Page 18 of Husky

“I know. I fucked up so bad, Parker, I’m sorry. You’re a goddamn angel and I didn’t…I still can’t believe this is real. That you could want to be with me.”

This pisses her off. “Why can’t you see that you’re amazing? Those people loved you!”

I shake my head, cradling her face in my hands. “I only care about you loving me.”

“Good, because I do.” She blinks back tears. “I love you. You’re sweet and funny and grumpy and you make me happy. You make me feel safe. Like even if I bomb or make a hideous dress, I can never completely fail, because you’d be there. I’d always be winning.”

I want to sink down to the earth and pray to my maker. What did I do to deserve this girl? How did I live without her before? “I love you, Parker. I started loving you the second you walked into my bar. There is nothing casual about this. I didn’t tell you when I should have because your world is all about beauty and perfection. I’ll never think of myself as either of those things.” I swallow. “You worked so hard on this brand—”

“Brand?” She exhales a humorless laugh. “It was Jocelyn, wasn’t it? She played us both. Tried to drive us apart.”

“Yeah. I knew better and I let what she said get to me, anyway.” I lean down and kiss her tear-moistened lips, once, twice, until she sniffs and kisses me back, making everything in my world right again. “I’m fucking sorry, baby. Never again. If you’ll let me be your man, I’ll never let either of us doubt again. I love you.”

With tears in her eyes, she wraps her arms around me—as far as they’ll go, anyway. “And if you let me be your woman, I’ll watch sunrises and sunsets with you every day.” She looks up at me with a serious expression. “At least until we have babies. Then we’ll have to take sleep wherever we can get it.”

Babies.

Hallelujah. I scoop my girl up in my arms and stride for the stairs leading down to the street. “No better time to get started.”

Epilogue

Parker

Eight years later

There is something so delicious about being able to make my husband come at the drop of a hat. One might assume that after two babies and eight years together, he’d have gotten used to me. Learned how to control himself, control how he responds to my touch. My body. Well, he hasn’t. I can still send him over the edge with three hard strokes. This man I love like crazy has it bad for me. Just like I have it bad for him.

When he accused me of being a tease all those years ago, I took it with a grain of salt. Although, there was no denying that I enjoyed making Daws sweat. Eight years later, I’ve embraced that playful side of me—much to the misery and delight of my sexy beast of a husband.

I walk into our bedroom in a frilly pink teddy and watch his Adam’s apple bob in his throat, his hands paused in the act of removing his shoes. “Shit,” he mutters thickly. “That’s a new one. Did you make it yourself?”

“Mmmhmm.” I turn in a slow circle between his long, thick, outstretched legs, giving him a chance to take in the finer details. The pink lace barely containing my breasts, the sheer material draping down over my stomach, the hem brushing the waistband of my matching thong. My silver five-inch heels. “Made it just for you.”

His breath is already rattling in his chest, a tell-tale bulge appearing in his lap. “Parker,” he warns, shaking his head. “You know I won’t last with you wearing that little thing.”

Lust slithers up my ribcage and hardens my nipples. What woman wouldn’t want to be desired like this? To a point that a man can’t keep from spilling at the sight of you.

Oh, Daws always makes sure I reach my peak.

Sometimes he’s inside me, cursing and straining to keep from coming.

Begging.

Groaning.

Panting.

Other times, when he can’t hold back, he finishes me with his tongue.

What will tonight bring?

When I saw this pink lace in the fabric shop, it made me think of him. Mostly that it would drive him wild. But I also got a sense of nostalgia thinking of the first time he brought me home and we ate pink, strawberry frosted donuts in bed together between bouts of lovemaking. I woke up alone the next morning to rain pattering on the window of his apartment. Only a minute passed before he returned, hair wet from the rain, a diamond ring in his pocket.

We haven’t spent a night apart since.

Not unless Daws is working a late shift at the bar or I’m scrambling to put final touches on a new line before a show. Over the last eight years, my brand has dovetailed into two aesthetics. One is my edgy womenswear collection. The other is my even more popular plus-size men’s line. Sometimes I even convince my husband to model for me. He makes me pay him in kisses and it’s so not a hardship.

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