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The Anniversary

One year after the wedding epilogue

“Keep your eyes closed.”

Silas’s voice was low and commanding in a way that still sent shivers down Corrie’s spine, even after two years together. She stood on the dock at Blackwood, blindfolded with what felt like silk, her husband’s warm hand steady on the small of her back.

“If I trip and fall in the lake, I’m blaming you,” she said.

“You won’t trip. I’ve got you.” His lips brushed her ear. “I always have you.”

She heard the creak of wood beneath her feet as he guided her forward. The familiar sounds of the island at dusk—water lapping against the dock, birds settling into the trees, the distant hum of a boat crossing the lake. And underneath it all, the thrum of her own heartbeat, quickening with anticipation.

Silas had been planning something for weeks. She’d caught glimpses—mysterious deliveries to the workshop, whispered phone calls, the particular look in his eyes when he thought she wasn’t watching. The look that said I’m going to take you apart tonight.

After a year of marriage, she knew that look well.

“Step down,” he murmured. “Onto the boat.”

She felt the gentle rock of a hull beneath her feet. Not his speedboat—something smaller, more intimate. The boat he’d built for her, she realized. The Lady V II, all warm wood and polished brass, designed as a wedding gift and finished the day before their ceremony.

“Silas, what—”

“Shh.” His hands were on her shoulders now, guiding her to sit. Soft cushions beneath her, the evening air cool on her bare arms. She was wearing the dress he’d laid out for her—white silk, thin straps, nothing underneath because he’d specifically requested it. “You’ll see soon enough.”

The engine purred to life. She felt them pull away from the dock, the boat cutting smoothly through the water. Corrie counted the turns, trying to orient herself, but Silas had always been better at this lake than she was, and after a few minutes, she gave up.

She trusted him. Completely, utterly, in a way she’d never trusted anyone.

That was the gift he’d given her. Not just his love, but her own freedom—the permission to stop performing, to be exactly who she was, to want things without shame.

Tonight, she wanted everything.

The engine cut. Silence, except for the water and the wind and her own quick breathing.

“We’re here,” Silas said. “You can look now.”

He untied the blindfold, and Corrie blinked in the fading light.

They were anchored in the channel. The channel—the narrow strait between the mainland and his island, the exact spot where he’d rescued her two years ago. Where everything had begun.

But the boat had been transformed.

Candles flickered in hurricane glass, casting warm light across polished wood. White rose petals scattered across the cushions. A bottle of champagne sweating in a silver bucket. And draped across the stern, a blanket so soft it looked like a cloud.

“Happy anniversary,” Silas said.

She turned to look at him—this man who had become her whole world. He’d changed out of his usual work clothes into a white linen shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to his forearms. The silver at his temples caught the candlelight. His dark eyes were watching her with that intensity that still made her breath catch.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

“Not as beautiful as you.” He moved closer, one hand coming up to cup her face. “Do you know what I was thinking, that first day? When I pulled you out of the water?”

“That I was stubborn and infuriating?”

“That too.” His thumb traced her lower lip. “But also that you were the most alive person I’d ever seen. Angry and scared and ready to fight the whole world. I wanted to know what it would take to make you look at me the way you looked at that storm—like nothing could stop you.”

“And now you know.”

“Now I know.” He kissed her—soft at first, almost chaste. Then deeper, his hand sliding into her hair, tilting her head back. “Now I know exactly what it takes.”

When he pulled back, his eyes had gone dark with want.

“I have plans for you tonight, wife.”

The word still thrilled her. Wife. His wife. Chosen and claimed and cherished.

“What kind of plans?”

“The kind that involve you not being able to walk straight tomorrow.” He reached for something beside him—a small velvet bag she hadn’t noticed. “Do you remember what I said, that first night in the workshop? When I told you I was going to learn your body like a language?”

Heat flooded through her. “I remember.”

“I’ve spent two years becoming fluent.” He pulled something from the bag—she couldn’t quite see in the candlelight. “Tonight, I’m going to show you how much I’ve learned.”

He kissed her again, and this time there was nothing soft about it. His mouth claimed hers with the possessive hunger she’d come to crave, his hands already finding the straps of her dress, sliding them down her shoulders.

“Stand up,” he said against her lips. “Let me see you.”

She rose on shaking legs. The dress pooled at her feet, leaving her bare in the evening air, and she watched his face as he looked at her—the sharp intake of breath, the way his jaw tightened with restraint.

“Two years,” he said roughly. “And you still take my breath away. Every time.”

“Silas…”

“Lie down.” He gestured to the blanket-covered stern. “On your back. Arms above your head.”

She obeyed, settling onto the impossibly soft fabric, stretching her arms up until her fingers brushed the brass rail. The position left her completely exposed—breasts bared to the sky, legs slightly parted, vulnerable and open and aching for his touch.

He didn’t touch her. Not yet.

Instead, he reached into the velvet bag and pulled out a length of silk rope—deep burgundy, the color she’d worn the day of the Regatta when she’d crossed to his boat in front of everyone.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

“Always.”

“Good girl.”

The praise hit her like it always did—a warm rush of pleasure that pooled between her thighs. He knew exactly what those words did to her. He used them like weapons.

He bound her wrists to the rail with practiced efficiency—tight enough to hold, loose enough not to hurt. She tested the bonds and felt a thrill run through her at the realization that she couldn’t pull free.

She was his. Completely, utterly his.

“Now,” Silas said, reaching into the bag again, “let’s begin.”

He pulled out something that glinted in the candlelight—an ice cube, perfectly clear. He held it up so she could see, then slowly, deliberately, placed it between his lips.

And lowered his mouth to her breast.

Corrie gasped at the shock of cold against her heated skin. His tongue traced circles around her nipple, the ice melting as he worked, cold water running down the curve of her breast while his hot mouth followed. The contrast was electric—freezing and burning at once, pleasure and torture blurring together until she couldn’t tell which was which.

“Silas—” She arched into him, but the restraints held her in place. “Please—”

“Please what?” He moved to her other breast, producing a fresh cube of ice. “Tell me what you want.”

“More. I want more.”

“More of this?” He circled her nipple with the ice, watching it harden under his attention. “Or more of something else?”

“Everything. I want everything.”

“That’s my greedy girl.” He kissed her mouth, and she tasted cold water and champagne and him. “You’ll get everything. But not yet. First, I’m going to make you beg.”

He worked his way down her body with agonizing slowness. Ice and lips and tongue, tracing paths of fire and frost across her stomach, her hips, the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. He spread her legs wide and settled between them, his breath hot against her core, and she felt herself clench with desperate anticipation.

“You’re so wet,” he murmured, trailing one finger through her folds. “So ready for me. But I’m not going to give you what you want. Not until you ask for it properly.”

“Please.” The word came out broken. “Silas, please, I need—”

“Need what?”

“Your mouth. I need your mouth on me. Please.”

“Good girl.”

He lowered his head, and his tongue found her clit, and Corrie’s world shattered into starlight.

He ate her like she was his last meal—hungry, relentless, devastating. Two fingers slid inside her while his mouth worked her clit, curling against that spot that made her see white. She pulled against the restraints, hips bucking, desperate for more friction, more pressure, more of him.

“That’s it,” he said against her flesh. “Let me hear you. No one can hear us out here. Scream for me.”

She did. She screamed his name as the first orgasm crashed through her, her whole body convulsing, but he didn’t stop. He kept going—adding a third finger, sucking her clit into his mouth, driving her higher even as she begged him to slow down.

“Again,” he commanded. “Give me another one.”

“I can’t—”

“You can. You will.” He crooked his fingers, hit that spot, and she shattered again—harder this time, longer, waves of pleasure rolling through her until she thought she might pass out from the intensity.

When she came back to herself, he was kneeling between her thighs, unbuttoning his shirt with hands that weren’t quite steady. His pants followed, and then he was naked above her, his hard length pressing against her entrance.

“Look at me,” he said.

She opened her eyes. Met his gaze. Saw everything—the love, the want, the fierce possessive devotion that had never wavered, not once, in two years.

“You’re mine,” he said. “Say it.”

“I’m yours.”

“You’ll always be mine.”

“Always.” She lifted her hips, trying to take him in. “Now please, Silas, I need you inside me. I need—”

He thrust home in one smooth stroke, burying himself to the hilt, and the sound she made wasn’t even human. He filled her completely, stretched her perfectly, hit every sensitive spot inside her until she couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but feel.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “You feel so good. So tight. Like you were made for me.”

“I was.” She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him deeper. “I was made for you. Only you.”

He started to move—slow at first, savoring each thrust, but she could feel his control fraying. She clenched around him deliberately, and his rhythm stuttered.

“Witch,” he breathed. “You’re going to make me lose my mind.”

“Good.” She arched into him, meeting his thrusts. “Lose it. I want to see you fall apart.”

Something snapped in his expression. The careful control dissolved, and suddenly he was pounding into her with abandon—rough, desperate, claiming her with every stroke. The boat rocked beneath them, water slapping against the hull, and she imagined anyone passing by would know exactly what was happening, could hear her screams echoing across the lake.

Let them hear. Let the whole world know.

“Touch yourself,” Silas commanded. “I want to feel you come on my cock.”

“I can’t—my hands—”

He reached up without breaking rhythm and tugged the silk free, releasing her wrists. Her hands flew to his shoulders, nails digging in, and then one hand snaked between them, finding her clit.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Show me. Show me how you touch yourself when you think about me.”

She circled her clit in tight, fast strokes, feeling the pressure build impossibly higher. His thrusts were erratic now, chasing his own release, and she could feel him swelling inside her, feel how close he was.

“Come with me,” she gasped. “Silas, I’m so close, come with me—”

“Look at me.”

She did. Their eyes locked, and it was like staring into the heart of a star—blinding, overwhelming, infinite.

“I love you,” he said. “I love you, Cordelia. Forever.”

“I love you too—”

They fell together. His release triggered hers, or maybe it was the other way around—she couldn’t tell, didn’t care, was too lost in the supernova of pleasure to do anything but hold on. She felt him pulse inside her, felt the warmth of him filling her, felt the world dissolve into nothing but sensation and love and the perfect, impossible rightness of this moment.

Afterward, they lay tangled on the blanket, the boat rocking gently beneath them. Stars had emerged overhead while they weren’t paying attention, scattered across the sky like diamonds.

“Happy anniversary,” Corrie whispered, tracing patterns on his chest.

“Happy anniversary.” He kissed her hair. “Did you like your surprise?”

“I think you already know the answer to that.”

“I like hearing you say it.”

She propped herself up on one elbow to look at him—this man who had been her enemy, her rescuer, her lover, her husband. Who had seen her at her worst and loved her anyway. Who had taught her that she was worth fighting for.

“It was perfect,” she said. “You’re perfect. This life is perfect.”

“It’s not perfect.” He smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “But it’s ours. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

She kissed him, soft and sweet, and then settled back against his chest to watch the stars.

The lake stretched out around them, silver in the moonlight. In the distance, she could see the lights of the island—their island, their home—and beyond it, the dark shape of where the Lodge used to be, now transformed into something new.

Everything had changed. Everything was better.

And this was just the beginning.

THE END