“I think he loves me more than he knows what to do with,” I tell her.
It’s the understatement of the century. My face warms anyway.
“He says it like it hurts him. Like the words have teeth and scrape up his throat.”
I trace the E of her name.
“I love him too,” I whisper. “So damn much.”
I let out a slow breath, staring at her name. “And if he asks me again, I’m going to say yes.”
My mouth twitches.
I brush my thumb over the stone one last time.
If Maksim Korsakov asks me to marry him again, I’m going to say yes.
Epilogue Two
Five Months Later
The wall is cool under my palm where I’ve got her pinned, but everything else is pure fucking heat.
Her dress is rucked up around her waist like a goddamn belt, the silky fabric bunched in my fist so I can keep her spread open. One of her legs is hooked high over my hip, heel digging into my ass. Her panties are shoved roughly to the side, soaked through, and my cock is buried to the hilt inside her tight, dripping cunt, every brutal thrust making wet, obscene sounds that echo off the foyer of the estate.
“Fuck! Maksim,” she gasps, the words breaking on a moan as I grind deep and roll my hips, dragging the head of my cock over that spot that always makes her clench like a vice.
She feels unreal. Hot. Slick. Greedy. Every time I pull back she sucks me right back in, walls fluttering and pulsing around my shaft like she’s trying to milk me dry before we even get out the door. Her nails are already shredding the back of my dress shirt, and I can feel the fresh scratches joining the old ones.
“Harder,” she demands, voice raw. “Fuck me harder—”
“Shut up,” I growl against her ear, slamming into her so hard her back slides up the wall an inch. “I am. You’re the reason we’re going to be late to this fucking wedding.”
“Don’t—” She chokes on a cry as I thrust again, deeper. “Don’t fucking talk about the wedding, I’m almost there—”
Her hand flies up and slaps over my mouth, palm warm and trembling.
I bite down on the fleshy part, hard enough that she hisses, and the sharp little pain only makes her pussy clamp down tighter around me.
She yanks her hand away and pulls at my hair hard, fingers twisting in the strands until my scalp burns. I snarl, grab that wrist, and slam it against the wall above her head, pinning it there with my weight.
“I don’t wanna go to this fucking wedding,” she whines, hips jerking desperately against mine, chasing the friction.
A dark laugh rips out of me even as I pound into her. “I thought you said you were about to come. Shut the fuck up and come!”
I drop her wrist and cover her mouth, palm sealing over those pretty lips. Her eyes go wide and glassy above my fingers as I start fucking her in like she needs—brutal, punishing strokes that slap skin against skin and make her whole body jolt.
Her cunt spasms hard around my cock, fluttering wildly, and then she’s coming, hard.
Fucking finally.
A muffled scream vibrates against my palm, her back arching, thighs shaking as she gushes around me, soaking my balls and the front of my slacks.
The feeling of her falling apart like that; clenching, pulsing, drenching me while she’s still trying to curse me out, rips my own orgasm out of me. I bury myself to the root and come with a guttural groan, flooding her in thick, hot pulses, filling her until I can feel it leaking out around my cock where we’re still joined.
For a second the only sounds are our ragged breathing and the distant tick of the clock in the foyer.
I slowly lower my hand from her mouth, my palm dragging across her swollen lips. Her eyes are dazed and bright, that soft post-orgasm haze I’m never going to get tired of seeing. She licks her lips, voice hoarse and wrecked.
