5 - THE TRUTH EXPOSED #2
He kissed her.
It wasn’t the kind of kiss they’d shared before—the desperate, hungry kisses of stolen moments and forbidden desires.
This kiss was slower. Sadder. A kiss that tasted like goodbye.
Brock’s lips were chapped from hours in the garage, his stubble rough against her chin, and he kissed her like he was memorizing the shape of her mouth in case this was the last time.
Victoria’s hands found his waist. The fabric of his t-shirt was damp, the heat of his body radiating through. His tongue parted her lips. She felt the vibration of the groan that rumbled through his chest.
“I love you,” she murmured against his lips. “Whatever happens tonight. I love you.”
Brock broke the kiss. Pressed his forehead to hers. His breath was warm, ragged, and she could feel the tremor in his hands as they slid from her face to her shoulders.
“Wait here,” he said.
He walked to the garage door. Pulled the chain that lowered the wide metal panel.
The door rattled down with a clang that echoed through the space.
The afternoon light narrowed to a thin strip at the bottom of the door and then vanished entirely.
The only light now came from the bare bulb hanging above the workbench, casting long shadows across the Mustang’s frame.
When Brock turned back to her, his expression was different. The sadness was still there, still swimming beneath the surface, but something else had risen to meet it. Something darker. More urgent.
“If this is the last time before everything changes,” he said, his voice rough, “I want to remember it.”
Victoria didn’t answer with words. She reached for the button of his jeans.
The metal was cool against her fingers. She worked it open.
Found the zipper. Dragged it down. Brock’s breath hitched as she pushed the denim over his hips, as she hooked her fingers into the waistband of his boxers and pulled them down just enough.
His cock was already half-hard, already twitching at her touch.
She wrapped her hand around him. Felt the heat. The weight. The familiar pulse that matched the one hammering in her throat. His skin was velvet-soft over iron, and she stroked him slowly, her thumb circling the head, spreading the moisture that had already gathered at the tip.
Brock’s eyes fluttered shut. His hand came up to cup the back of her head, his fingers threading through her pinned-up hair. “Victoria—”
“Let me.”
She dropped to her knees.
The concrete was hard through the fabric of her jeans.
A socket wrench lay a few inches from her left knee.
The radio was still playing, some song she didn’t recognize, the bass line thrumming through the garage like a second heartbeat.
Victoria looked up at Brock—his gray eyes gone dark, his jaw tight, his chest rising and falling beneath the grease-stained t-shirt—and smiled.
Then she wrapped her lips around him.
The first inch was always the most intense—the salt-sweet taste of him, the way his body jolted at the contact, the sound he made that was half groan, half prayer.
Victoria closed her eyes. Hollowed her cheeks.
Sank down until the head of his cock pressed against the soft palate at the back of her throat.
“Jesus.” Brock’s voice was a wrecked whisper. His fingers tightened in her hair.
She pulled back. Her tongue traced the ridge beneath the head. Found the vein on the underside. Followed it to the base. Her hand worked what her mouth couldn’t reach, stroking in rhythm with her lips, twisting gently on the upstroke the way she’d learned he liked.
His hips jerked forward. Involuntary. Desperate. “You’re so good at that.”
Victoria hummed around him—a sound of acknowledgment, of pleasure, of the power she felt when she had this man at her mercy.
His cock twitched in her mouth. Swelled against her tongue.
She took him deeper, breathing through her nose, letting her throat relax the way she’d taught herself over these months of stolen moments.
Brock’s free hand found the Mustang’s hood. Gripped the edge. His knuckles were white, his arms trembling. “Victoria, I’m not going to last if you—”
She pulled back. A strand of saliva connected her bottom lip to the tip of his cock. “Then don’t last.”
“No.” His voice was rough, urgent. “Not yet. Not like this.”
His hands closed around her upper arms and pulled her to her feet.
The world tilted for a moment—the bare bulb swinging overhead, the Mustang’s engine block gleaming in the half-light—and then her back was against the side of the car.
The metal was cool through her sweater. The edge of the open hood pressed against her shoulder.
Brock’s mouth found her neck. His stubble scraped the sensitive skin beneath her ear, and his teeth grazed her pulse point, and his hands were everywhere—her waist, her hips, the curve of her ass through the denim of her maternity jeans.
He ground against her, his cock hard and hot against her thigh, and Victoria made a sound that was more animal than human.
“Turn around,” he said. The words were a growl against her throat.
She turned.
The Mustang’s door was smooth beneath her palms.
She braced herself against it, her back arched, her hips angled toward him.
Behind her, she heard the rustle of fabric—Brock pushing his jeans lower, freeing himself completely.
Then his hands were on her hips. His fingers hooked into the waistband of her jeans.
He peeled them down along with her underwear, just enough to bare her, just enough for what they both needed.
The air in the garage was cool against her exposed skin. The baby fluttered—a reminder, a witness—and then Brock’s hand slid between her thighs, and she forgot about everything except the pressure of his fingers parting her folds.
“You’re so wet,” he breathed. “Already.”
“Hurry. Please.”
He didn’t make her wait. The head of his cock pressed against her entrance—that moment of resistance, of anticipation, of the world holding its breath—and then he thrust inside her in one long, deep stroke.
Victoria cried out. The sound echoed off the garage walls, off the concrete floor, off the bare bulb swinging overhead. Her fingers curled against the Mustang’s paint. Her forehead pressed against the cool glass of the window.
“You okay?” His voice was strained, tight with the effort of holding still.
“Yes. God, yes. Don’t stop.”
He didn’t stop.
His rhythm was slow and deliberate, pulling all the way out before sliding home with a heavy, deliberate friction.
Victoria’s hips pushed back to meet him, her body moving in instinctive counterpoint to his.
The car creaked beneath their weight. The socket wrench rattled on the floor.
Somewhere outside the garage, a bird was singing, and the radio was playing another song she didn’t recognize.
His thrusts drove her against the Mustang’s door, each impact a collision of flesh and metal and the desperate need that had been building between them for a month.
Her breasts bounced beneath her sweater.
Her pin-up hair came loose, blonde strands falling around her face.
The baby was a presence, a weight, a secret that moved with every stroke.
Brock’s hand slid from her hip. Wrapped around her belly. His palm pressed flat against the curve where their child was growing.
“This is mine,” he said. The words were raw, possessive. “You’re mine. This baby is mine.”
“Yes,” she breathed. “Yours. All yours.”
The orgasm built at the base of her spine. A pressure. A heat. A gathering storm that made her toes curl inside her shoes. Brock’s thrusts grew faster, deeper. It was as if he was trying to bury himself inside her before the world fell apart.
“I’m close,” she gasped. “I’m so close, don’t stop, please don’t stop—”
His thumb found her clit. Pressed circles into the sensitive nub.
Her climax detonated with an intensity that made her see stars. Her inner walls gripped his cock like a vise. Her thighs trembled. Her vision went white at the edges. She clutched the Mustang’s door like it was the only solid thing in a world that had turned to liquid.
Brock’s thrusts grew erratic, desperate, and then he slammed into her one final time with a groan that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than his chest.
The heat of his release flooded her—pulse after pulse, wave after wave, and Victoria felt herself clench around him again, a smaller climax this time, an aftershock that left her gasping.
He collapsed against her back. His forehead pressed between her shoulder blades. His breath came in ragged heaves that she could feel against her skin through the sweater. For a long moment, neither of them moved.
The garage was silent except for their breathing and the radio—still playing, still oblivious—and the faint rustle of leaves outside the closed door.
Then Brock pulled out. Victoria felt the loss of him, the emptiness, the trickle of his semen down her inner thigh. She pushed herself upright on trembling arms. Reached down to pull up her jeans. Turned to face him.
His gray eyes were wet.
“We’ll get through this,” she said. “Tonight, we’ll tell him. And it’ll be awful, and he’ll hate us, but then it’ll be done. And we can start the rest of our lives.”
Brock nodded. Kissed her forehead. Reached for his jeans. “I love you. Whatever happens. I love you.”
—
The garage door opened.
The sound was a mechanical roar that ripped through the silence—the rattle of the chain, the groan of the metal panels, the flood of afternoon light that poured in like a searchlight.
Victoria’s head whipped toward the door.
Her hands fumbled with the button of her jeans.
Her sweater was still rucked up, her hair was a mess, and Brock’s cum was dripping down her leg, and—
Joey’s car was in the driveway.
The engine was still running. The driver’s side door was open. And Joey was standing in the garage entrance, his laptop bag sliding off his shoulder, his brown eyes wide with a horror that was already turning into something worse.
Time stopped.