One Year Later...
One year. Sometimes it feels like a lifetime, other times like the blink of an eye.
The familiar chaos of Sunday dinner at Mom's house swirls around me—laughter, overlapping conversations, the scent of roast beef and potatoes. Jake arguing with our cousin Thomas about some fishing spot they both claim to have discovered. Mom fussing over Phoebe, insisting she take the most comfortable chair despite Phoebe's protests that being pregnant doesn't make her needy.
And Phoebe. My wife. Six months pregnant with our child. Still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
She catches me staring and winks, her hand resting on the gentle swell of her belly. My chest tightens with a now-familiar ache—this overwhelming love that blindsided me in a blizzard and hasn't loosened its grip since.
Mom beams at me. She's been different since Phoebe came into our lives—happier, more at peace. Having a daughter-in-law who genuinely wants to learn her recipes and hear her stories has given her new life. And she’s determined to get the rest of us paired off, too. She says, "Jake was telling me about that nice new kindergarten teacher he met."
Jake flushes slightly. "I was just being neighborly, Mom."
"Very neighborly," Thomas teases. "Considering you offered to help with the classroom renovation. Since when are you a carpenter?"
"Shush," Jake mutters his breath, his ears going red.
The conversation flows on, but I notice Jake's distraction, the way he checks his phone more than usual. Interesting.
Phoebe nudges me under the table, raising an eyebrow in Jake's direction. I nod slightly—she's noticed too. We've gotten good at these silent communications, reading each other with barely a glance.
"," Mom calls from the kitchen, "can you and Phoebe get the ice cream from the freezer downstairs? I forgot to bring it up earlier."
"Sure, Mom." I stand, offering Phoebe my hand.
"I can manage stairs," she says with mock indignation, but takes my hand anyway.
The basement is Mom's domain—part storage, part cold cellar, part laundry room. The old chest freezer hums in the corner, surrounded by shelves of home-canned vegetables and preserves.
The moment we're alone, Phoebe's demeanor changes. She presses me against the wall at the bottom of the stairs, her eyes glinting with mischief.
"We have about five minutes before they start wondering where we are," she whispers, her hands sliding down my chest.
"What are you—"
Her fingers find my belt, deftly unbuckling it. "Shh. Let me."
My brain short-circuits as she sinks to her knees, tugging my jeans down just enough to free me. Blood rushes south so fast I feel dizzy.
"Phoebe," I hiss, glancing up the stairs. "My entire family is right above us."
"Then you'd better be quiet," she says, looking up at me with that wicked smile that still makes my heart stutter. "Consider this practice."
Before I can protest further, her warm mouth engulfs my hard cock. My head falls back against the wall with a thud, a groan escaping before I can stop it. My hand instinctively tangles in her hair, not guiding, just needing the connection.
Every coherent thought evaporates as she works me with practiced skill, knowing exactly how to bring me to the edge without pushing me over. A year together has taught her my body as thoroughly as I've learned hers.
The danger of discovery only heightens everything—the wet heat of her mouth, the sight of her on her knees, the gentle swell of her belly visible beneath her sweater. My pregnant wife is sucking my cock, still insatiable, still surprising me when I least expect it.
"God, Phoebe," I whisper, watching as she takes me deeper. "The things you do to me."
She hums in response, the vibration sending shockwaves through my system. Her hands aren't idle—one grips the base of my shaft while the other caresses my thigh, nails lightly scratching sensitive skin.
The pressure builds, my control fracturing. I'm on the verge of coming when footsteps creak on the floor above us.
"You guys find it?" Jake's voice calls down the stairs.
Phoebe pulls back just long enough to call, "Looking for the right flavor! Give us a minute!" Her voice is impressively steady, betraying none of what she's doing.
Then her mouth is on me again, movements more urgent now. The message is clear: time's up. She wants me to finish.
I bite my lip hard, fighting to stay silent as she brings me right to the edge. Her eyes meet mine, dark with desire, and she takes me deep one final time. The sight undoes me completely.
Release hits like an avalanche, white-hot pleasure cascading through me. She swallows everything, maintaining eye contact in a way that's both filthy and unbearably intimate.
When she finally pulls away, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, I'm still struggling to remember how to breathe.
"Got it!" she calls up the stairs, grabbing a random container from the freezer. She turns back to me with a satisfied smirk. "Better tuck yourself in, mountain man. Your mom's waiting for her ice cream."
I adjust my clothing with shaking hands, still dazed. "You're going to be the death of me."
"But what a way to go." She stretches up to kiss me, letting me taste myself on her tongue. "Consider that a preview of tonight."
"My turn next," I promise, voice low and rough. "Fair warning."
Her eyes darken. "I'm counting on it."
We make our way back upstairs, Phoebe looking entirely too innocent as she presents the ice cream to my mother. No one seems to notice anything amiss, though Jake gives me a curious look when I nearly drop the stack of bowls Mom hands me.
Throughout dessert, I can't keep my eyes—or my hands—off Phoebe. My fingers find her knee under the table, sliding higher along her thigh until she shoots me a warning glance that promises retribution later. Her body has changed with pregnancy, curves fuller, skin glowing. I find myself constantly amazed by her—not just her beauty, but her strength, her adaptability, her joy in building our life together.
A year ago, I'd resigned myself to solitude, convinced no woman would choose this mountain town, this simple life. Then a blizzard brought Phoebe Hartley to my door, upending everything I thought I knew about myself and what I wanted.
Now she's Phoebe Calloway, my wife, the future mother of my child. She's transformed Max's broken-down cabin into a charming vacation rental that's booked solid through next summer. She's breathed new life into the store with an online shop featuring local artisans. She's made friends in town, joined committees, and become as much a part of Darkmore Mountain as the peaks themselves.
And somehow, impossibly, she seems happy here. With me.
The drive home is peaceful, Phoebe's hand resting on my thigh, her head against my shoulder. My cabin—our home now—comes into view as we round the final bend. The transformation is remarkable, thanks to a woman’s touch.
But the best changes aren't physical. They're in the sound of her laughter echoing through rooms that were once silent. In the garden she's planted out back. In the nursery we prepared together, waiting for our child.
As we pull up to the cabin, I cut the engine and turn to her. "That stunt in Mom's basement was playing dirty, Mrs. Calloway ,” I tease.
She grins, unrepentant. "You loved it."
"I love you," I correct, placing my hand on her rounded belly. "Both of you."
Her expression softens. "We love you too." She guides my hand to the left side of her stomach. "Feel that? She's kicking."
The flutter beneath my palm still amazes me every time. Our daughter. We're having a little girl in three months.
"Strong, like her mother," I say.
"Stubborn, like her father," Phoebe counters.
I help her from the truck, unable to resist pulling her against me for a kiss that quickly deepens. Her body has changed, but my desire for her hasn't wavered—if anything, it's intensified. There's something primal about seeing her carry my child, something that makes me want to worship every new curve, every stretch mark, every change that marks her as mine.
"Inside," she murmurs against my lips. "Unless you want to give the wildlife a show."
"Wouldn't be the first time," I remind her, thinking of several memorable encounters in the woods surrounding our home.
She laughs, pulling me toward the door. "True. But I distinctly remember being promised a turn."
I scoop her into my arms, ignoring her squeal of surprise. "I always keep my promises."
I pull her closer, marveling at how completely this woman has changed my life. How a freak April blizzard brought me the one thing I never thought I'd find in these mountains.
Home isn't just a place. Sometimes it's a person. Sometimes it's the family you build together. Sometimes it's a cabin that once seemed broken beyond repair, transformed by love and hard work into something beautiful.