His Little Secret: Epilogue

I press my nose to the back of Mase’s leather jacket as we hum down the highway, inhaling the scent I now associate with safety, love, excitement and orgasms.

So many orgasms.

Except for the classes I started attending on Monday, I’ve barely been off my back.

Or my hands and knees.

Hours have been spent naked, sweaty, breathless, writhing, his mouth on mine, his hands everywhere, his words of praise and devotion ringing in my ears. I’m a sated, tensionless, love-struck blob, basically, hanging on to my rock as the bike purrs beneath us. This is my preferred mode of transportation now and I have no idea how I got around before. My purple Volkswagen Bug still probably sits unused in our driveway forever, because if I can have my arms wrapped around Mase, I will. Always.

We ease to a stop outside of my parents’ house and I take a deep, bracing breath. Mase takes off our helmets, hanging them from the handlebars, then he lifts me from the bike, sliding me slowly down every sensuous ridge of his body.

“Nervous?” he asks, molding my hips in his strong hands.

“A little.” His hands slip around to my backside, palming my cheeks roughly, and I sway into him, going up on my toes to fit my curves to his muscle. “Are you turning me on to distract me from my nerves, husband?”

Heat flares in his eyes at the title. “Call me that again and we won’t make it inside.”

When Mase told me he was going to be intense and jealous, I understood.

It’s part of him and I love all of him.

I didn’t expect his controlling nature to excite me so much.

During a morning class this week, I received a text message from him asking if my legs were crossed like a good girl. And if they weren’t, why the fuck not? The only time you allow space between your legs is when I’m between them.

I practically climbed Mase when I walked out to find him straddling his Harley, eyes hidden behind sunglasses, stalking my approach. Now, I eye the bike seat longingly, remembering how he made love to me on it afterward behind the campus library, my ankles thrown over his shoulders, his eyes burning with lust.

“Ripley…” he says warningly, sliding a hand into the back of my panties and giving it a swat. “You’re making me hard.”

I moan into his neck. “You’re always hard.”

Muttering a frustrated curse, Mase snags my wrist and drags me toward the house. “Let’s get this over with so I can get you alone.”

With my desire momentarily thwarted, I eye the front door with a fresh case of trepidation. “Do you think they’ll handle it well?”

“At this point, sweetheart, it’s just a formality.” We stop at the door, Mase gazing down at me with ownership as he knocks. “You’re mine.”

I nuzzle my face in the arm of his jacket. “I’m yours.”

My stepfather chooses that moment to answer the door. “Mase?” He rears back when he sees me, my fingers threaded through those of his brother. “Uh. Ripley?”

A muscle flexes in Mase’s jaw, but he looks my stepfather right in the eye, unflinchingly, and a silent communication passes between them. “Can we come in?”

“Oh, Jesus.” My stepfather steps back, raking a hand through his hair. “Her mother is going to kill me. She saw the way you looked at Ripley. Warned me not to let you around her.”

“Yeah? She was probably right,” Mase drawls, tugging me inside, past my gaping stepfather. “It’s too late for that now, though.”

My mother breezes out of the kitchen with a glass of white wine in her hand. “Honey, who is it?” She grinds to a halt. “Ripley?” Her throat bobs. “Mase?”

“Mom, can we sit down?” I say, trying to sound soothing.

She spies Mase’s hand holding mine tightly and knocks back her entire glass of wine. “I think I’ll stand.”

Mase and I trade a wry look. His eyes tell me he’s worried about this confrontation and how it will affect my relationship with my parents. I’ve reassured him a million times that I’m all in. That I’m with him no matter what happens. No regrets. I smile at him now to remind him of those promises I made, mostly while he was inside me.

“Mom, Dad. Mase and I went to the courthouse today and got married.” I step into his side and lift my face for a kiss, which he delivers slowly, his eyes turbulent with love. “It’s always been him. It’ll always be him.”

“It’s always been her,” Mase repeats gruffly. “It’ll be her until the day I die.”

Though it’s hard, I tear my eyes off of my husband and split a look between my mother and stepfather. “I hope you can be okay with this in time. I know it’s probably a shock.”

Mase presses his lips to my forehead and slowly smooths a hand down the front of my belly, though there’s no bump to speak of just yet. “I’m going to take very good care of them.”

My mom squeaks, dropping down onto an ottoman sideways. “I’m going to need more wine.”

I giggle and my husband smiles at the sound. How many times did I stand in this room with him, marveling over his masculine features, the power he radiates, wishing he was mine? Now he is. And I don’t think I can wait until later to show him how much. To make up for all those times I pined for him in this very house, my heart lodged in my throat.

“I forgot a few things in my room. That I, um…need. For college.” I pull Mase toward the stairs and he prowls after me, shaking his head, because he knows exactly what I’m up to. Not that he could ever deny me. Not anymore. Now that we’ve experienced the magic we make together, we wield it every chance we get.

Disguising myself in the brothel is one plan that definitely paid off for this troublemaker.

Mase is already unzipping his pants when we walk into my room, sitting down on the edge of the bed and stretching his long legs in front of him. I drag my panties down my legs slowly, twirling them from a finger before casting them aside. “I think we scandalized them.”

“Do you?” Mase pumps his freed shaft in his right hand, his eyes in that predatory swirl they turn into when we’re about to make love. His chest expands on shallow breaths, rampant hunger etched into his expression. “It sounded like they saw it coming. I guess I didn’t hide my feelings as well as I thought.” His gaze burns into mine. “Maybe it’s not possible to hide obsession.”

“Thank God,” I whisper, sliding down on his shaft and beginning to rock while he growls against my lips, my childhood bed groaning beneath us, loud enough to be heard in every part of the house. “I dreamed of this day while lying in this bed. The day you’d be my husband.”

I’m flipped over onto my back and as Mase pumps, the headboard rams into the wall in quicker and quicker successions. “Thank God it’s not a dream, Ripley. Thank God you’re mine.”

The socket wrench sits forgotten in my hand as I watch my wife work the pottery wheel across the studio, sunlight spilling in through the skylight and casting her in a glow. She’s humming to herself, lost in her own world, unaware that my heart is going four hundred miles an hour. Oh, Ripley knows how deep my infatuation with her runs, but she thinks I can compartmentalize it or that maybe my obsession with her has lost its sharpest edges since I made her my wife. But she’s wrong.

I had to learn to give my wife some freedom so she could attend school before she graduated. So she could see her friends. But I never stop checking the clock. I follow her on my bike, I make demands on her time and body, I’m every inch the possessive motherfucker I told her I would be—and she loves me anyway, thank Christ.

Ripley shakes her hair back over her shoulders and it happens in slow motion, the light kissing her throat, her tits swaying in the tight neckline of her mint-green dress, her bare toes flexing. The perfection of her makes my hands shake and I have to set the tool down before I do more harm than good to the bike I’m building.

After we got married, we lived in her house off campus for a while, but not long. Alana moved in with her own husband, who happens to be the good friend of mine she met that fateful night in the brothel…and then me and Ripley found a place of our own—a secluded, modern cabin with a connected studio. We share the space, my bike shop on one side, her ceramics area on the other. The ideal setup for a husband who prefers to keep both eyes on his wife every second of the day. She’s right where I can see her. Although I probably only get half of the work done I should since her beauty has the ability to distract me for hours.

More often than not, we end up fucking in one of the storage rooms before lunchtime even rolls around, Ripley’s sweet ass pinned to the wall, my jeans around my ankles. I swear to God, the need for her gets stronger every hour, every day, every second. As my love for her grows, so does my hunger to be inside of her.

Our gazes meet across the studio and her foot stills on the pedal that turns the wheel, familiar mischief making her eyes sparkle. Slowly, deliberately, she wipes the wet clay off her hands and comes to her feet. Still humming a light, airy tune that I can barely hear over my heartbeat, she strips her dress off over her head, leaving her in nothing but a royal-blue thong. She struts toward me, all wild red hair and jiggling tits and naughty intentions. My cock presses insistently to the fly of my jeans, sweat sliding down my spine.

I’m rendered immobile by the sight of my incredible wife as she leans over the seat of the bike I’m working on and pouts her pretty lips. “It’s lunchtime and we haven’t taken a break yet.”

Fuck. I’m so hard for her, the lack of blood upstairs is making me almost dizzy. “The kids had a half day at school today,” I rasp, staring at her perky nipples and licking my lips. “Did you forget?”

Some of the color leaves her face as, right on cue, the sound of squealing pipes up outside. A laugh rumbles in my chest when she dives behind me to hide from the two ragamuffins, one boy and one girl, that come barreling through the studio, backpacks flopping around on their shoulders. “Mom, I’m hungry!” they say in unison, tossing their bags on the floor.

“Tell me about it,” I mutter. Looking back over my shoulder at Ripley, we share a laugh and I strip off my shirt, handing it to her so she can put it on. “Hey kids,” I call out. “How was school?”

“Bor-ing,” sings my daughter.

My son points a finger at his sibling. “She got in trouble again.”

A laugh builds in my chest, along with so much love, I’m worried I’ll burst like a balloon one day. “Of course she got in trouble. She’s her mother’s daughter.”

Ripley pokes me in the back and stands. “Sometimes a little trouble can lead to the best things.”

“Damn right.” I pull her down into my lap and blow a raspberry into her neck, making her yelp while our kids look on in amusement. Immediately, I realize my error when Ripley’s butt wiggles around in my lap and my dick starts to beg for relief. No matter, though.

I planned for this.

“Kids, there are ice-cream bars in the freezer upstairs,” I say, referring to our connected house. They’re already scrambling for the door. “One each!”

As soon as they’re out the door, I’m standing with Ripley in my arms, positioning her face down over the seat of the bike and ripping down her thong. Ownership crackles in my blood and I growl, squeezing her taut flesh in my hands and delivering a rough smack. She pushes her hips back in response, circling her ass in my lap. “Now, now, now.”

My cock is out in seconds, pressing into her wet heat. I sink in slowly, drawing a moan out of her throat, my hands sliding up her ribcage to handle her tits. “You’ve given me heaven, Ripley.” I pinch her nipples lightly between my knuckles and start to pump, my big body forcing her much smaller one up onto its toes. “Now let me give it to you.”

“You do, husband,” she whispers, kissing me over her shoulder. “Every day.”

THE END