Total pages in book: 148
Estimated words: 147734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
“I don’t mind you kissing me in public. I told you I’m done hiding.”
“Well, can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
He thrusts his hips into mine, and I feel his engorged cock against my thigh. “Because I’m going to bend you over Chaos and fuck you, then we go inside, and you can fuck me.”
“You’re insatiable.” I laugh, even though my own erection is rock-solid at the image he painted.
“Only for you, baby.”
“Only for me.” I drop a soft kiss on his nose. “I love that.”
“I love you.” He sucks in a deep breath, then grins. “I’ll fuck you like I hate you, though.”
“Just the way I love it.” I chuckle and then slam my lips to his.
I’ll never get enough of this.
Of him.
Of us.
EPILOGUE 2 — YULIAN
TWO YEARS LATER
I’m late.
Fuck.
I’m late.
The reality of my tardiness slaps me in the face when applause reaches my ears.
A wave of cheers and laughter rolls out from the wedding attendees into the cool evening air.
I’m gloriously late.
Nikolai and Brandon step into the courtyard as Nikolai sucks Brandon’s face, then they grin as petals rain over their heads.
Family members and friends shout their approval and congratulations to the couple who tied the knot today in a ceremony I should’ve attended.
In theory, at least.
In reality, Lukas demanded that I was present during a stupid last-minute meeting in London with the higher-ups of the new corporation he acquired and dragged me into.
Well, I had to be there, considering I own most of the shares, since, obviously, my money was used to fund it, and, therefore, my vote was needed on the expansion strategy. I told Vaughn it’d just be a couple of hours, mostly because he seemed dejected when I had to leave the retreat Niko planned for his wedding.
Everyone and their uncle knows Niko insisted on this date mainly because his best friend, Jeremy, is getting married in a couple of months, and he refused to be left behind.
Obviously, my meeting took longer than a couple of hours, was extended to today, and I had to spend the night in London. I signed off, nodded, smiled while picturing the head of anyone who made the meeting longer with their unnecessary opinions on a stick, and bolted the moment I could.
The flight to Tuscany took longer than I wanted, and then some idiot nearly crashed into me as I was driving from the airport.
Now I’m here, weaving through the crowd as people pour out of the ceremony area, hugging the grooms, slapping their backs, showering them with blessings.
I catch Nikolai and pull him in for a quick hug. “Congrats, motherfucker. You’re going to have your hands full, Brandon.”
“I’m fine with that,” Brandon says with a soft smile.
“We gonna fight later?” Nikolai grins, and Brandon gives him a look. “Okay, maybe, like, after the honeymoon.”
“We’ll see.”
He whispers, “Let’s hide it from my lotus flower and V, yeah?”
I laugh, and he makes a discreet “call me” gesture. “Oh, by the way. Your man didn’t look pleased about your absence, just saying.”
I groan. “Was he mad?”
“Hard to tell. He always looks mad.”
I groan again and rush through the clusters of guests, leaving the courtyard for the reception area outside.
Nikolai—or most likely Brandon—wanted to go for a stunning Tuscany vineyard-château destination wedding.
The place looks like it was carved out of a dream filled with so much good wine. Rolling hills stretch in every direction, thick with vines so green, they look ethereal under the summer sun. The château rises behind the vineyard and all around us—its stone walls warm from centuries of heat—and ivy curls up toward its terracotta roof.
The ceremony was set in the courtyard that’s emptying now, framed by old cypress trees and strung with linen banners that sway just enough to catch the scent of grapes and roses. Long rows of white chairs still hold the hum of voices from moments ago, petals scattered across the aisle.
And that’s where I find him.
Vaughn’s standing at the altar, his hands in his pockets, the golden streaks of the late-afternoon sun catching on the crisp lines of his tux. His bow tie tied to perfection, his white shirt stretches over his muscular shoulders, and every inch of him is carved to make my heart ache.
He looks mouthwatering, but then again, he always has.
If he sees the state of my barely-put-together tux, he’ll sigh and fix it—my bow tie, my cuff links, my shirt. And he’ll look so adorably concentrated while doing it. That’s why I put in as little effort as possible, encouraging his perfectionist tendencies.
Over the past couple of years, he’s often insisted on taking me shopping for clothes, carefully picking things that suit me, especially leather. In the beginning, I thought it was because he enjoyed the task of clothes shopping for his lover and I was salty about him doing it with Danika, but he said he couldn’t care less what Danika wore, yet he definitely does with me.