Obsessed by Ever Lilac
Epilogue
Amber-Two years later
We live in one of the prettiest penthouses in town. Me and the man everyone warned me not to marry. They could all see that something was out of the ordinary with him. With us two when we’re together.
I ignored their warnings, marrying Stan in the middle of February when there was nothing but ice and snow outside. Everyone looked at us as if they disproved but it was the happiest day of my life. For our honeymoon we went to an exclusive resort in the Maldives.
A complete waste because Stan wouldn’t let me leave the hotel room. We have no inhibitions when we’re together and whenever the staff would come to clean our room they’d always gasp, then tidy up as quickly as possible and run out with flushing cheeks.
In response Stan just grinned, coaxing a smile out of me too because he’s a bad influence.
The worst.
An addictive influence too and even if he has me and has had me for two years, he still looks like he hungers for me. Like he’ll never be able to get enough of me. Sometimes I think I’m the most adored woman in the country. Maybe even in the world.
And I know I made the right choice. Choosing to stay instead of screaming and trying to run away. Had I done that it would have been such a...loss.
My whole body hurts just thinking about it and I rarely do. Usually because I’m too busy being too wrapped up in Stan. We only have eyes for each other and we’re probably the most annoying guests at parties and restaurants. At family dinners too.
My parents tolerate Stan and he tolerates them back. They’re polite to each other but a little stand offish. Gautier still doesn’t trust him but Stan respects that and easily brushes off any biting remark he might make.
But sometimes it’s hard.
Like that time during Christmas when Gautier and my sister Rischa suggested that we all go on a family vacation up in the mountains for New Year’s Eve.
“Just the family,” Rischa said, a little acidly. “Just the five of us.”
I knew what she was thinking. That Stan just doesn’t fit in with them. The way he’s refined and unrefined at the same time. The way he’s fully civilized one second and the next one he isn’t.
But he’s one more thing too. Real.
Under the table, Stan put his hand on my knee, sliding it upward, making me bite my lip and I glanced at him nervously. His whole body looked strained, his eyes staring straight ahead while his brows curved.
He didn’t like the sound of that all. Neither did I.
“You don’t mind do you, Stanmore?” Gautier said, pushing his glasses up his nose. “It’s the gentlemanly thing to do. Give my sister some breathing room.”
“She’s my wife,” Stan said, not blinking and showing he was serious. “And her husband is not a gentleman.”
“Clearly,” Rischa sniffed, slowly shaking her long, narrow face.
“I don’t need any breathing room,” I protested, bathing in the smile that Stan gave me when I said that. “And if Stan is not coming, I’m not going either.”
We can’t be apart from each other. We fall asleep breathing into each other’s mouths. Our bodies sometimes still joined. We’re not separate, we’re one.
When it comes to Gina, she’s still suspicious around Stan but she deals with it better now ever since she found out that Stan had a famous mother. Other than that our life is amazing. Charmed.
There’s only one thing missing...
I shake my head as I lay against the pillows, because we’d made an agreement. I promised him he was going to have all of me. And breaking that promise would be wrong, when I knew what I was agreeing to from the beginning.
Fisting the sheets, I twitch when I hear him walk through the front door. Our apartment is huge with a second floor, shiny marble floors and windows going up all the way to the ceiling.
The curtains aren’t drawn and anyone could see if it hadn’t been for Stan getting the windows tinted. My heart jumps from side to side, as I hear his footsteps moving up the staircase and I lick my lips.
When he enters our bedroom, the strained look on his face that he always has when we’ve been apart disappears and he lets out a feral hiss at the sight of me. Warmth pools in my lower belly and I start panting, when he begins to remove his clothes.
Ascending on top of me and nuzzling my face and throat, my eyes start fluttering from eagerness. I’ve waited all day for him. He’s done the same for me.
“Too damn beautiful,” he rasps, his hand going between my legs and I fall into his angelite eyes, “too perfect and too damn mine.”
Lately our lovemaking has been different, his thrusts a little too deep. Desperate. When I cleave to him, he does the same, sometimes looking at me with an expression that I can’t read.
When it’s over and we’re spent, he yanks me to his chest and chants that I’m his, his, his.
It’s like he’s trying to fight something. Maybe himself.
I ask him what he wants and needs but the answer is always the same. You.