“That’s it, fuck, you feel so good, goddamn,” I growl, filling her up and hitting home with each stroke.
Home. That’s what this is. She feels like home.
Her fingers dig into my ribs, ripping me out of my thoughts and forcing me to be here with her in the moment. I crash my lips down on hers, pouring out all of the things I can’t seem to express any other way.
Melodie hooks her ankles behind my back and clings to me while I ram my dick in and out of her, needing more, needing every fucking thing she has to give. I thrust harder, harder, harder. Her body tightens, flexes, tenses over and over. Her back arches, her pussy contracts, and her orgasm rips through her like an explosion.
It’s the most exquisite thing, feeling her come from deep inside of her. I fuck her through it, unable to stop. I feel her come again and again, moaning and writhing in pleasure. It pushes me right over the edge. I release my cum in powerful waves, deep inside her tight little pussy. Goddamn, it’s perfect.
I collapse on top of her and immediately roll to the side, pulling her limp body over my chest so I can hold her close.
I weave my fingers in Melodie’s hair and gently lift her head up so I can press a kiss to her sweaty temple. She sighs so sweetly as I tuck her head under my chin, rubbing circles on her back. Melodie responds by humming quietly, contentedly, while tracing patterns on my chest and abs.
“I love you, my precious angel,” I whisper as I continue to comb my hand through her hair. “I want to give you the perfect life.”
She smiles against my chest, then places a kiss over my heart. “It’s already perfect,” she whispers. “And we’ve only just begun.”
EPILOGUE
MELODIE
The floor of our sunroom is a chaotic mosaic of construction paper, glitter, and discarded crayons. It’s a mess that would have terrified the girl I was five years ago—the one who lived in a world of rigid fear and cold silence. Now, it’s the heartbeat of my home.
"Mama, look! I made a dragon!"
I look up from the kitchen island, where I’m currently prepping a lesson plan for my advanced origami workshop at the university. My three-year-old daughter, Hope, is holding up a crumpled piece of red paper with more enthusiasm than structural integrity. She has Rogue’s dark, intense eyes and a smile that could light up the entire state.
"It’s a beautiful dragon, bunny," I say, leaning over to press a kiss to her forehead. I have to move carefully; the eight-month bulge of my stomach makes navigating the furniture a bit of a strategic mission. This new little life - a boy we’ve already decided to name Silas - is a champion kicker, especially when his father is nearby.
As if on cue, the low, distant rumble of a motorcycle vibrates through the floorboards. Hope’s ears perk up instantly.
"Daddy’s home!" she shrieks, abandoning her dragon and racing toward the back door.
I follow her more slowly, a hand resting on the small of my back. Through the window, I watch as a massive black Harley pulls into the gravel driveway. Rogue looks exactly the same as the day he found me on the side of that highway; rugged, tattooed, and intimidating enough to make a grown man cross the street. His "Road Captain" patch is faded now, a testament to the miles he’s put in for the Wicked Riders, but his focus hasn't shifted an inch.
He kills the engine and barely has his kickstand down before Hope is launching herself at his shins.
The man who once told me he didn't know how to be gentle drops to his knees in the dirt. He catches her with one massive arm, swinging her high into the air until she giggles, a sound that echoes off the trees. He looks at her like she’s the most precious thing he’s ever seen. Until his eyes find mine through the glass.
The ferocity in his gaze softens into a look of such pure, unadulterated devotion that it still makes my breath hitch.
He walks into the house with Hope perched on his shoulder, her tiny hands tangled in his dirty blonde hair. He drops a kiss on her cheek before setting her down and moving toward me. He doesn't say a word; he just wraps his arms around me, his large palms coming to rest protectively over my stomach.
"How's my girl?" he rumbles, his voice vibrating against my ear. "And the little Viking?"
"We're both good," I whisper, leaning my head back against his shoulder. "Though Silas thinks my ribs are a drum set today."
Rogue growls low in his throat, his hand shifting to where the baby just kicked. "Hey. Easy on your mother, son. Or you and I are gonna have a talk when you get out here."
I laugh, turning in his arms to face him. The scars on my side have faded to thin white lines, overshadowed by the life we’vebuilt together. The girl who was sold like a commodity is gone. In her place is a woman who is loved, who is heard, and who spends her Saturdays teaching children how to turn scrap paper into art.
"Mika and Lynx are coming over for dinner," I remind him, smoothing the collar of his vest. "And Prez said he’s bringing that new bike for Hope to see."
Rogue sighs, though there’s a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "She’s three, Mel. She doesn't need a dirt bike yet."
"Tell that to your daughter. She’s already got her own helmet."
He shakes his head, pulling me in for a kiss that tastes like home - dark, warm, and everlasting.
"I love you, angel," he murmurs against my lips.
"I love you more, Rogue."
I used to think my life was a series of broken pieces that could never be fixed. But standing here, held by a man who would move mountains just to see me smile, I realize I wasn't broken. I was just waiting to be folded into something new. Something beautiful. Something whole.
THE END
