My lips find hers, desperate and hungry. My lips demand, my tongue teasing, and she responds, her mouth opening to me, her hands tangling in my hair.
With one swift motion, I tug her towel open and let it fall to the floor.
My hands roam lower, cupping her ass, pulling her tight against me. One of her legs hooks around my waist and I feel her slick heat against my cock, making me groan. “You’re fucking perfect,” I murmur against her neck, my lips trailing back up her skin.
My fingers slip down to her pussy, parting her folds. She’s wet, so wet, her arousal a testament to her desire. I groan, my fingers dipping into her heat, circling her clit, teasing her. “Fuck, Olive,” I mutter, my voice thick with awe. “You’re driving me insane.” I use one finger of my other hand and push inside, her walls clamping on me. “Can you take more, baby?”
Her hips buck against my hand, her breath coming in sharp gasps. “Yes. Please,” she begs. “I can take more.”
I smirk, pushing a second finger inside while keeping up a relentless rhythm with my thumb on her clit. Her breath comes in sharp gasps, her body trembling as she teeters on the edge. I keep fucking her with my fingers until she shatters, her cry echoing through the dark night.
I slip my fingers free—and with her eyes on me, I suck them clean, slow and deliberate. A wicked grin curves my mouth. “Delicious.”
“Shut up and fuck me,” she snaps, her voice laced with desperation.
I don’t hesitate, guiding myself to her entrance, teasing her with the tip. Her breath hitches, her hands gripping my shoulders tighter. “Now, Ash,” she demands, her voice desperate.
I thrust into her, filling her in one smooth motion, her tightness enveloping me like a glove. Olive gasps, her head falling back, her body arching against mine. “Fuck, you feel so good,” I groan, my voice hoarse.
She moans, her hips moving against mine, her body meeting my thrusts with equal urgency. The balcony’s edge digs into my calves, the city’s lights a blur as I focus on the feel of her, the way she clenches around me, the way her breath catches with every movement. “Ash,” she whispers, her voice breaking, “harder.”
I oblige, my thrusts becoming more urgent, more desperate. The sound of our bodies meeting fills the night, a primal rhythm that drowns out the city’s hum. Olive’s nails dig into my shoulders, her legs tightening around my waist, her body a perfect fit against mine. “Fuck, Olive,” I mutter, my voice thick with need. “You’re gonna make me—”
“Come with me,” she demands, her voice a plea. “Please, Ash, I need you to come with me.”
Her words send me over the edge, my control snapping. I thrust into her one last time, my body tensing as my release crashes over me, my cum pulsing deep inside her. Olive cries out, her body shuddering as her own orgasm hits her, her walls milking me, drawing every last drop from me.
Later—minutes, hours, I couldn’t say—we don’t step away so much as float.
“Mrs. Ryder,” I whisper once more, softer, reverent.
She taps my ring with hers. “Mr. Ryder,” she says, matching my tone, smiling against my mouth.
We linger a little longer, held by the night and the promise we didn’t need words to make. Then I gather the towels, thread my fingers through hers, and lead us inside while the city hums below.
37
Epilogue - OLIVE
Published Author
The chalkboard out front saysTONIGHT: OLIVE RYDER – Author Event, and the part of me that used to hide flinches for half a heartbeat before the rest of me steps into the light.
The indie bookstore is packed—standing room only, people leaning between poetry and cookbooks, a kid perched on a step stool near the back, a cluster of college girls clutching copies with sticky notes bristling like flags. The staff has propped my book on the endcap with a hand-lettered card:Staff Pick: “Smart, swoony, and soft in all the bravest ways.”I used to dream about this, and then I used to pretend I didn’t.
Now it’s real. My book is a bestseller. My blog isn’t anonymous anymore. I put my name on the spine and it feels good.
Nina waves from the side like an enthusiastic stage mom. Liam has somehow become the unofficial videographer, holding his phone with exactly the right amount of pride. And in the front row, legs stretched, hands folded, sits Ash—stupidly proud smile, eyes glossy,like the whole night is a private joke between us and also the most serious thing he’s ever witnessed.
I clear my throat, read from the middle—my favorite scene. When I look up, they’re right there with me, every face. Some people laugh in the same place I always do. Someone sniffles. A woman in a denim jacket presses her hand over her heart and mouthsthank you, and I swallow hard.
Questions. Signing. A line that loops past “Literary Fiction” and brushes “Self-Help.” I sign copies until my hand cramps.
After, I find Ash without even looking. He stands before I reach him and pulls me into his arms like he’s toasting me with a hug.
“You were brilliant,” he says into my hair. “Terrifyingly brilliant.”
“Terrifying?” I pull back, mock-offended.
