Page 33 of Stalked By Raiden

I gasp, my rhythm faltering, and he does it again, each strike sending sparks through me, making me clench around him. He rises up to capture a nipple in his mouth, sucking hard, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh. I cry out, my head falling back.

He moves to the other breast, his mouth hot and demanding. And then he’s kissing me, his tongue sweeping through my mouth, his hands gripping my hips to control my pace. He finds my neck, sucks at the pulse point there, clamping down with his teeth as we both spiral toward the edge.

“Come with me,” he growls against my skin. “Now, Elodie. Give it to me.”

I shatter, screaming his name, and he follows, groaning low. His arms band around me to hold me close as we ride out the waves together. Afterward, we collapse together, tangled in sheets and each other. I know with absolute certainty that I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.

Epilogue

Raiden

Eight Months Later

Very few places in this city make me feel completely at peace. One of them is the doorway of Room 14 at Eastbrook Elementary. I lean against the frame with my arms folded, watching my wife bustle around her classroom.

Mrs. Elodie Sharpe.

The title still catches me off guard sometimes. Not because it happened too quickly. Because it happened exactly when it was supposed to. Spring break. A small ceremony. Just us, our families’ memories, the guys, Nadia, Sarah, and two empty chairs at the front that Elodie insisted on. Four days on a beach in Destin afterward, where we drank too much and made a list.

“You’re staring again.”

I smile. “I’ve been caught.”

Elodie laughs without looking up from the box she’s packing. “You know, normal husbands usually help.”

“I offered.”

“You also reorganized one of my bookshelves.”

“It looked inefficient.”

She rolls her eyes. “It was organized alphabetically.”

“It can be both alphabetical and practical.”

“It was practical.”

“It wasn’t.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “I married a control freak.”

“You married a man with standards.”

She points a marker at me. “See? That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

I walk over and take the marker from her before slipping it into the supply box. “There. Finished?”

She looks around the classroom. Every bulletin board has been striped clean. Tiny chairs sit stacked in neat rows. Construction paper projects have long since been sent home with proud students. Summer vacation has officially begun.

“I think so.” She exhales happily. “My second year complete already.”

“You’ve become famous.”

She smiles. “Hardly.”

“The parents disagree. So do your students,” I point out.

“They’re biased.”