Epilogue
Frankie
Two YearsLater
Warm, calloused fingers graze the inside of my thigh, and I open my legs wider in response. Everything is hazy, and despite feeling someone’s breath against my flesh, it’s almost like I’m not feeling it entirely. Goosebumps erupt along my skin, and I arch my back when a breath of hot air fans against my neck. Something silky wraps around my wrists, holding them in place, and I writhe against the warm body between my legs.
“Wake up.”
I recognize the voice, but I can’t quite place it. Two hands spread my legs wider, and a finger hooks the band of my underwear, tugging it down. I roll my hips, waiting for something, but I can’t articulate what exactly it is. More of my senses start to wake up, and I smell something familiar—but again, I can’t place it. The sound of heavy breathing cuts through my consciousness, and then something hot and wet slides down my aching seam, and I gasp?—
I snap my eyes open and groan as everything comes into focus.
Dante between my legs, looking up at me with those darkened eyes, while his tongue works through my folds.
The white, gauzy curtains blowing into our large bedroom, and the warm, spring air grazing my skin from the open windows.
The pink orchid that sits perched on my bedside table, always flowering, always ready to give us the most beautiful blooms.
It’s dark—the middle of the night, most likely—and though I want to reach for the baby monitor out of instinct, I look down at my husband and attempt to stay in the moment.
“Fuck,” I hiss, reaching out and running my fingers through his soft hair.
His eyes lock onto mine, and my own roll back when he inserts two fingers inside of me.
“So fucking wet,” he mutters, making a slurping sound. “Look at me, Frankie.”
I prop myself on my elbows so that I can watch him. The way he devours me when he’s between my legs… it’s almost like he needs to taste me regularly to get his fix. I thought after the birth of our daughter that he would lose interest, or that things would slow down.
But he’s been even more attentive to my needs now that I’m a working mom.
“Dante,” I hiss, letting my head fall back. “Please?—”
“You think I don’t know what you need?” he asks, mouth wet when he looks up at me.
God—
“You think after all this time, I don’t know that this,” he murmurs, curving his fingers inside of me and causing my eyes to roll back in my head once more, “is exactly what you need?”
“I know?—”
“Or this,” he adds, laying his tongue flat against me and slowly licking up.
“I’m close,” I rasp. “Don’t stop?—”
A long, drawn-out wail from Lucia’s room cuts through our heavy breathing, and we both instantly go still.
“Shit,” I whine, throwing a hand over my face. “I’ll go?—”
Dante stands up and adjusts himself in his sweatpants. “Stay here. I’ll be right back. I’m not done with you.”
His gruff command sends a maelstrom of desire mixed with affection through me, and I lay down to catch my breath as he walks out of our bedroom.
A few seconds later, his low, paternal voice is picked up on the monitor, and I grab it up off my bedside table. Smiling, I watch as Dante reaches into our toddler’s crib and cradles her to his chest, walking them over to the rocking chair as she rests her little head against his shoulder and he pats her back gently. I can hear him singing to her, but I can’t make out the words or the song. Her small body is totally relaxed against her father’s chest, and after a minute, he walks her back over to her crib and sets her down, placing a kiss on her forehead before walking out.
I set the monitor back on the bedside table just as he walks into the bedroom.
“Where were we?” he growls, climbing between my legs without any preamble.
