Snowflakes in Seattle

Epilogue

EPILOGUE

WYATT

ONE YEAR LATER

U nlocking the door to our house after a work trip was one of my top five favorite sounds.

Christmas music across the lake was still up there. The other three were all Olive, and all sexual.

I had barely set down my keys on the hall table in our condo when I heard her quick footsteps and happy squeal.

Maybe not all sexual.

I turned, grinning, and swept my joyful girl into my arms. Her body fit perfectly into mine, like fate had built us for each other. Her long, silky hair snagged on my scruff, but if her content sigh was any indication, Olive didn’t seem to mind.

“You’re late.”

“Sorry, boss. Blame the airlines. Runway was crowded.”

Olive had called it. My dad had sold Vertex to another solid, reputable company for an insane price and shared the profits. We were doing just fine. So were the staff members still working there. I checked in frequently.

We were doing so well, in fact, that I was able to volunteer for Rosy Row full-time. Planning and building tiny homes for my buddy Tate and the amazing people who orbited around him was a key piece of this dream life we were living.

Never, even in my overactive imagination, had I imagined a life as full and beautiful as this one. Life with Olive captured and surpassed my every wish.

I let her go, landing a playful smack on her bum. She was already in pajamas, snowflake of course, hair in a bun, makeup scrubbed off. She’d never looked more stunning.

Not even when she’d walked toward me in a sparkling white dress and veil two months before, on Christmas Eve. I’d surprised her with the new pajama set she was now wearing. She’d surprised me by having her diaries on display at the reception, years of wishes and daydreams of me and her. Holly had said it was creepy. I’d bawled like a baby.

“At least you didn’t miss Valentine’s Day,” she admonished, squeezing my waist.

My dick thickened at the thought. We had an idea for a new tradition, and it started tomorrow.

“Dream girl, I wouldn’t miss that for anything.”

OLIVE

Wyatt looked beyond delicious in a tux. I’d made him wear his wedding attire for our little adventure, while I’d donned lavender silk, the dress sliding languidly across my legs every time I moved. It dipped low in the back, and I’d left my hair loose. The man couldn’t keep his hands off me.

He was shaking a bit. So was I.

The shapewear under my dress held everything in place. Everything.

We took our places in the plush seats of the opulent theater Blake Builds had just restored. Wyatt had bought tickets for the seats on either side of us just in case.

My excitement, and my nerves, grew as the seats filled in with people, mostly couples, spending Valentine’s Day at the symphony. Classic romance was the theme.

Wyatt and I would be modernizing it a bit.

The past year together had been the best kind of dream, the kind that feels magical and unreal, yet you never wake up. He’d moved to Phoenix for me. He’d joined on at the Rosy Row charity for himself. Our parents had been overjoyed at our unexpected union. We had kept the houseboat as a family gathering place.

Truly, I had nothing left to wish for. Not with Wyatt by my side.

I squeezed his hand, eyes on the filling theater and musicians taking to the stage. Music began, dreamy strings that told sweet, sad love stories. My anticipation swelled in time, in rhythm, with the music.

I kept glancing at my husband, but his handsome face in profile gave nothing away. Eventually, I gave up guessing and let myself get swept up in the music.

A gasp escaped when the first vibrations rolled through me. I glanced over and saw Wyatt with phone in hand and a smirk on his lips.

Public play each Valentine’s Day had been his idea. The toy, a G-spot and clit stimulator, had been mine.

Fully in control of the strategically placed toy, he started slow. I relaxed my body, intent on the stage, on Wyatt’s hand on my thigh and the sensations spreading through my core. He increased the speed. My nipples grew hard. I could tell from his death grip on my leg that he’d noticed.

My poor old man. Looking without touching was not his strength. If we made it to the car after this, I’d be shocked.

He added the pulse function, the tapping on my clit drawing more breath from my lungs. My legs fell open and I did not care. The people in our row weren’t looking. Pressing my hips forward, I added more pressure of my own. I heard Wyatt’s soft growl.

More speed. Quicker breaths. Wyatt’s hand climbed higher up my thigh. “More,” I whispered, catching his eye.

His thumb slid across his phone screen but his eyes never left me. His lips were parted, cheeks pink, like mine must be. I tried to look at the stage, pay attention to the music, but I could only see Wyatt.

The crescendo began in my body. The heat rose from my toes, up and up, circling me, splitting me in half. My mouth crashed onto Wyatt’s, masking the sound that escaped. He held my chin in a firm grip, kissing me through my orgasm, sharing his own need.

After he turned off the toy, he took my hand in his and kissed my knuckles one by one.

“Holy fuck” was all he said.

“Yeah,” I agreed, shivering. Even when he wasn’t touching me, he wrecked me. Wyatt knew my body that well.

I leaned my head on his shoulders, the orgasm, and the rise and fall of the music, lulling me into a new kind of submission. He dropped a kiss on the top of my head.

“Still have a crush on you, old man.”

“You’re still my dream girl. My little Olive. My everything.”

We watched and listened and touched. And we didn’t make it to the car.