The DILF (18+ Only) [COMPLETED]

EPILOGUE: In Which She Survives "The Drought"

When I'd broached the subject of being abstinent for six months, he'd surprised me by agreeing immediately, even after I'd told him my reasons.

"Not being inside you is going to be torture," he'd told me candidly. "It's not about the sex. It's about the closeness." To this day, I remembered his exact words as if they'd been uttered a few hours ago.

"Maybe, but I need this, Dev. I'm just not one-hundred-percent sure if you know what love is yet and that's not your fault."

We had been standing in his bedroom, a week after I'd told him I loved him and the worst possible place to discuss abstinence.

He'd reached out and cupped my chin. "I'll do this. For you. If you really need this, I'll give it to you."

"Will it be...difficult for you?"

His eyes had brightened with amusement. "If you're asking if I'll be jerking off every morning, the answer's no." He'd leaned in to me, his lips brushing my earlobe. "Because when the six months are over, baby, I'm going to be so sexually frustrated, I will literally fuck you to death to make up for lost time. That, sweetheart, is certainly worth the suffering."

I'd creamed my knickers listening to him.

True to his word, he didn't touch me for half a year. We'd shared a bed – which was torture in itself – and that was it. We'd spent every waking moment together – talking, curling up on the couch watching TV, taking Ophelia out, talking some more. I learned everything there was to know about Devin Shaw – things that Google didn't know, like how his mother's untimely death had made his father as distant as he'd later grown up to be – and he in turn learned everything about me, including the Richard Pritchett, Jnr. incident, which had pissed him the hell off, especially the part where Pritchett had painted me out as a wh0re so I couldn't get a job elsewhere.

"If I ever bump into that cunt..." Devin had threatened once I'd told him.

"Let it go. I have."

"I don't forget a name," he'd said menacingly, but thankfully dropped the subject.

Before I knew it, those six months had come to an end and Devin asked me to marry him. The ceremony on the beach had been quick and Ophelia, who had once shunned fairytales, was a fairy princess of a flower girl. Lydia and Bates had been our witnesses and I'd worn a pale sky-blue sheath dress I'd gone to great pains to find. Tacoma Bay certainly wasn't known for its haute couture.

Devin wore a tux, a delicious one that fit him perfectly and had to have been tailor-made. His eyes had been filled with almost tangible passion, pride, desire, relief – and love. I'd cried and he'd kissed away my tears. Ophelia had joined us on our honeymoon in Cairo and had slept in an adjoining room. True to his word, Devin fucked me to death to make up for lost time – and Calvin David Shaw had been the surprise result.

The Six-Month Drought, as Devin sometimes jokingly called it over the years, had only brought us closer. That didn't mean that I didn't crave Devin's body when he was away in some distant land filming one documentary after the other. I respected that he loved being in front of the camera but that he needed to do something with substance – hence the fact that he was always in places like Sudan, Egypt, Libya, India, Iraq – the list was endless – doing his damndest to be a mouthpiece for the voiceless. I was proud of him.

"Well, baby, even if you had wanted two years, I would've given that to you," he was saying in my ear now, his voice low. "Because I love you."

"I know," I whispered. "I'm in love with you."

"And only with me, Mrs. Shaw. One more thing – I have a surprise for you."

"Will I like it?"