Moonstruck | KTH ✓

Epilogue

Five years later

Belting my robe, I walk to the bedroom window and look down at the circular driveway, grimacing when a man holding a leather briefcase climbs out of an SUV.

I am not happy about this.
     
I hate interviews and I don’t like people in my house around my wife and kids. I give enough energy out on the field, there is no reason journalists have to come snooping in my business when I’m off the clock. Unfortunately, Emma and I are constantly hounded by news people who want an exclusive story from us. Not about my company. But about our relationship.

It has become a source of fascination among the public and the interest is not going away. No, it’s at a fever pitch now. Emma thinks if we lay all of our cards on the table and give an exclusive to Vanity Fair, they’ll stop calling and making their endless requests.

More importantly, the paparazzi will stop following my Emma everywhere she goes. My hand turns into a fist on the windowsill.

Last week, she was so blinded by flashes, she almost crashed her car leaving the parking lot at the university where she teaches. I thought security was airtight, but these vermin keep finding a way back in. They keep finding a way to harass my girl.
     
Mine.
    
Mine.

I close my eyes and breathe through the wave of possessiveness, counting to ten like I practiced with Emma. When we were first married five years ago, I would have punched through this window during bouts of greediness where my Emma is concerned.

Once our son was born, though, I had to start working on controlling the emotions Emma inspires in me. They’re still razor sharp and raw, but I’m not quite as destructive.

Progress.

Sensing movement behind me, I turn to find the object of my obsession coming out of our walk-in closet, humming absently and putting on an earring. Oh my God, is she ever beautiful. She’s wearing a new dress. A silk one. Blue. It hugs her all over, especially in the ass.
     
Mine.
     
The center of my chest twists into a knot, my abdomen knitting together in anticipation of fucking. Christ, I am dying for a lick of her little wet pussy. She always begs for a rough fuck after I’ve been feasting between her legs and that’s exactly what I’m in the mood for. A good, sweaty bang, Emma’s legs trembling around my waist, titties bouncing for Daddy.
     
God yes.
     
I start to unbelt my robe, but she catches sight of me and tilts her head. “Is that what you’re wearing for the interview? It starts in two minutes.”
     
A growl works its way free of my throat. “It’s our goddamn house. I’ll wear my damn robe if I want to.”
     
She’s battling a smile. “Okay.”
     
“I’m not annoyed at you,” I say quickly. “It’s all for them.”
     
“I know.”
     
“They hound you, honey.”

Here I go. I have to sit down on the edge of the bed and count to ten again. It helps when Emma comes over and combs her fingers through my hair, counting with me.

Turns out someone took a video of me on my knee purposing to Emma. It had viral overnight. People were balls deep in getting a glimpse our personal life.

It's hard to blame people for being fascinated. Love this powerful isn’t typical. It's a fucking gift. Just like every fucking second with her.

“We don’t have to let them all the way in,” she whispers, nestling into the V of my outstretched thighs. “Just enough to satisfy their curiosity.”
     
I grunt, rubbing my face between her tits. “And then we come back to bed?”
     
She hums, a tremor passing through her. “Yes. Until the kids are ready to be picked up from nursery school.”
     
The mention of Chris makes me smile. My son is four. He is curious and funny and brave. He's a mixture of me and Emma and I’ll never stop marveling over him. Along with his mother, they’re my life. My source of happiness. But my obsession? That’s for Emma alone. Its wild and without end.

I lick a path from between her tits up to the hollow of her throat, dipping and swirling my tongue there, absorbing her scent, her shiver, her tiny gasp of air. “You going to let Daddy fuck you in that pretty new dress, Emma?”
     
Her shivers turn more pronounced, her knees pressing together. “Yes.”
     
“Nasty?” I breathe at her throat. “In the other room?”
     
She can’t answer now, so she nods. Obediently. Biting down on her bottom lip.

My cock is stiff as hell in my briefs. Mouth is dry. How am I going to make it through this interview without dragging my sexy wife to a different floor and taking her doggy style on the floor somewhere? She loves it from behind. Especially when she’s naked and I’m fully dressed.
     
God, I’m turned on. When am I not?
     
Emma exists. That fact alone keeps my dick hard. End of story.
     
Over the last five years, our sexual relationship has become…intense. Even more so than it was in the beginning. It was always pretty obvious that she enjoyed my dominance—a lot—but now? Now she is entranced by it. The slightest wielding of my power can make her tremble, turning her pussy to cream in a heartbeat. Our bedroom is for lovemaking and we do that. Frequently. Slow and thorough and so fucking emotional, sometimes it takes me hours to come down. But we have a secret, soundproof bedroom on the other side of our walk-in closet so she can scream for her Daddy without anyone hearing. Where I can spank her tight ass and knock the headboard into the wall without someone calling the cops.
     
That’s where we get nasty.

We’re marked by each other, inside and out.
     
And suddenly…I don’t know where the desire comes from, but it rockets out of me. This need for the world to know that I would die for her. That I would sell my soul to stop her from crying. Or to see her smile. The love inside of me for Emma has expanded so much that I can no longer lock it inside.

My muscles are fatigued from trying. That’s where the bouts of possessiveness come from. Keeping this ferocious obsession caged.
     
I surge up from the bed, scooping up my wife in my arms and carrying her from the bedroom. My robe is open and all I’m wearing underneath is black briefs and I don’t give a shit. I just have to get this burning ache off my chest.

Our housekeeper has seated the journalist from Vanity Fair in the dining room and he stands up when I storm inside, holding Iris against my chest like a treasure. Which she obviously is. He blinks at us, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth. But I only have eyes for my wife who is gazing up at me curiously, then knowingly, scenes from the last five beautiful years flashing in my mind. She can see them, too. See what I’m thinking. She can read my mind, like only the love of my life can.

“Write this down,” I bark at the man without breaking eye contact with Emma.

"Kim Taehyung lives every single second of his life for Kim Emma…”

♡