6 - SHATTERED GLASS #3
"Taste yourself."
She opened her lips. The strawberry slid onto her tongue. It tasted like her—salty and sweet and musky—and the cream, and the fruit, and she chewed it slowly, deliberately, while Brock watched with those dark gray eyes.
"Good girl," he murmured. "Now I want my turn."
His mouth descended on her cunt.
No preamble. No teasing. Just the flat of his tongue on her clit, hard and certain, and Victoria cried out.
Her hips bucked against his face. His hands hooked under her thighs and pulled her closer, opening her wider, and his tongue worked her in long, slow strokes that matched the rhythm of her pulse.
The baby kicked. Victoria gasped—the combination of Brock's tongue inside her and Brock's son moving in her womb was almost too much, almost too perfect, almost enough to send her over the edge right then.
But Brock pulled back. Licked his lips. Smiled at her with a mouth that was slick with her arousal.
"Not yet," he said. "We're not done."
He stood. Unbuttoned his shirt. Pushed his jeans down, freeing his cock—thick and hard and already gleaming at the tip. Victoria reached for him, but he caught her wrist.
"On your hands and knees."
She rolled onto her side. Pushed herself up. The position was awkward with her belly—she had to spread her knees wide, had to arch her back in a way that made her look like an animal in heat—but the sound Brock made when she presented herself to him was worth any amount of discomfort.
"God, look at you." His hand caressed her ass. Squeezed. "You're incredible."
"Fuck me, Brock. Right now."
He sank into her with one slow, unrelenting stroke. Victoria's elbows buckled. Her forehead pressed into the pillow. The sensation was overwhelming, the fullness, the stretch.
"Slow," she gasped. "Start slow."
He started slow.
His rhythm was measured, deliberate, like he was savoring something precious.
His hands grasped her hips, thumbs pressing into the dimples above her ass, and he moved inside her with a patience that bordered on worship.
Victoria's moans filled the bedroom. The headboard tapped against the wall.
The candles on the dresser flickered in the draft.
Then Brock's hand left her hip. She heard a drawer open. Close. The familiar sound of a cap snapping open.
Lube.
His fingers, slick and cool, traced the seam of her ass. Victoria tensed for a moment—they'd never done this before, she'd never done this before, and the anticipation was terrifying and thrilling in equal measure—but Brock's voice was in her ear before she could retreat.
"Trust me," he murmured. "I'll go slow. If you want me to stop, tell me to stop."
One finger pressed inside. The lube eased the way, but the sensation was still strange—a pressure, a fullness that was different from anything she'd felt before. Victoria breathed through it. Focused on the cock still moving inside her cunt, the rhythm that hadn't faltered.
A second finger. The stretch was more intense now, the pressure building, but it didn't hurt. It didn't hurt at all. In fact—
"Oh," she breathed. "Oh."
"Good?"
"Don't stop."
The fingers withdrew. Brock shifted behind her, his cock sliding out of her cunt, and she felt the head press against her ass.
The pressure was enormous. Impossible. But then it gave—a sudden, shocking surrender—and he was inside her, just the tip, and Victoria's whole body clenched around the intrusion.
"Breathe," Brock said. His voice was strained. "Breathe, Victoria."
She breathed.
He pushed deeper. Inch by inch. Slow. So slow. Victoria's fingers clawed at the comforter, and her moans were ragged, broken things, and her cunt clenched around nothing, aching for the fullness she'd just lost.
And then he was all the way inside her.
"Okay?" His voice was barely a whisper.
"Okay. God. Okay. Move."
He moved.
The rhythm was different here—shallower, tighter, the angle pressing against something deep inside her that made sparks dance behind her eyes. Victoria reached between her legs. Found her clit. Circled it with her fingers in time with Brock's thrusts.
The pleasure built. Not the familiar crescendo of a clitoral orgasm, not the deep, rolling satisfaction of a vaginal one—something else entirely. Something that came from the fullness, the surrender, the complete and total trust she'd given this man.
"I'm close," she gasped. "I'm so close, don't stop, don't—"
His hand covered hers. Pressed harder against her clit. His thrusts quickened, less controlled now, and Victoria felt him swell inside her an instant before the orgasm ripped through her.
She screamed. She screamed, and the baby kicked, and her ass clenched around his cock in measured throbs that triggered his own release. Brock groaned—a sound torn from somewhere deep in his chest—and she felt the heat of his cum flooding her, filling her, marking her.
They collapsed together.
Brock pulled out carefully. Gently. Victoria rolled onto her side, and he curled behind her, his arm draped over her belly, his breath warm against the back of her neck.
His cum was a slick, warm presence between her thighs.
The baby was quiet now. The room smelled like sex and strawberries and the faint, lingering scent of garlic from dinner.
"I love you," Brock said. His voice was hoarse.
"I love you too." Victoria closed her eyes. "I love you, and I love our son, and I love this life we're building."
"Even with everything? The gossip? The Facebook posts? The—"
"Especially with everything." She turned her head. Met his gray eyes in the dim light. "I would do it all again. Every terrible moment. Every lie. Every—"
—
The crash came from downstairs.
Victoria's blood turned to ice.
"What was that?" She was already sitting up, already swinging her legs over the side of the bed, already reaching for Brock's flannel shirt on the floor. "Brock, what was that?"
"Stay here." He was on his feet, naked, already moving toward the dresser where he kept the Glock.
"Brock—"
"Victoria, listen to me." His hands closed around her shoulders. His gray eyes were steady, but she could see the fear beneath the calm. "Call 911. Do not come downstairs. Do you understand?"
She nodded. Her throat was too tight to speak.
Brock pulled on his jeans. Retrieved the Glock from the dresser drawer. Checked the magazine with a motion that was practiced, professional, the correctional officer's muscle memory. Then he was out the door, his footsteps heavy on the stairs, and Victoria was alone.
Her hands shook as she pulled on the flannel shirt. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons. The phone was on the nightstand—she grabbed it, dialed 911, pressed it to her ear with a hand that wouldn't stop trembling.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"There's someone in my house." Victoria's voice was a stranger's voice. High. Thin. "Someone broke in. I heard glass breaking. My—my partner is downstairs, he has a gun—"
"Ma'am, what's your address?"
She gave it. The dispatcher's voice was calm, professional, asking questions Victoria could barely hear over the pounding of her heart. From downstairs, she heard voices. Brock's voice, steady and low. And another voice.
Joey's voice.
"You stole her from me." The words were muffled through the floorboards, but Victoria could hear the slur in them. The wildness. The unraveling. "You stole my wife. You stole my baby. You stole everything."
"Joey, listen to me. Put the knife down. We can talk about this."
The knife. Joey had a knife. Victoria's hand flew to her belly—to Brock Jr., to their son, to the baby who was innocent in all of this.
"Ma'am, officers are en route," the dispatcher said. "Stay on the line. Stay where you are."
"I can't." Victoria was already moving toward the door. "I can't just stay here."
"Ma'am, do not—"
The footsteps were on the stairs.
Brock's voice, louder now: "Joey, don't go up there. Don't make this worse than it already is."
"She's mine. She was mine first. You took her, you took everything, and now I'm going to take her back."
Victoria pressed herself against the wall beside the bedroom door. Her heart hammered so hard she could feel it in her throat, in her temples, in the flutter of the baby inside her. The footsteps reached the landing. The door flew open.
Joey stood in the doorway.
He was a ruin of the man she'd married. His brown hair was lank and unwashed.
His glasses were gone. His brown eyes—those tired brown eyes that had once looked at her with love—were wild, unfocused, burning with something that looked like hatred and desperation and the last, dying embers of a love she'd destroyed.
In his right hand, a kitchen knife. The blade was six inches long. It glinted in the candlelight.
"Victoria." Her name was a wound on his lips.
"Joey." She held up her hands. The phone was still pressed to her ear, the dispatcher's voice a distant buzz. "Joey, please. Put the knife down."
"I loved you." Tears streamed down his face. His voice cracked. "I loved you so much. And you—you threw it away. You threw me away. For him. For my father."
"I know. I know I hurt you. I know I—"
"You didn't hurt me." He stepped closer. The knife wavered in his grip. "You destroyed me. You and him. You destroyed everything I was."
Brock appeared behind Joey in the doorway. His face was pale, his jaw set, the Glock held low at his side. He wasn't pointing it yet. His training was holding—the thirty years of talking men down from ledges, of de-escalating situations that could have ended in blood.
"Joey." Brock's voice was calm. The voice of a man who had talked inmates out of suicide attempts, out of hostage situations, out of violence that would have gotten them shot. "I know you're angry. You have every right to be angry. But this isn't the way. This isn't going to fix anything."
Joey spun toward him. The knife slashed through the air. "Don't you dare tell me what's going to fix this. You ruined my life. You—my own father—"
"Put the knife down. We can talk. We can—"