Suddenly, pleasure rises and crashes through me. The back of my neck tingles. This release lifts what seems like years of weight from my entire body and mind. My body stiffens into Tate’s, pressing hard.
I come harder than ever. Pulse after pulse of cum painting her inner walls, and Tate's pussy keeps fluttering and trembling, milking me of every last drop till I’m dry and spent.
The rain keeps up its rhythm outside. The sound of water dripping, gushing, and driving hard into every surface drowns out our moans.
My cock's still inside her, and I can't make myself move, can't make myself let her go.
I pull back enough to look at her. Lips swollen. Eyes glazed and unfocused.
"You're really mine now," I say.
EPILOGUE
TATE
Six Months Later
The Nook opens at seven. Tom's been awake since six, which I know because I can hear moving chairs inside Sullivan's. The rhythm of his mornings has become the rhythm of mine, and I'm still getting used to the fact that this doesn't scare me the way I thought it would.
Six months. Long enough that the regulars from Sullivan's know to come here for coffee and a muffin after last call, that Beth brings bread for both of us now instead of just me ("Hm, he's not so bad," she declared after finding out we were dating), that Nana's vintage Fender hangs on Tom's wall because she would've wanted it there, in a place where people could see it and remember. Long enough that when I wake up, the first thing I think isn't where am I, but where is he.
William Shakespurr is curled up in the reading nook by the window, the one I built specifically for him after he moved himself in three months ago. He's got a new collar now—royalblue with a tag that says "Property of The Nook" on one side and Tom's phone number on the other, because Tom insisted if the cat was going to claim my business, he should at least have emergency contact information. The fact that Tom became the cat's emergency contact is still pretty damn funny to me.
They have a fragile relationship, and William now only hisses at Tom if he doesn't get a treat. Baby steps.
Brewce Wayne hums as I pull shots for my own morning fuel. The thing breaks down every other week, but the coffee it makes is worth the maintenance.
Tom's handwriting is scrawled on the inventory sheet taped to the counter—his addition to my system after he caught me forgetting to order oat milk twice in one month. His mug sits beside the register, actually a beer mug I gifted him that says, "TWAT" in big, bold letters. He 'punished' me later that day by fucking me on the counter.
The door opens with a chime. I don't look up from the espresso machine, but I know it's him. I can always sense his presence from a mile away. Am I obsessed? Yeah, and it's really bad.
"Your coffee machine is leaking again."
"Good morning to you too."
"Good morning. Your coffee machine is leaking."
"It's not leaking, it's—" I glance at the espresso machine. There's a small puddle underneath it. "Oookay, it's leaking."
Tom moves behind my counter, crouching down to examine the machine. "I told you before?—"
"That it was bigger than yours and I was compensating for something?"
"I was going to say unnecessarily complicated, but yeah, that too." He looks up at me, smirking. "You want me to fix it or you want to keep being defensive?"
"Can I do both?"
"Probably."
"And for the record, stop referring to it as IT. His name is Brewce Wayne. I told you this several times already."
He pulls the drip tray out and dumps the water in the sink behind the counter. His hair is still messy from sleep, and my God, I have never seen anyone close to how hot he is.
"Jason's bringing the baby by today," Tom says, not looking at me.
"Sarah texted me last night. Said Emma's finally sleeping through the night."
"Good for Emma." Tom slots the drip tray back into place and stands. "Jason looks like hell."