This woman owns me, body, heart, and soul.
“I want to belong to you,” I rasp as her pussy clenches around me.“In every way I can.I want to give you my name, my house, my future.All of it.It’s yours, Angel.Say yes.Please.”
And then I start to move harder, deeper, reverent—every flex and slide is full of every ounce of love I’ve got left in me—and I pray that by the time we both fall apart, she’ll say the only word I need to hear.
I reach between us, strumming her clit because I need this.
Need her to come before I explode inside her.
“Yes, Theo.Oh God, yes, I’ll marry you!”
Thank fuck.
Epilogue 1: Sabrina
The gym smells like popcorn, punch, and too much cologne.
Heart-shaped balloons float above our heads, swaying beneath the glittery streamers that crisscross the ceiling.
A DJ in a red hoodie is blasting throwback love songs that have the seventh graders awkwardly slow dancing while the eighth graders pretend not to care.
And here I am—technically off duty, since this isn’t even my class—but volunteering as a chaperone anyway, because I couldn’t leave Miss Tyler and Coach Higgins short-staffed.
Also, because well, at the time I signed up I thought I’d need the distraction.
Valentine’s Day has always been a little complicated for me.
Until now.
Theo walks beside me, towering and broad, ridiculously handsome in his black button-down and sleeves rolled to the elbows.
He’s helping me collect stray cups from the edge of the dance floor, grumbling about sugar highs and unsupervised punch bowls like he’s not also the hottest man in the room.
I glance up at him and whisper, “I’m sorry.”
He stops in his tracks and looks down at me with that furrowed brow of his.
“Sorry for what?”
“I just—I feel bad.I know you probably wanted to do something romantic or normal.You know, not spend Valentine’s Day surrounded by hormonal pre-teens and heart-shaped confetti.”
He sets the cups on a nearby table and takes my hand.
“Angel, that’s nonsense.I just want to be wherever you are.Doesn’t matter if that’s on top of the Eiffel Tower, eating at Tavern on the Green overlooking Central Park, or in the living room in our jammies watching reruns of Stranger Things.”
My heart melts.Again.
God, how is he mine?
And just when I think he can’t possibly top that, he smirks and takes his phone out of his pocket.
“Which reminds me—I got you something.”
My phone pings.
“A Present?”
I blink, pulling it out of my pocket, and swipe open the message.It’s a link.
