three weeks since I ditched the walking boot completely. And today marks the first class where I’ve demonstrated every single movement without modification.
It feels like victory.
“Now you try,” I tell the kids, moving along the barre to correct posture and hand positions. “Beautiful. Remember to breathe, everyone. The movement should feel natural, not forced.”
They move through the exercise and I watch with that same surge of pride I get every class. These kids have come so far in just a few months. And I got to be part of that.
The music ends and I clap my hands. “Excellent work, everyone. Same time next week?”
