“I love you, too,” I whisper, lowering my legs and flopping down on top of him, listening to the riot of his heart against my ear. “Thank you for rescuing me, my sweet Scrooge.”
“You have it backward.” Still breathing hard, he kisses my temple. “My angel is the one who rescued me.”
I pout jokingly. “We rescued each other.”
His grin spreads in the darkness. “Deal.” Before I can smile back at him, I’m rolled face down, his heavy body pinning me to the mattress, his shaft already stiffening again. “Please,” he grunts against my ear, already humping me desperately. “I need this tight ass for Christmas, too.”
I give him a mock stern glance over my shoulder. “No.”
His hips don’t stop slamming into mine. “No?”
I giggle and shake my cheeks in his lap. “You can have it every day, Daddy.”
Epilogue
Edison
Five Years Later
I prowl the floor of my office, waiting for Blessing to return from some last-minute Christmas shopping. The house is filled with happy scents of the season. Wood burning in the fireplace, pine, cinnamon. It’s no longer simply a house, it’s a home. Because of her.
Christmas was once a chore for me. All the carolers warbling off-key outside of my door, people skipping work to be with their families for weeks on end. It baffled me. Infuriated me.
That was before I met my wife.
I divide my life into two sections now. Before Blessing. And after Blessing.
I don’t even think I would recognize the cold, cynical man I was prior to her showing up on my doorstep. And I never want to go back to that dark place—that’s why I must guard my wife at all costs. I’m not being paranoid. They want what’s mine. All of them.
You’ve witnessed what she’s like in bed, right?
Over the years, she’s only gotten hotter. Tighter. Hornier.
My dick is a metal fucking pole between my legs twenty-four seven.
She sucks it and creams on it and rides it backwards while babbling baby talk at me, while I’m working, when I’m off. I pounce on her and bend her over furniture, out in the backyard, in public. We’re filthy fucking animals.
And she’s still a sweet, compassionate angel the rest of the time.
I don’t think you understand. She has driven me fucking mental.
You might think she’d understand her appeal by now, considering she can bring me to my knees simply by sniffling. If she even looks like she’s thinking about crying, my world ceases to spin. And she has cried over the years, of course, because we’ve had two children and hormones can be complicated bastards. So my world has stopped spinning many times. You should have seen me when she was pregnant with our first child—I grew a full beard because I flat out forgot to shave. I couldn’t sleep for picturing her in pain. Two weeks before her due date, I flew the best doctors in the country to my home, so she would have the best care.
Thankfully, we have decided to stop at two children—and that was my angel’s decision because she was worried about my mental health. I can’t blame her. We’re already dealing with my jealousy and possessiveness and wild obsession with her, we don’t need to add my fear of her experiencing pain to the mix.
When I hear the mechanical whirr of the gate opening outside (I had it installed five years ago to keep the mob out), I stride to the window, relief setting in when I see my wife arriving home with her security team. Our four-year-old hops out of the black Mercedes and runs to the house next door where he’ll no doubt play with his best friend, Jasper, one of the newer orphans for whom we haven’t yet found a home.
You wouldn’t believe what my wife has done with the orphanage. Between having two kids and dealing with my obsession, she has found time to revamp the orphanage into an educational facility. It’s a home for these children and while they are living within its walls, they learn valuable trades and she prepares them for the future. She’s an utter phenomenon and I am all too proud to stand by her side when she holds charity dinners. Although, as I’m sure you can imagine, I stand at her side to make sure no one thinks of laying a fucking finger on her.
They know. They know she’s the only one of her kind. They know she’s spun from pure magic and they want to steal her from me, but I’m ready. I’m always balanced right on the edge, waiting for someone to try to take her, so I can absolutely detonate.
Through the frosted window, I watch as Blessing carries our sleeping one-year-old son into the house. The security team carries her packages in behind her—and I wait, breathing in and out steadily, forcing myself not to scare her. I wait until she has settled our son into his nursery. Then, slowly, I cross to my office door and toe it open, letting a creaking sound drift into the hallway.