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The nickname makes me smile as he caresses my jaw with his rough fingers. I take the opportunity to take his middle finger into my mouth, sucking it in and nipping the tip.
Gunther’s body shudders under me.
I sink down on him, feeling his thickness fill and stretch me.
I moan on his finger, my eyes on him. He looks at me like he wonders what he did to get this lucky.
He rescued…well, not a damsel in distress…but he treated a grown-ass woman like an adult and a human being, spoke kindly to her, helped her find solutions to her problems, and made her feel more seen than anyone else ever has. All that, and ruined her pussy for anyone else with a wickedly talented tongue.
I take a few seconds to adjust, then take more of him in.
The sweet pinch is followed by a flood of heat. And now I’m speechless.
As I sit up, I slide his finger out of my mouth, feeling my muscles mold around him.
I’m so full and overwhelmed by the look of love and lust in Gunther’s eyes.
I smile down at him. “You’re gonna love me so good for the rest of my life, aren’t you, baby?”
“This is just the beginning, Sara.”
EPILOGUE
Gunther
Five years later
I happily have let Sara and her rabbits take over my shed.
I may have once allowed Chutney to give birth in my house, but fortunately, all rabbits from here on out are promptly neutered and given a posh life in Mr. and Mrs. MacGregor’s shed.
Doc continues to appreciate our business.
As for me, I’ve climbed the ladder rapidly at Sentinel, especially after Ms. Dunne and her conspirators landed in prison, thanks in part to my and Sara’s testimonies before a grand jury. The case has gotten so much attention that the tech billionaire Alex Martin has reached out numerous times with impressive offers to work for him full-time as his personal head of security. I’m not ready to leave D.C. for L.A., though. I love my utterly compromised and chaotic life at the moment.
Sara never went to college despite her uncle’s influence, but the Bonnie Peters Memorial Community Garden is thriving and has expanded to several other neighborhoods, and it keeps Sara and her former partners-in-crimes busy and happy.
One thing I do not compromise on, though, is letting my wife give birth in our house.
Sara wanted only a midwife and a doula present, along with me, and some sort of temporary hot tub situation set up in our bedroom.
I had to put my foot down. I’m not prejudiced against home births, but I want doctors, nurses, I.V.s, monitors, and emergency services if something goes sideways.
Sara understood there was no way I would be calm if she did a home birth, so she chose a traditional setting.
Everything goes perfectly, and our son, Evan, is born at midnight, five years from the day we first fell in love.
“We can do the next one at home,” I say, my chest tight with emotion as I gaze at my sweaty wife and our tiny, naked newborn curled against her chest.
She smiles at me. “I dunno. I’m in love with this epidural. In fact, how do you feel about an open relationship with an anesthesiologist?”
I laugh and kiss the palm of her hand, now a habit of mine whenever I’m feeling some kind of way. Sara anchors me.
The nurse walks me through how to cut the cord, and I don’t pretend not to be squeamish. But I do it anyway.
The nurse then wraps little Evan in a hospital blanket and hands him to me.
“I-I’ve never held a baby before,” I say.
