“That’s it,” I murmured against her ear, my voice a dark promise. “Let go for me. Come for me.”
With a final thrust and a flick of my fingers against her clit, she shattered around me with a scream that echoed off the buildings. Her walls clenched down on me hard enough to make stars dance behind my eyes.
“That’s right,” I groaned, barely holding on as her orgasm milked me with every pulse of her muscles. “I want your pussy milking me. Take every fucking last drop… wife.”
The word hung in the air between us—heavy and full of meaning.
Her orgasm triggered mine, and I came with a guttural growl that tore from my chest. My hips snapped forward one last time as I spilled inside her, painting her pussy white with everything I had to give.
I collapsed onto her back, both of us panting heavily in the aftermath of our release. The world around us was silent now—just our breaths mingling in the cool night air.
Slowly, I pulled out of her and turned her around to face me. Her eyes were glazed with satisfaction but also something deeper—something that mirrored what I felt inside. I rested my forehead against hers, keeping her tucked tightly against me.
Semen dribbled down her thigh.
My cock twitched at the sight. Another mark on her body.
My mark.
This was just the beginning.
We’d burn brighter together than either one could alone—and nothing would ever tear us apart again.
Chapter 19
Kennedy
I woke to soft light spilling through Nick’s curtains, painting lazy stripes across the floor. The bed was too warm, too comfortable—like I’d fallen asleep inside a secret. His scent clung to the sheets and to me: something warm and musky, like skin and leather and a hint of whatever cologne he pretended not to wear.
For a second, I didn’t move. The silence felt rare. Sacred. No shouting fans, no whispers behind my back, no cameras flashing in my face. Just this: a quiet morning in his bed, my body sore in the best way, and the lingering imprint of his hands like ghostly fingerprints down my spine.
Eventually, I swung my legs over the edge, wincing when my toes hit the cold floor. I padded toward his closet and rifled through until I found one of his shirts—soft, oversized, and still clinging to that impossible Nick Maddox smell. I pulled it over my head and let it swallow me whole. It shouldn’t have made me feel bold, but it did. It felt like armor.
By the time I reached the kitchen, a ridiculous idea had rooted itself in my brain: I was going to cook for him. I didn’t know where it came from—maybe from some foolish little part of me that wanted to play house. That wanted to give him something soft. Something normal.
I grabbed eggs, bread, pancake mix. Opened his spice cabinet and blinked at the sheer number of seasoning options. Was Nick secretly a chef when he wasn’t body-checking people into walls? I snorted and reached for the cinnamon. Just a little. Maybe a lot.
The toast was my first victim. I got distracted imagining him walking into the kitchen shirtless, sleep-tousled, smiling at me like I was something good, and the next thing I knew, the toaster was smoking.
“Oh, no no no—” I yanked it out with a plastic fork and stared at the blackened slice. “Okay. Fine. Sacrificial toast. That’s normal.”
Next up: eggs. I cracked one into the pan like a pro. It hit the skillet with a satisfying sizzle. And then… it just kept sizzling. Too fast. Too loud. Too rubbery. I flipped it and immediately regretted it.
“Yikes,” I muttered, nudging it to the back burner like a crime I didn’t want Nick to discover.
The pancakes went better. For a while. I’d probably added too much cinnamon, but they smelled like Christmas morning, so I counted it as a win. That was… until the second batch puffed up weirdly and started smoking again.
I waved at the smoke alarm with a dish towel and laughed under my breath. “Nailed it.”
This was either going to be the worst breakfast he’d ever had—or the best disaster we’d laugh about forever. Maybe both.
By the time I was done, the kitchen looked like a war zone and breakfast… well; it looked like it had lost. Badly.
The table was set, if you could call it that—burnt toast stacked like a warning sign, undercooked eggs trying their best to look edible, and pancakes so heavy on the cinnamon they practically screamed seasonal special. Honestly, they smelled more like potpourri than food.
But I set everything out, anyway. Plates arranged like I knew what I was doing. Forks and knives didn’t match, but they were clean. Napkins folded like I’d seen in a magazine once. The orange juice was a little too pulpy, but hey—Vitamin C was Vitamin C, right?
I stepped back, hands on my hips, and surveyed the spread like I was hosting a cooking show for people with no standards.
