I look up with a frown, and when I see Gale’s smile, I cock my head and widen my eyes. “Twins?” I say in a whisper. “And you named them without asking me?”
She shrugs, her hands still on those hips that are making me hard under the sheets. “You were in prison, honey. Mommy gets naming rights when Daddy’s in jail.”
“That’s fucking bullshit,” I mutter, trying to act pissed off even though my heart is singing like a bluebird on the first day of spring.
“Um, language,” she says with a wry smile. Then she glances at the tent my cock is pitching under the sheets, and her eyes goes wide. “OK, is that . . . are you seriously . . .”
“Lock the fucking door,” I whisper to my curvy, pregnant wife as I glance at her swollen breasts and imagine them in my face.
“Gun, you just got out of surgery,” she whispers, glancing over at the door and then back at my peaking arousal.
“Do what I say, woman,” I whisper, licking my lips and beckoning her to me with a head nod. “Don’t make me tie you down with my ECG wires.”
“OK, I think we need to ask for a refund, because clearly the surgery didn’t do a darned thing about your impulse control,” Gale mutters. She shakes her head and hesitates, but then tiptoes to the door and quietly turns the latch. “Or mine, clearly,” she whispers as she slowly walks to my bed, her face flush as I see her big nipples clearly perk up beneath her blue maternity dress.
I watch in dazed enchantment as my princess in blue stands before me, nothing but the pristine white walls of the hospital room surrounding her. She drops the dress down off her shoulders and steps out of it, and I almost come all over the hospital walls at the sight of her pregnant belly, her boobs swollen with milk, her feminine triangle dark and mysterious, glistening with her wetness, her scent coming to me so strong that I want her cunt smothering my fucking face so I can die happy.
Slowly she straddles me, taking me deep into her as I groan and gasp. She rides me slowly, whimpering as we move together, her eyes rolling up in her head as she comes all over my cock and balls, her wetness flowing out of her like a river.
And then I come like a geyser, and as I shout in delight, I feel the walls melt away and it’s just her surrounded by clouds, just like that vision, just like that dream, just like forever. Just like forever.
Always and forever.
∞
EPILOGUE 1
THREE MONTHS LATER
GALE
Now it’s my turn in a hospital bed, and I scream and push one last time as the second of our twins emerges from my womb and cries out as it breathes air for the first time. Gun is standing like a statue in scrubs, his big tattooed arms making him look like some badass doctor from a porno movie or something. The labor was painful but quick, and our twins are glowing and healthy, perfect babies to match a perfect fairy tale.
Less than an hour later our daughters are cleaned and swaddled, and the nurses and doctors leave us alone. I feel the bed sink as Gun plunks his heavy body beside mine, cradling me and our newborns in his big arms, kissing each of them on the forehead and then kissing me like fifty times.
We sit in happy silence for a long time, listening to our babies suckle in pure satisfaction, their little hands curled as they drink from Mommy, bask in Daddy’s warmth. Then finally Gun shifts against me, and I can tell he wants to say something.
“What?” I say. “What is it?”
He sighs and then takes a breath and looks at me. “Coach called yesterday,” he says quietly. “He asked if I’m cleared to play.”
I frown and blink, glancing down at my newborns, then at the wedding ring sitting on the counter near the flowers and cards and chocolates and everything else that’s signaling my new life—our new life. A chill goes through me as I picture Gun out on the field, getting hit hard, going down face-first and then getting up so he can get hit again. He’s almost forty years old now, I think as I study his well-lined face. Yes, he’s been hitting the gym like a beast ever since he got out of the hospital after his surgery, been throwing the ball with a private trainer four days a week. But a real game? What if he takes a hit to the head? What if he gets injured? What if he—
“Go,” I say without allowing my anxiety to rise up and stop me from letting Gun be the man he is, letting him do what he needs to do, be what he needs to be. I swallowed my fear to walk into that locker room nine months ago. I fought for my forever. And now I’m gonna let my man fight for his forever too. “But listen, Gun. And listen good.”
Gun tenses up as he looks down at me. “Yeah, babe?”
“Win it,” I say, my eyes narrowing as I pull my babies close and look up at my husband, my blue-eyed prince who still has lands to conquer before he can wear the crown, before he can be king. I smile as I feel a strange energy make my heart soar when I see the way his blue eyes light up like the moon at midnight. I’m now that princess who’s got her prince. So what comes next?
This comes next, I think as I see that competitive fire blaze in my man’s eyes, feel his ambition surge along with mine. It’s time for my prince to seize his throne, claim his crown, become the king. And if you’re gonna be king, your woman is queen, right?
And a queen doesn’t let her fear stop the king from going into battle, does she?
Nah. A queen stands by her king, proud and tall, watching her man put on his helmet and armor and conquer new lands, claim the world and all its treasure.
“Fuck yeah, I’m gonna win it,” he growls, clenching his fist and kissing me hard on the lips. He holds up his wedding ring and grins wide, excited like a child at play. “Gonna bring home one more ring. One more ring.”
EPILOGUE 2
SUPERBOWL SUNDAY
GUN
“One more yard,” I shout to my panting, winded offense, the crowd loud and hostile as the clock ticks down above our heads. I’ve been playing lights out, but we’re still down 36-30 with less than a minute to go and no timeouts. We’re all the way down to the goal-line, but without timeouts it’s risky as fuck to run the ball. Of course, making a pass play this close to the goal-line is tough as nails too, since there isn’t much space to work with, with so many players swarming the endzone. I throw an interception and it’s game over. I go from comeback hero to loser in a second.
I call the pass play that Coach yelled into my helmet-headset, and we clap our hands and line up as the play clock ticks down. It’s a simple quick-slant, where my top receiver runs diagonally across the field and I hit him in stride with a quick pass that gets to him before the defender can step in front of him. We’ve done this a million times in practice, and a thousand times in real games over the years. And therein lies the problem: The defense has tons of video footage of me running that quick-slant, and although I’m one of the best in the game at getting it right, this defense is lightning fast.
But we’re already lined up and it’s too late to change the play, and I just stop thinking and let my instinct take over. I remind myself that yeah, I had impulse-control problems, but my impulses themselves weren’t wrong. In the end where did following my impulses, my instincts, my gut get me?
It got me to a woman I love, twin daughters I cherish, and the ball in my hands in the motherfucking Superbowl!
And then my mind just goes blank as a grin lights up my face. Suddenly I know my life really is a fucking fairy-tale. I can’t hear the crowd anymore, can’t even see my receiver making his move and turning back to see if I’ve made the throw. All I see is a tiny window of space in front of me. The defense is expecting that quick slant, and they’re all moving to the left to block the pass, leaving a narrow passage for me to the right. No one’s expecting an aging quarterback who’s just had brain surgery to barrel ahead and run the fucking ball on his tired old legs.
So that’s exactly what I’ll do.
I hear the crunch of helmets and shoulder pads all around as I
plunge head-first through that window of space, laying it all on the fucking line for my team, for my dream, the dream of that boy with stars in his blue eyes, the blue-eyed prince who would be king.
And as I hear the final whistle blow, taste the sweet turf in my mouth mixing with the intoxicating tartness of my own blood, my own sweat, my own tears, I look down and see that I’ve crossed the line, the ball firmly in my strong hands.
Game over.
Game. Fucking. Over.
Who’s the king now, baby?
Who’s the fucking king?
EPILOGUE 3
GALE
“OK, how long do I have to call you King?” I say with a sigh, staring as Gun holds up his hand with that big Superbowl ring while cradling his MVP trophy in the other arm. Other than that he’s buck naked, prancing around our mansion as his family of bulldogs yip and yap like they’re loving every minute of this madness. Thankfully our twins are fast asleep in their room, which is far enough away from what’s clearly devolved into an adult circus.
“Forever,” he declares, sticking out his chest and raising his MVP trophy. “I retired as Champion, and so I can never be dethroned. He looks around with a comically regal expression, like he’s surveying his kingdom. Then he nods to his dogs, snaps his fingers, and leads them out of the room before turning back to me.
I already know what that means, and I blush when I see my tattooed criminal-king’s massive cock standing at royal attention. Gun’s been taking me non-stop ever since that day in the hotel room, and I’m probably already pregnant again, for all I know.
“Bend the knee for your king,” he declares.
“I will do no such thing,” I declare in reply.
“Then I will spank thee ass until thou screams in submission,” he says, rubbing his hands together as he strolls towards me.
“Um, you will do no such thing!” I say, my eyes going wide.
But before I can stop him Gun is on me, kissing me as we laugh together, roll around in naked embrace, and finally fall to the day-bed that’s covered in the quilt I made while Gun was in prison and my fairy-tale seemed like it was about to turn into a nightmare.
And as Gun flips me over and spanks me good and hard, making me wail in delight, moan in submission, gasp as he pushes his face between my upturned buttocks and licks me like a filthy medieval king getting down and dirty with the scullery maid, I press my face against my quilt, against a solitary square that has no marking on it, no embroidery, no color. Nothing visible, at least.
And just as my blue-eyed prince who’s now a filthy, power-mad king wets my rear hole and drives himself into me from behind, I clutch that unmarked square on my quilt and smile as I hear the crinkle of old paper.
Old paper that’s sewed between the layers of cloth, sewed in secret, just like the old quilters used to do.
Old paper, crumpled and faded.
An old photograph.
An old photograph of a blue-eyed prince that a lonely princess held onto for years, held onto in secret, held onto with everything she had, like it held the key to her story, to her fairy-tale, to her happy ending.
Her always.
Her forever.
Just hers.
Hers and hers alone.
∞
BY ANNABELLE WINTERS
THE CURVES FOR SHEIKHS SERIES (USA)
Curves for the Sheikh
Flames for the Sheikh
Hostage for the Sheikh
Single for the Sheikh
Stockings for the Sheikh
Untouched for the Sheikh
Surrogate for the Sheikh
Stars for the Sheikh
Shelter for the Sheikh
Shared for the Sheikh
Assassin for the Sheikh
Privilege for the Sheikh
Ransomed for the Sheikh
Uncorked for the Sheikh
Haunted for the Sheikh
Grateful for the Sheikh
Mistletoe for the Sheikh
Fake for the Sheikh
THE CURVES FOR SHIFTERS SERIES (USA)
Curves for the Dragon
Born for the Bear
Witch for the Wolf
Tamed for the Lion
Taken for the Tiger
THE CURVES FOR SHEIKHS SERIES (UK)
Curves for the Sheikh (UK)
Flames for the Sheikh (UK)
Hostage for the Sheikh (UK)
Single for the Sheikh (UK)
Stockings for the Sheikh (UK)
Untouched for the Sheikh (UK)
Surrogate for the Sheikh (UK)
Stars for the Sheikh (UK)
Shelter for the Sheikh (UK)
Shared for the Sheikh (UK)
Assassin for the Sheikh (UK)
Privilege for the Sheikh (UK)
Ransomed for the Sheikh (UK)
Uncorked for the Sheikh (UK)
Haunted for the Sheikh (UK)
Grateful for the Sheikh (UK)
Mistletoe for the Sheikh (UK)
Fake for the Sheikh (UK)
THE CURVES FOR SHIFTERS SERIES (UK)
Curves for the Dragon
Born for the Bear
Witch for the Wolf
AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE (USA)
AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE (UK)
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Curvy for HIm: The Quilter and the QB Page 7