4 - THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM #3
"Everything's bigger."
"I noticed." He lowered his mouth to her right breast. Drew the nipple between his lips. Sucked.
Victoria's head fell back against the front door.
The wood was cool against her bare shoulders, a counterpoint to the heat of his mouth.
Her fingers threaded through his buzzed hair, holding him in place, and she felt the pull of his lips in her belly, in her cunt, in the pulse that beat at the base of her throat.
"God, Brock—"
He switched to her left breast. Gave it the same attention—the slow drag of his tongue, the gentle scrape of his teeth, the suction that made her hips jerk forward. By the time he released her, her nipples were dark and slick and so sensitive that even the air made her shiver.
"I'm not done with you yet." He dropped to his knees.
His hands found the button of her jeans. Worked it open. Peeled the denim down her legs along with her underwear, until she was bare before him, her back pressed against the door, her breath coming in short sharp bursts.
And then he just looked at her.
His gray eyes traveled up her body—her thighs, the blonde curls between them, the curve of her belly that was more pronounced now, the breasts that were heavier with milk ducts already forming. His gaze was reverent. Worshipful.
"You're so beautiful," he said. "You know that? Every time I see you, you're more beautiful."
"Brock—"
"Let me look." His hands settled on her hips. His thumb traced the slope of her belly, the gentle swell where their child was growing. "This is my baby. Our baby. Right here."
He leaned forward.
His lips pressed against her stomach. A kiss.
Then another, lower. Then another, tracing a path down the curve of her belly, across the skin that was beginning to stretch, that would stretch more in the months to come.
Victoria's breath caught in her throat. She watched him press his mouth to the place where their child lived, watched him close his eyes and breathe her in.
When he finally reached the juncture of her thighs, she was trembling.
He didn't make her wait. His mouth found her center with the same certainty he'd shown in the kitchen that morning four weeks ago, the same patience and precision he'd learned over their stolen encounters.
His tongue traced the length of her slit.
Parted her folds. Found her clit and circled it with a pressure that made her gasp.
"Oh god—"
His fingers joined his mouth. Two of them, sliding inside her with an ease that spoke to how wet she already was, how wet she always was around him. He curled them upward, pressing against that spot that made her vision blur, while his tongue moved in slow, deliberate strokes.
Victoria's hands scrambled for purchase—the doorframe, the deadbolt, the smooth wood of the door itself. Her thighs trembled. Her hips bucked against his face. The pleasure was building at the base of her spine, a gathering pressure that made her toes curl against the hardwood floor.
"Don't stop," she breathed. "Don't stop, don't stop—"
He didn't stop.
His tongue lashed against her clit. His fingers thrust deeper, faster. And then he sucked—hard—and Victoria's world splintered into white light.
The orgasm ripped through her with a force that stole her breath. Her back arched off the door. A sound tore from her throat—not a scream, not a moan, something in between—and Brock stayed with her through all of it, his mouth gentler now, easing her down from the peak.
When she finally opened her eyes, he was looking up at her from between her legs. His lips were slick. His gray eyes were dark with want.
"Come here," she whispered.
He stood, shedding his jeans and boxers in one fluid motion, revealing a thick, heavy erection that caught the dim light. Victoria reached for him, her fingers wrapping around his length, feeling the heat and the pulse and the weight of him.
"I want you inside me."
"In a second." He bent down. Grabbed her thighs. Lifted.
Victoria wrapped her legs around his waist. Her arms circled his neck. Her back pressed against the door, and she could feel the head of his cock nudging against her entrance—hot and insistent and right there.
"Now," she said. "Please, now—"
Brock thrust inside her with one motion.
The fullness was staggering. The stretch of him, the depth, the way he filled every empty space inside her. Victoria cried out—a wordless sound that she muffled against his shoulder—and her nails dug into his back through the fabric of his Henley.
"You okay?" His voice was strained. "Is this okay? The baby—"
"The baby's fine." She rolled her hips, taking him deeper. "Fuck me, Brock. Please."
He did.
His thrusts were slow at first—long, deep strokes that pulled him almost all the way out before slamming back in.
Victoria's back thumped against the door with each impact.
The wood rattled in its frame. Somewhere in the house, she heard something fall—a picture, maybe, knocked off the wall by the force of their movements—and she didn't care,
didn't care about anything except the cock driving into her and the man whose hands were gripping her thighs hard enough to bruise.
"Harder," she gasped. "I want—harder—"
Brock's rhythm shifted. Faster now. Less controlled. His forehead pressed against hers. His breath came in ragged gasps that matched her own.
"You're so tight," he groaned. "So wet. I can't—Victoria—"
"Cum inside me. Fill me up."
"I'm already—you're already—"
"I don't care. I want it. I want to feel you cum."
His hips slammed against her one final time. His body went rigid. He let out a low growl. And she felt the heat of his release spread through her belly. Victoria clenched around him, milking him, drawing out every last drop.
The sensation pushed her over the edge a second time—smaller, sharper, a clenching release that left her gasping. She buried her face in his neck and rode it out, her body trembling, her legs locked around his waist.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.