Her Pretty Intern by Aurora North - FF Sapphic Romance book cover

Her Pretty Intern · Bonus Chapter

The Aspen House
by Aurora North

A free, exclusive, extra-explicit bonus chapter from Her Pretty Intern. Set seven months and three weeks after the courthouse on Worth Street — Saturday morning, the twenty-first of November, in the carriage house behind Jonathan’s lodge in Aspen. Six inches of fresh snow. The harness. Brunch at 10:30. Take a long time about it.

Heat: 5/5 Inferno · Length: ~5,100 words · Reader Note: contains explicit on-page F/F sex (oral, fingering, strap-on use, harness reciprocity). 18+ only.

The Aspen House

Riley

The carriage house in Aspen is, on inspection, on the morning of Saturday, the twenty-first of November.

The honeymoon Victoria Hale had, on inspection, in June — twenty-one weeks ago, on a Wednesday afternoon at the small clean private kitchen island on lower Fifth Avenue at three eleven p.m. — cancelled — has, on inspection, on the small clean private side of seven months of being Mrs. Hale and three weeks of being Mrs. Hale-Parker, finally, on inspection — been rescheduled.

It is six fifty-eight a.m.

The small clean private bedroom on the second floor of the small clean private carriage house behind Jonathan’s main lodge is, on inspection, three windows on the east wall, all of them, on inspection, full of the small clean private snow. Six inches overnight. Still falling. The small clean private mountain across the small clean private valley is, on inspection, gone — wrapped in the small clean private grey of a Colorado morning that has not, on inspection, quite committed to being morning yet.

The small clean private bed under me is, on inspection — warm.

The small clean private body wrapped around me from behind is, on inspection — also warm.

Her own small clean dry left arm is, on inspection, across my own small clean private bare waist. Her own small clean private platinum circle on the small bone of the small clean private finger of her own small clean dry left hand is, on inspection, pressed against the small clean private skin under my own small clean private bare left ribs. Her own small clean private mouth is, on inspection, against the back of my own small clean private bare neck, slow and warm and steady.

She, on inspection — has been, in seven months and three weeks, every morning, on inspection, like this.

I do not, on inspection — for one full count — move.

I do, however — turn my own small clean dry left hand back, slow, and find the small clean private platinum circle on her own small clean dry left hand on my waist, and I fold my own small clean private fingers around hers, and I press, on inspection, very lightly.

She, on inspection — wakes.

She does not, on inspection, immediately, open her own small clean private eyes.

She just, on inspection, in the smallest voice she has used to me on the small clean private side of three weeks of being Mrs. Hale —

“Mrs. Hale.”

“…Mrs. Hale.”

“Mm.”

“…Mm?”

“Riley.”

“Yes, Victoria.”

“…Don’t, on inspection — “

“No, Victoria.”

“Move.”

“…No, Victoria.”

“Mm.”

She, on inspection — slides her own small clean dry left hand, slow, up my own small clean private bare ribs.

She stops, on inspection, with her own small clean dry left palm just under my own small clean private bare left breast.

She does not, on inspection, immediately, do anything else.

Her own small clean private mouth, on inspection — finds the small clean private hollow at the back of my own small clean private neck.

She kisses, on inspection — slow.

Once.

Then again, slightly lower.

Then a third time, on the small clean private bone at the top of my own small clean private bare spine.

I, on inspection — do, on inspection, the smallest possible thing.

I, on inspection — make the smallest possible private sound.

She, on inspection, into the back of my own small clean private bare neck — laughs.

The full one.

The kitchen-island one.

The small clean private welcome home, Mrs. Hale-Parker one.

She says, in the smallest voice in the world —

“Riley.”

“Yes.”

“On the small clean private morning of Saturday, the twenty-first of November — “

“Yes, Victoria.”

“In the small clean private carriage house in Aspen — “

“Yes, Victoria.”

“On the small clean private side of three weeks of being Mrs. Hale — “

“Yes, Victoria.”

“And on the small clean private side of six inches of fresh snow — “

“Yes, Victoria.”

“I am, on inspection — “

“…Yes, Victoria.”

“Going to take a long time about it.”

I, on inspection — do, on inspection, the smallest possible private thing.

I, on inspection — roll.

I roll, on inspection, slow, in the small clean private linen, until I am, on inspection — facing her.

She is, on inspection — six inches from my own small clean private face.

Her own small clean dry hair is, on inspection — down — fully down, undone, the way it has, on inspection, in seven months, only ever been with me, in this bed, in any bed.

Her own small clean private mouth has, on inspection — no lipstick.

Her own small clean private platinum circle on the small bone of the small clean private finger of her own small clean dry left hand is, on inspection — catching the small clean private grey morning light from the east wall.

Her own small clean private eyes — and I have, on the small clean private side of seven months and three weeks, on inspection, learned by heart — are, on inspection, fully open.

The small clean private unguarded face.

The kitchen-island face.

The seventh-of-June face.

The small clean private yes, Linda face.

She says, in the smallest voice in the world —

“Riley.”

“Yes, Victoria.”

“…Mrs. Hale.”

“Yes.”

“On the small clean private side of three weeks — “

“Yes, Victoria.”

“Tell me, on inspection — “

“Yes.”

“What you want.”

I, on inspection — in the small clean private linen, on the small clean private morning of Saturday, the twenty-first of November, in the small clean private carriage house in Aspen, with the small clean private snow on the small clean private east wall and her own small clean private mouth six inches from mine and her own small clean private platinum circle on the small bone of the small clean private finger of her own small clean dry left hand on the small clean private skin under my own small clean private bare left ribs — say, in the smallest voice I have used to her on the small clean private side of three weeks —

“Victoria.”

“Yes.”

“…Mrs. Hale.”

“Yes, Mrs. Hale-Parker.”

“On the small clean private side of three weeks — “

“Yes.”

“And on the small clean private side of every small clean private operational thing you have, on inspection, in seven months, taught me — “

“Yes, Riley.”

“What I want — “

“Yes.”

“On inspection — “

“Yes, Riley.”

“Is — “

“Yes.”

“For you, on inspection — “

“Yes.”

“To stop being polite about it.”

She, on inspection — for one half-second — does not, on inspection, do the thing that is breathing.

Then she does.

She, on inspection — does, on inspection, the small clean private fully-bodied thing.

She laughs.

The full one.

The kitchen-island one.

The small clean private yes, Riley one.

She says, in the smallest voice she has used to me on the small clean private side of three weeks of being Mrs. Hale —

“…Yes, Mrs. Hale-Parker.”

She, on inspection — moves.

She rolls me, on inspection — slow but firm — onto my own small clean private back on the small clean private linen.

She comes up over me on her own small clean dry left elbow.

She slides her own small clean dry right hand, slow, down my own small clean private bare ribs, to the small clean private bone of my own small clean private bare left hip, and she pushes, on inspection — very lightly, very deliberately — until my own small clean private bare left thigh, on inspection, opens for her.

She, on inspection — between my own small clean private open thighs on the small clean private morning of Saturday, the twenty-first of November, in the small clean private carriage house in Aspen — does not, this time, on inspection, take a long time about it the way she would on a Tuesday afternoon at three eleven p.m. on the small velvet couch in lower Manhattan.

She, on inspection — slides two small clean dry fingers, slow, into me — and I am, on inspection, already wet for her, the way I have, on inspection, in seven months and three weeks, every morning, on inspection — been.

She, on inspection — makes the smallest possible private sound at the back of my own bare neck.

She says, in the smallest voice in the world —

“Riley.”

“…Yes.”

“On inspection — “

“…Yes, Victoria.”

“You have, on inspection — “

“Yes.”

“On the small clean private side of three weeks — “

“…Yes, Victoria.”

“Been, on inspection — “

“…Yes, Victoria.”

“Wet for me every morning.“

I, on inspection — do, on inspection, the small clean private fully-bodied thing.

I, on inspection — say it.

In the smallest voice I have used to her on the small clean private side of three weeks of being Mrs. Hale-Parker —

“…Yes, Mrs. Hale.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hale. Every fucking morning.“

She, on inspection — between my own small clean private open thighs — does the small clean private fully-bodied private thing.

She laughs.

She laughs, on inspection — full-bodied, soundless, with her own small clean private mouth at the small bone of my own small clean private bare jaw and her own two small clean dry fingers slow, deep, deliberate inside me, and her own small clean private thumb, on inspection — finally — on my own small clean private clit, in the small clean private slow careful operational way of two people who have, on inspection, in seven months and three weeks of being married, on inspection — learned every inch of one another by heart.

I come the first time, on inspection — at seven oh four a.m.

Slow. Full. With both my own small clean dry hands fisted in the small clean private linen on either side of my own small clean private bare hips, and my own small clean private bare back arched off the small clean private mattress, and her own small clean private mouth at the small clean private hollow at the small bone of my own small clean private bare collarbone.

I come, on inspection — loudly.

The small clean private carriage house behind Jonathan’s main lodge is, on inspection, on the small clean private morning of Saturday, the twenty-first of November, with six inches of fresh snow on the small clean private east wall and Jonathan and Mara, on inspection, two hundred yards across the small clean private property in the main lodge, with the small clean private four other guests Jonathan has, on inspection, by Mara’s careful operational text on Tuesday afternoon at three eleven p.m., invited up for the holiday — not, on inspection, in the carriage house.

The small clean private carriage house, on inspection, is — ours.

She, on inspection — between my own small clean private open thighs — keeps her own two small clean dry fingers slow, deep, deliberate inside me, all the way through.

When I, on inspection — finally — come down — she, on inspection, does not, importantly, take her own two small clean dry fingers out of me.

She, on inspection — keeps moving them.

Slow.

She kisses, on inspection — the small clean private hollow at the small bone of my own small clean private bare collarbone.

She says, in the smallest voice in the world —

“Riley.”

“…Yes.”

“On the small clean private side of three weeks — “

“…Yes, Victoria.”

“I am, on inspection — “

“…Yes, Victoria.”

“Going to make you come at least three more times — “

“…Mrs. Hale.”

“Before nine a.m.”

I, on inspection — say, in the smallest voice I have used to her on the small clean private side of seven months and three weeks of being Mrs. Hale —

“…Yes, Mrs. Hale.”

She does.

She makes me come, on inspection — at seven nineteen a.m. — on her own small clean private mouth, slow, with her own two small clean dry hands at the small bones of my own small clean private bare hips and the small clean private snow falling on the small clean private east wall and the small clean private platinum circle on her own small clean dry left hand catching the small clean private grey morning light through the small clean private linen of the small clean private bedsheet she has, on inspection, pushed down to the small clean private foot of the small clean private bed.

I come, on inspection — on her own small clean private mouth — loud, with both my own small clean dry hands, on inspection — in her own small clean dry hair — and my own small clean private bare thighs locked around her own small clean private bare shoulders, and the small clean private yes, Mrs. Hale, yes, Mrs. Hale, yes, fuck, Mrs. Hale — coming out of my own small clean private bare throat in the small clean private fully-bodied loud register I have, on inspection, in seven months and three weeks of being Mrs. Hale, finally — learned to use without thinking.

She, on inspection — when I come down — crawls back up.

She kisses my own small clean private mouth.

She tastes, on inspection — like me.

She, on inspection — does not, importantly, wipe her own small clean private mouth.

She, on inspection — kisses me with it.

I, on inspection — do, on inspection, the small clean private fully-bodied private thing.

I, on inspection — kiss her back.

She, on inspection — pulls back, three inches.

She looks at me.

She says, in the smallest voice in the world —

“Riley.”

“…Yes, Mrs. Hale.”

“On the small clean private nightstand on the small clean private right side of the bed — “

“…Yes, Victoria.”

“In the small clean private drawer — “

“…Mrs. Hale.”

“Yes.”

“…The small dark velvet of the harness.”

“Yes, Mrs. Hale.”

“…Mm.”

“…Mrs. Hale — “

“Yes.”

“You — “

“Yes, Riley.”

“You brought it.”

“Yes, Riley.”

“To Aspen.”

“Yes, Riley.”

“In the small clean private suitcase Patricia, on inspection — “

“Yes, Riley.”

“Packed.”

“…Yes, Riley.”

“…Patricia, on inspection — “

“Yes, Riley.”

“Packed it.”

“Yes, Riley. Patricia is, on inspection — “

“Yes, Mrs. Hale.”

“On the small clean private side of seven years of being Patricia — “

“Yes, Mrs. Hale.”

“Aware.“

I, on inspection — do, on inspection, the small clean private fully-bodied private thing.

I laugh.

The full one.

The kitchen-island one.

The small clean private welcome home, Mrs. Hale-Parker one.

I say, in the smallest voice I have used to her on the small clean private side of three weeks of being Mrs. Hale —

“…Yes, Mrs. Hale.”

She, on inspection — does, on inspection, the small clean private operational thing.

She gets up.

She, on inspection — fully bare, in the small clean private grey morning light from the small clean private east wall, with her own small clean private platinum circle on the small bone of the small clean private finger of her own small clean dry left hand and the small clean private gold bracelet on her own right wrist and her own small clean dry hair down — walks, on inspection — three steps — to the small clean private nightstand on the small clean private right side of the bed.

She, on inspection — opens the small clean private drawer.

She takes out, on inspection — the small dark velvet of the harness.

She comes back to the bed.

She does not, on inspection — immediately — strap it on.

She, on inspection — sits on the small clean private edge of the bed.

She holds the small dark velvet of the harness in her own small clean dry left hand.

She looks at me.

She says, in the smallest voice in the world —

“Riley.”

“…Yes, Mrs. Hale.”

“On the small clean private side of three weeks — “

“Yes, Victoria.”

“I want, on inspection — “

“Yes, Victoria.”

“You — “

“…Yes, Victoria.”

“To put it on me.”

A beat.

I, on inspection — in the small clean private linen, with my own small clean private bare back against the small clean private headboard and the small clean private snow on the small clean private east wall and the small clean private yes, Mrs. Hale still warm on my own small clean private mouth — do, on inspection, the small clean private fully-bodied private thing.

I do not, on inspection — hide it.

I, on inspection — say it.

“…Yes, Mrs. Hale.”

I get up, on inspection — bare, in the small clean private grey morning light from the small clean private east wall.

I cross, on inspection — the small clean private one foot of small clean private linen — to where she, on inspection — is sitting on the small clean private edge of the bed.

I, on inspection — kneel, on the small clean private hardwood at her own small clean private bare feet.

She, on inspection — does, on inspection — the smallest possible thing with her own small clean private mouth.

She, on inspection — hands me the small dark velvet of the harness.

I, on inspection — take it.

I, on inspection — slip it, slow, careful — over her own small clean private bare feet.

I, on inspection — slide it, slow, up her own small clean private bare calves, her own small clean private bare thighs.

I, on inspection — at the small bones of her own small clean private bare hips — settle it.

I, on inspection — tighten the small clean private dark velvet straps, slow, careful, the way she has, in seven months and three weeks, on inspection — taught me to.

I, on inspection — when it is on — do not get up.

I, on inspection — at her own small clean private bare feet — look up at her.

I, on inspection — in the smallest voice I have used to her on the small clean private side of three weeks of being Mrs. Hale-Parker — say —

“…Mrs. Hale.”

“…Yes, Mrs. Hale-Parker.”

“Tell me what you want.”

She, on inspection — at the small clean private edge of the bed, in nothing but the small dark velvet of the harness and the small clean private platinum circle and the small clean private gold bracelet — does, on inspection — for one full count — not breathe.

Then she does.

She slides her own small clean dry left hand into my own small clean dry hair.

She says, in the smallest voice in the world —

“Riley.”

“…Yes, Mrs. Hale.”

“…My own small clean private mouth.”

“…Yes, Mrs. Hale.”

“On you.”

“Yes, Mrs. Hale.”

“And, Riley — “

“Yes.”

“…My own small clean private mouth.”

“Yes.”

“On — “

“Yes, Mrs. Hale.”

“…What is in the small dark velvet of the harness.”

A beat.

I, on inspection — at her own small clean private bare feet, on the small clean private hardwood, with her own small clean dry left hand in my own small clean dry hair and the small clean private grey morning light from the small clean private east wall on her own small clean private bare collarbone and the small clean private Mrs. Hale, yes, Mrs. Hale, yes still warm on my own small clean private mouth — do, on inspection, the small clean private fully-bodied private thing.

I do not, on inspection — hide it.

I, on inspection — take her in my own small clean private mouth.

She, on inspection — makes the small clean private fully-bodied loud sound she has, on inspection — in seven months and three weeks — only ever made, on inspection, three times before — at one minute to two a.m. on the small clean private second Saturday of July, on the small clean private velvet couch on Friday afternoon, the twenty-eighth of August, and on the small clean private linen of the bed at the end of the small clean private hallway on the small clean private silver light of Friday evening, the thirtieth of October.

She, on inspection — at the small clean private edge of the small clean private bed in the small clean private carriage house in Aspen on the small clean private morning of Saturday, the twenty-first of November, with the small clean private snow falling on the small clean private east wall and her own small clean dry left hand fisted in my own small clean dry hair — comes — loudly — at seven thirty-six a.m.

She comes, on inspection — fully — with her own small clean private bare back, on inspection, arched against the small clean private headboard I have, on inspection, in three minutes, slowly, with my own small clean dry hands at the small bones of her own small clean private bare hips, backed her up against, and her own small clean private mouth, on inspection, open, and the small clean private fully-bodied loud register coming out of her own small clean private bare throat in the small clean private fully-bodied loud the most controlled woman in Manhattan, on the small clean private side of seven months of being Mrs. Hale and three weeks of being Mrs. Hale-Parker, has, on inspection — finally, on the small clean private side of fourteen years of careful operational holding, finally — learned to use without thinking.

When she, on inspection — comes down — she, on inspection — pulls me, slow, up onto her own small clean private lap.

She, on inspection — kisses me.

She tastes, on inspection — like both of us.

She says, in the smallest voice in the world —

“Riley.”

“…Yes, Mrs. Hale.”

“…That is twice.”

“…Yes, Mrs. Hale.”

“By my count — “

“Yes.”

“You owe me, on inspection — “

“…Yes, Mrs. Hale.”

“At least one more.”

“…Yes, Mrs. Hale.”

She, on inspection — lays me back on the small clean private linen.

She, on inspection — comes up over me.

She, on inspection — between my own small clean private open thighs — slides into me — slow, careful, the way she has, in seven months and three weeks, on inspection — taught me to be slid into.

She, on inspection — kisses me, slow, while she does it.

She says, in the smallest voice in the world —

“Riley.”

“…Yes, Victoria.”

“…Mrs. Hale.”

“Yes, Mrs. Hale.”

“…Be loud.”

I, on inspection — am.

I, on inspection — am loud — for the next thirty-eight minutes — in every register, in every position, in every operational way the most controlled woman in Manhattan has, on inspection, in seven months and three weeks of being Mrs. Hale, on inspection — taught me to be loud at home.

She, on inspection — between my own small clean private bare thighs — is, on inspection — also loud back.

The small clean private carriage house behind Jonathan’s main lodge in Aspen on the small clean private morning of Saturday, the twenty-first of November, with six inches of fresh snow on the small clean private east wall and Jonathan and Mara two hundred yards across the small clean private property in the main lodge with the small clean private four other guests — does not, on inspection — this time — mind.

I come, on inspection — for the third time — at eight oh four a.m. — slow, deep, with my own small clean private bare hips, on inspection — fully against hers, and her own small clean dry hand, on inspection — flat against the small clean private bone at the center of my own small clean private bare chest, on inspection, holding me down — and the small clean private yes, Mrs. Hale, yes coming out of my own small clean private bare throat in the smallest possible private fully-bodied register the small clean private bedroom on the second floor of the small clean private carriage house in Aspen has, on inspection — in seven months and three weeks of being Mrs. Hale — been waiting for.

She comes with me, on inspection — at the small clean private end of it — slow, full, with her own small clean private mouth at the small clean private hollow at the small bone of my own small clean private bare jaw and her own small clean private Mrs. Hale-Parker, yes, Mrs. Hale-Parker, yes, fuck, Riley — coming out of her own small clean private bare throat in the smallest possible private fully-bodied register I have, on inspection — in seven months and three weeks of being Mrs. Hale-Parker — learned by heart.

When she, on inspection — comes down — she, on inspection — does not, importantly — pull out.

She, on inspection — stays.

She, on inspection — settles, slow, full-bodied, on top of me, with her own small clean private bare chest against mine and her own small clean private bare cheek at the small clean private hollow at the small bone of my own small clean private bare collarbone and her own small clean dry left hand, on inspection — finding my own small clean dry left hand on the small clean private linen, with the small clean private platinum circle on the small bone of the small clean private finger of her own small clean dry left hand pressed against the small clean private platinum circle on the small bone of the small clean private finger of my own small clean dry left hand.

She, on inspection — for one full count — does not, on inspection, do the thing that is breathing.

Then she does.

In and out.

Slow.

I, on inspection — at the small clean private end of it — kiss the crown of her own small clean dry hair.

I say, in the smallest voice I have used to her on the small clean private side of three weeks of being Mrs. Hale —

“Mrs. Hale.”

“…Yes, Mrs. Hale-Parker.”

“…Welcome home.”

She, on inspection — does, on inspection — the small clean private fully-bodied private thing.

She, on inspection — laughs.

The full one.

The kitchen-island one.

The seventh-of-June one.

The small clean private welcome home, mija one.

She, on inspection — at the small clean private end of it — into the small clean private hollow at the small bone of my own small clean private bare collarbone — in the smallest voice in the world —

“…Yes, Mrs. Hale-Parker.”

“Yes.”

We, on inspection — for one full half-hour — do not, on inspection, move.

The small clean private snow, on inspection — keeps falling on the small clean private east wall.

The small clean private grey morning light, on inspection — turns slowly into the small clean private grey eight-thirty light.

At nine oh four a.m., on inspection — Mara, on inspection, by the small clean private text on the small clean private nightstand on the small clean private right side of the small clean private bed — brunch in the main lodge at ten thirty, take your time, mijas, no rush, love you both.

She, on inspection — at the small clean private end of it — kisses, on inspection — the small bone of my own small clean private bare jaw.

She says, in the smallest voice in the world —

“Riley.”

“Yes, Mrs. Hale.”

“…The small clean private shower.”

“Yes, Mrs. Hale.”

“With me.”

“Yes, Mrs. Hale.”

“And, Riley — “

“Yes.”

“On the small clean private side of three weeks — “

“Yes.”

“In the small clean private shower of the small clean private carriage house in Aspen on the small clean private morning of Saturday, the twenty-first of November — “

“Yes, Mrs. Hale.”

“I am, on inspection — “

“…Yes, Victoria.”

“Going to make you come, on inspection — “

“Yes, Mrs. Hale.”

“One more time — “

“Yes, Mrs. Hale.”

“Before brunch.”

I, on inspection — do, on inspection — the small clean private fully-bodied private thing.

I, on inspection — say it back.

“…Yes, Mrs. Hale.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hale. Yes. Every fucking morning.“

She, on inspection — at the small clean private end of it — laughs.

The full one.

We do.

The small clean private shower, on inspection — at nine oh six a.m. — does not, on inspection, this time, mind.

Mara, at brunch at ten thirty-four a.m., on inspection — across the small clean private wide oak table at the small clean private far end of the main lodge dining room, with the small clean private snow still falling on the small clean private picture window and Jonathan in the small clean private cream knit sweater and the small clean private four other guests, on inspection, in the small clean private varying registers of two more couples and Jonathan’s college roommate and his partner — does, on inspection, the smallest possible private older-sister thing with the corner of her own mouth.

Mara, on inspection — in the smallest possible private older-sister voice — Vic.

Victoria, in the small clean private cream linen sweater, with her own small clean dry hair down and the small dried-blood lipstick at the small line of her own mouth and the small clean private platinum circle on the small bone of the small clean private finger of her own small clean dry left hand — does, on inspection — the smallest possible thing with the corner of her own mouth.

“Yes, Mara.”

“You — “

“Yes, Mara.”

“Are, on inspection — “

“Yes, Mara.”

“On the small clean private side of three weeks of being Mrs. Hale-Parker — “

“Yes, Mara.”

“Smiling.“

A beat.

Victoria, on inspection — at the small clean private wide oak table, with my own small clean private bare left hand on the small clean private wood beside her own — holds.

She, on inspection — at the small clean private end of it — in the smallest voice she has used to Mara on the small clean private side of three weeks of being Mrs. Hale-Parker —

“…Yes, Mara.”

Mara, on inspection — does, on inspection — the small clean private fully-bodied private thing.

Mara laughs.

The full one.

Mara says, in the smallest voice she has used to Victoria on the small clean private side of three weeks of being her sister-in-law’s wife —

“…Welcome home, Vic.”

I, on inspection — at the small clean private wide oak table on the small clean private morning of Saturday, the twenty-first of November, in the small clean private main lodge of Jonathan’s small clean private property in Aspen, with my own small clean dry left hand on the small clean private wood beside her own and the small clean private platinum circles on the small clean private fingers of our own small clean dry left hands, on inspection — catching the small clean private grey morning light from the small clean private picture window — do, on inspection — the small clean private fully-bodied private thing.

I, on inspection — in the smallest voice I have used to Mara on the small clean private side of seven months and three weeks of being Mrs. Hale —

“…Welcome home, Vic.”

She, on inspection — at the small clean private wide oak table, with the small clean private snow still falling and the small clean private cream linen sweater and the small clean private platinum circle and Mara on her left and Jonathan, on inspection, laughing, on her right — does, on inspection — for the second time in three weeks, in front of an entire room — the small clean private full smile.

The full one.

The kitchen-island one.

The seventh-of-June one.

The College Walk one.

The small clean private welcome home, Mrs. Hale-Parker one.

She does not, on inspection — this time — lose anything for it.

She has, on inspection — on the small clean private side of three weeks — nothing left to lose.

She has, on inspection — everything else.

The small clean private snow, on inspection — keeps falling.

~ The End ~

Want the Whole Story?

If you’re here, you’ve already met Riley and Victoria — but the eleven weeks that got them to Aspen are 132,000 words of stolen kisses, glass desks at seven p.m., a corporate scandal that nearly takes Hale Strategic down, and one wine red dress that started it all. Read it from the first good morning, Ms. Hale in the corridor on the seventh of June.

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