Page 35 of Never Enough

"Oh shit!" The words tear out of me because he's rubbing some spot inside that I've never been able to reach. Not with my fingers, definitely not with any toy.

"Don't stop doing it just like that,” I beg.

“You have no idea how fucking hot it is to see your pussy swallow my cock like this,” he murmurs.

He puts one hand on my pelvis, spreading his fingers wide across my lower belly, and his thumb drops to brush against my clit. A whisper of pressure. A ghost of a touch.

And that is all it takes.

The orgasm rips through me with the force of something biblical.

I'm screaming or crying or chanting his name—possibly all three—and I don't care because this is the orgasm to end all orgasms. This is the one that rewrites my understanding of what my body is capable of.

Every muscle locks, every nerve fires, and for a few blinding, breathless seconds, there is nothing in the universe except the waves crashing through me and Henry's hands on my skin and the place where we're joined.

I feel utterly, completely drained. Hollowed out and filled up all at once.

I open my eyes just in time to watch him follow me over the edge.

His jaw clenches. His head tips back. And he comes with a roar. It’s raw and unrestrained as he empties himself inside me, his hips stuttering against mine, his fingers gripping my hips hard enough to leave marks I'll be able to trace in the mirror tomorrow.

“Love you, Firefly,” he says.

epilogue

Gracie

One year later…

The bell over the bakery door jingles.

I look up this time.

Henry stands in the doorway of SugarBakers, hat in hand, boots dusty, looking like he drove straight here from the ranch without stopping. Which he did. I know because he texted me fourteen minutes ago: On my way. Don't eat all the bear claws.

To which I responded: No promises.

To which he responded with a single emoji—the one with heart eyes—which he uses exclusively for me and Bayou. I will fully admit to having saved approximately two hundred screenshots of those messages, because I am a grown woman completely obsessed with her husband. Dignity is overrated and and I've made my peace with that.

"Morning, husband," I say from behind the counter, where I'm boxing up a custom order, three dozen lemon lavender cupcakes for the Hendersons' anniversary party. Mrs. Henderson called last week to tell me that she and Bill were renewing their vows after forty-two years, and could I make something special? She also told me, in the same breath and without any apparent sense of conversational whiplash, that she'd won sixty dollars in the town betting pool about Henry and me.

People tell me about the town betting pool all the time. About Henry and me. Apparently, it's been running since we were in high school. Had I known, I might have placed my own bet.

Kelsie won the largest share, which she claims is because she had "insider information" and which I claim is because she's been manifesting this since she was twelve years old. She used her winnings to buy a new stand mixer for the bakery, which she presented to me with a card that read: You're welcome for my brother. — K

"Morning, wife." Henry crosses the bakery in four strides, leans over the counter, and kisses me. Not a peck. A real kiss, slow and warm and tasting like the coffee he drank on the drive, right there in front of God and the Saturday morning regulars.

"Brought you something," Henry says when he pulls back. He holds up a small paper bag.

"If that's another succulent for my windowsill, I swear —"

"It's not a succulent."

"Because the last three died, Henry. I'm a baker, not a botanist. The lemon tree is the extent of my horticultural capabilities, and we both know that tree is alive out of spite, not skill."

"It's not a succulent." He sets the bag on the counter. "Open it."

I wipe my hands on my apron—the one he bought me for Christmas, cream-colored with Mrs. Blankenship embroidered across the front in a script that Caroline designed and Kelsie definitely cried about—and open the bag.