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I nod and he grabs something else from the floor. More lube squirts, and then something blunt presses to my pussy. It feels… way too big. I lift my head, focusing with effort. When my eyes finally compute what he’s holding, I gape in horror.

“No way is that fitting inside me. It’s bigger thanyou.”

He smirks. “Oh ye of little faith.”

The toy comes down on my clit. Sensation explodes, bowing my back. When I fall back to the ottoman, my body is lax with surrender.

“Good girl.”

He presses the dildo back to my pussy. It starts to vibrate, sending rippling shocks through my body. As he pushes it inside me, my eyes roll back in my head and all hesitance falls away. The stretch of the toy magnifies the fullness of him in my ass a thousandfold. Vibrations roll against my G-spot, radiating through my clit and outward. Every inch of my body pulsates, poised on some unfathomable breaking point.

I’m dimly aware of warm, calloused hands stroking me—breasts, stomach, arms, thighs—and of his whispered words, “So perfect. I knew you could take it. Thank you, baby. You can let go now. I’ve got you.”

He draws back slowly, then snaps his hips.

That’s all it takes.

I fracture with a sob.

Waves of ecstasy hit one after the other, each bigger than the last. With a guttural groan, Wilder begins fucking me in earnest. Just when I think it’s too much, that I need it to stop, I’m carried to another, higher peak.And as I drop off the ledge, he follows me with a deep, delicious moan.

Floating weightlessly in bliss, I sigh as his body curls over mine. His eyes are all I see. His breath is my breath.

A pure note of rapture sings in my body and soul.

“Forever,” he whispers.

Tasting his tears and mine, I echo, “Forever.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

evangeline

As Wilder assembles and plates the salad we’re having for dinner, I muse that watching him make food is to my eyes what his music is to my ears. His artistry looks effortless, but purpose and passion drive every movement.

Just a few weeks ago, I believed I’d never enjoy salads again. But that was before I watched Wilder make a salad and tasted the result. This one is no exception. Homemade balsamic dressing is tossed with arugula, cucumbers, avocado, and cherry tomatoes, then topped with slices of perfectly grilled steak and a sprinkle of blue cheese. It’s nowhere near the most complex meal I’ve seen him make, but I’m nevertheless awed by the process.

On any other day, I’d be asking for seconds, buttoday I can barely taste the incredible flavors. I manage six bites before setting down my fork. Wilder is likewise affected and looks relieved to stop picking at his own meal.

“I know it sucks,” he says softly. “But there’s nothing we can do right now except wait.”

I breathe past the urge to snap at him. “Even if this goes like you hope it does, there’s no guarantee it’ll stop the articles from being published.”

He shrugs a shoulder. “Then we’ll deal with the fallout.”

My teeth clench. “How can you be so calm about this? He’s about to tell the world you’re an abusive drug addict and I’m your emotionally unstable victim.”

Wilder drags a hand over his face and through his hair. “I’m not calm. My anxiety is through the roof.” His eyes meet mine, raw and pleading. “You watched me chop wood for an hour this afternoon when there’s already enough for nextwinter. Was it not obvious I was imagining every log was Clay’s face?”

Watching him swing the axe, I hadn’t been thinking about anything beyond the beauty and power of his body. While he was processing his anger, I was salivating over the glistening muscles in his back.

I wilt, duly chastised and chagrined. “I don’t understand why you don’t want me to help. I could be ontelevision tomorrowrefuting everything. Why aren’t we planning with Anita and Shelley?”

The look in his eyes shatters me—fear and helplessness and stubborn conviction. “Kendra’s going to come through.”

That now-familiar switch inside me flips again. I shove to my feet and grab both our plates. “Excuse me for not having the same faith in your ex-girlfriend.”

I stomp into the kitchen and aggressively rinse our dishes. My arms tremble uncontrollably, sore and weak from the axe. The fear and adrenaline coursing through me aren’t helping matters. When the glass container he used to make the salad dressing slips from my hands and shatters against the sink, I scream, “Fuck!”

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