7 - NO MORE GUILT #3
"I know. Keep going. Please."
He moved slowly at first—deep, measured strokes that let her feel every inch of him. The couch creaked beneath them. Somewhere in the kitchen, the ice maker dropped a fresh batch of cubes.
"Don’t stop," Victoria whispered.
He didn't stop.
The rhythm quickened. Harder now. Faster. The kind of rhythm that came from months of practice, months of learning each other's bodies. Victoria's hands roamed his back—the scars she'd memorized, the muscles she'd traced a hundred times. His teeth grazed her neck. Her nails raked his shoulders.
"I love you," she gasped. "I love you, I love your body, I love—"
"I love you too." His voice was strained. "I love you, and I love our son, and I love this life we've made—"
"Don't stop talking."
"I won't." He thrust deeper. Harder. "I love the way you look at me. The way you take care of our baby. The way you fought for us when everything was falling apart."
"Brock—"
"I love that you're going to be my wife. That I get to wake up next to you for the rest of my life. That I get to watch our son grow up. That I get to grow old with you."
The words pushed her closer. The rhythm pushed her closer. Everything—the heat, the fullness, the voice of the man she loved—pushed her toward the edge.
"I'm close," she gasped. "I'm so close—"
His hand slid between their bodies. Found her clit. Pressed circles into the sensitive nub.
Victoria shattered for the second time.
This climax was different—deeper, longer, a rolling wave that started in her core and spread outward until her fingers tingled and her toes curled.
Her moans were muffled against his shoulder, her teeth sinking into the fabric of his t-shirt, and she felt him swell inside her an instant before his own release.
Brock groaned—a sound torn from somewhere deeper than his chest—and his hips slammed into hers one final time.
The heat of his orgasm flooded her. Pulse after pulse.
Wave after wave. She felt him throbbing inside her, felt the warmth spreading, and her body clenched around him, drawing out every last drop.
Brock collapsed on top of her. His weight was solid and warm and exactly what she needed.
His breath came in ragged heaves against her neck.
His heart hammered against her chest. Victoria's legs were still wrapped around his waist, and her arms were still around his shoulders, and she could feel his semen—warm, wet—beginning to trickle down her thigh.
Neither of them moved.
—
"Did we just get engaged on this couch?" Victoria asked.
Brock laughed. The sound vibrated through her. "I think we did."
"And then we celebrated on the same couch."
"We christened it. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"I don't know. I'm still lightheaded." He lifted his head. Looked down at her with those gray eyes—soft now, sated, full of a love that still surprised her. "You said yes."
"I said yes."
"You're going to be my wife."
"And you're going to be my husband. Finally." She traced his jaw with her fingertip. "No more hiding. No more secrets. No more pretending we're something we're not."
"No more guilt."
The word hung in the air between them. Guilt.
The old companion. The shadow that had followed them through every milestone, every ultrasound, every quiet moment.
Victoria had learned to live with it—had learned to carry it the way she carried the extra weight on her hips, the stretch marks on her belly, the memory of the man she'd destroyed.
But it was lighter now. Less sharp. More like an ache than a wound.
"I still feel it sometimes," she said. "When I look at BJ. When I think about Joey. When I remember the way he looked at me in the garage."
"I know. I feel it too." Brock kissed her forehead. "But we can't change what happened. We can only be grateful for what we have."
"Are you grateful?"
"Every day." He pulled back. Looked at her with an intensity that made her breath catch. "Every single day, I wake up grateful. For you. For our son. For this house. For the ring on your finger. For the fact that we survived everything the world threw at us and we're still here."
The ring.
Victoria lifted her left hand. The diamond caught the late afternoon light, throwing tiny rainbows across the ceiling. His mother's ring. A woman she'd never met, who'd died before Victoria was even born, and whose legacy was now wrapped around her finger.
"Tell me about her," Victoria said. "Your mother."
Brock shifted. Carefully, gently, he pulled out of her and rolled onto his side. The couch was barely wide enough for both of them—his body pressed against hers, his arm draped over her waist—but Victoria didn't mind the closeness. She never minded the closeness.
"Her name was Eleanor," Brock said. "She was a teacher. Third grade. She had this way of looking at you—like she could see everything you were trying to hide, and she loved you anyway."
His thumb traced absent patterns on her hip.
"She would have loved you. She always wanted me to find someone who challenged me. Someone who wasn't afraid of me."
"Am I not afraid of you?"
"Are you?"
Victoria considered the question. The man lying beside her was a correctional officer—a man who'd spent thirty years in a world of violence and control. He'd disarmed his own son. He'd carried a loaded weapon through the house for months. He'd faced down threats that would have broken other men.
And yet, Victoria had never been afraid of him. Not once.
"No," she said. "I'm not afraid of you."
"That's why she would have loved you." He kissed her shoulder. "And my father—he would have loved you too. He was a hard man. A coal miner before he became a correctional officer. He didn't talk much. But when he did, it mattered. He would have said you were good for me."
"I don't feel good for you. I feel like I brought chaos into your life."
"You brought life into my life." Brock's hand slid from her hip to her belly.
Pressed gently against the soft flesh. "Before you, I was just existing. Going to work. Coming home. Fixing the Mustang. Sleeping alone in a house that was too big for one person. I didn't realize how empty my life was until you filled it."
"Brock—"
"I mean it. Everything that happened—the affair, the lies, the trial, all of it—it was worth it. You were worth it. Our son was worth it."
He met her eyes. "I would do it all again. Every terrible moment. Every sleepless night. Every whisper behind our backs. I would do it all again if it meant ending up right here."
Victoria kissed him.
It was a softer kiss than before—a kiss that tasted like gratitude and hope and the future stretching out before them. When she pulled back, she was smiling. The kind of smile she'd forgotten she knew how to make.
"We should get dressed," she said. "BJ will be up soon."
"In a minute." Brock's arm tightened around her. "Just one more minute."
The baby monitor crackled. A small, sleepy murmur filtered through the static—the sound of BJ stirring in his crib. Victoria tensed, ready to get up, but Brock held her in place.
"Wait," he said. "Listen."
They listened. The murmur faded. The monitor went quiet. BJ had settled back to sleep.
"See?" Brock's voice was smug. "He knows his parents need a moment."
"His parents are naked on the couch."
"His parents are engaged. We're allowed."
Victoria laughed. The sound was quiet—mindful of the baby sleeping upstairs—but it was real. Full. The kind of laughter she'd been learning to make again, slowly, over the past six months.
She looked at the ring on her finger. The diamond glinted in the fading light.
Outside, the sun was beginning its descent over the West Virginia hills, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink and gold.
And Victoria lay in the arms of the man she loved, on the couch where their story had begun, and felt something she hadn't felt in years.
Peace.
"This is our life now," she said. "This is really our life."
"Did you ever think we'd get here?" Brock asked.
"No. Not once." She turned her head. Met his gray eyes. "In the beginning, I was sure it would fall apart. That you'd come to your senses and realize what we were doing was insane. That Joey would find out and everything would end in disaster."
"It did end in disaster."
"It did. And then it kept going. That's the part I didn't expect. The part after the disaster." She traced his collarbone with her fingertip. "I thought the disaster was the end of the story. I didn't realize it could be the beginning."
"The beginning of what?"
"Of us. Of our family. Of whatever comes next." She smiled. "Marriage. More kids, maybe."
Brock raised an eyebrow. "More kids?"
"I'm just saying. BJ shouldn't be an only child. He needs a sibling. Someone to play with. Someone to blame when things go wrong."
"You want to have another baby."
"I'm not saying we should start trying tomorrow." She pressed her palm to his chest. Felt his heartbeat—steady, strong, the heartbeat that had been the first thing she'd ever loved about him. "But someday. Maybe. If you want."
Brock was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "I want."
"Really?"
"Really. I want everything with you, Victoria. I want another baby. I want a daughter with your eyes. I want to fill this house with more children than we know what to do with." His hand found hers. Squeezed. "I want to give you everything you've ever wanted."
"You already have." She lifted their joined hands. The ring sparkled. "You've given me a son. A home. A future. You've given me more than I ever thought I deserved."
"You deserve all of it. You deserve more."
—
The baby monitor crackled again. This time, the murmur was louder—a definite sound of waking, of hunger, of a two-month-old who had slept long enough and was ready to eat. Victoria sighed.
"There he is."
"I'll get him."
"No." She pressed a hand to his chest when he started to move. "Let me. I want to. I want every moment with him, even the exhausting ones. Especially the exhausting ones."