7 - NO MORE GUILT #2
"I know we've done everything backwards. I know the world looks at us and sees something ugly. I know there are people in this town who will never forgive us, never understand us, never stop whispering behind our backs. I know all of that, and I don't care."
His voice cracked. "All I care about is you. And BJ. And the life we're building together. I want to marry you, Victoria. I want to be your husband. I want to raise our son together. I want to wake up next to you every morning for the rest of my life. Will you marry me?"
The word came out of her before she could think about it.
Before she could weigh it, measure it, consider all the implications the way the old Victoria would have done.
The Victoria who'd been married to Joey, the Victoria who'd planned everything and controlled everything and still watched her life fall apart.
"Yes."
The box nearly slipped from Brock's fingers. "Yeah?"
"Yes. God, yes. Of course yes." She was laughing now, or crying, or both—she couldn't tell anymore, couldn't distinguish the joy from the tears, the relief from the disbelief. "Get up. Get up here. Kiss me."
He did.
The ring was still in its box, and the box was still in his hand, and his mouth was on hers before she could say another word.
The kiss was deep and desperate and tasted like salt—her tears, his tears, the tears they'd both been holding back for months.
Victoria's arms wrapped around his neck.
She pulled him onto the couch, onto her.
"I love you," Victoria said against his mouth. "I love you, I love you, I love you."
"I love you too." Brock pulled back just enough to look at her. His gray eyes were red-rimmed, his cheeks wet. "I should—you haven't even tried on the ring yet."
"Put it on me."
The box was slightly crumpled from being crushed between them.
Brock fumbled it open. The diamond caught the light—a spark of white fire—and Victoria held out her left hand without hesitation.
Her ring finger was bare. It had been bare since the day she'd taken off Joey's wedding band, six months ago, and slipped it into an envelope addressed to his lawyer.
Brock's hands were steady—the correctional officer's hands, the hands that had disarmed his son, the hands that had caught their baby as he emerged into the world—but she could feel the tremor in his fingers as he slid the ring onto her finger.
It fit perfectly.
"Your mother's ring," Victoria said. Her voice was barely a whisper. "Brock, I don't know what to say."
"Say you'll be my wife."
"I'll be your wife. I'll be your wife, and you'll be my husband, and we'll raise our son together, and the rest of the world can go to hell."
Brock laughed. The sound was wet, broken, full of the same joy and relief that was flooding through Victoria's chest. "That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."
"I mean it. Every word." She cupped his face with both hands. Traced his cheekbones with her thumbs. "We've been through so much. Too much. And we're still here. We're still standing. We're still—"
He kissed her again.
This kiss was different. Slower. Deeper. The urgency was still there—the hunger that had been simmering between them since the first night on this very couch—but it was layered with something new. Something tender. Something that felt like the first page of a book they hadn't written yet.
Victoria's hands slid from his face to his shoulders. His back. The muscles beneath the gray t-shirt were tense, coiled, and she dug her fingers into them. Brock groaned against her mouth. His hips pressed into hers, and she felt him—already hard, already straining against the denim of his jeans.
"The baby," she breathed.
"Is sleeping upstairs." He gestured to the baby monitor.
"He could wake up—"
"Then we'll be quick." His mouth found her neck. His stubble scraped the sensitive skin beneath her ear. "And we'll be quiet."
"Here," she said. "Right here. On this couch."
Brock pulled back. Looked at her. His gray eyes were dark now, the way they always got before he touched her, and Victoria felt the familiar heat bloom between her thighs.
"This couch," he said. "The same couch where—"
"Where this all started. Yes." She reached for the hem of her blouse—a loose cotton shirt, one of Brock's that she'd claimed as her own—and pulled it over her head.
Her breasts spilled forward, larger than they'd been before the pregnancy, the nipples dark and sensitive.
"I want to remember. I want to remind myself how far we've come."
Brock's hands found her waist. His thumbs pressed into the soft flesh above her hips—the flesh that was still tender, still healing, still marked with the faint silver lines of the pregnancy. "Are you sure? Your body is still—"
"My body is fine. Dr. Chen cleared me weeks ago. And I want this." She reached for the button of his jeans. "I want you. I've wanted you since you walked through the door."
"You've wanted me longer than that."
"I've wanted you since the night I sat on this couch and told you my husband couldn't give me a baby." She worked the button open. Dragged the zipper down. "I've wanted you since you put your arm around me and I felt something I hadn't felt in years."
Brock's breath caught as her hand slipped inside his jeans. Found him. Wrapped around him. "Victoria—"
"I've wanted you since I kissed you for the first time. Since I unzipped your pants. Since I took you in my mouth and heard you make that sound—that sound you're making right now."
He was making it now. The low, guttural groan that rumbled through his chest. Victoria stroked him slowly, her thumb circling the head, spreading the moisture that had already gathered at the tip. His hips jerked into her hand.
"You're going to make me cum before we even start," he said.
"No I'm not." She released him and stood up.
She peeled off her shorts. Her underwear followed, and she was bare before him—her body still unfamiliar, still foreign, still carrying the evidence of the life she'd brought into the world.
Her breasts were heavy. Her belly was soft.
The stretch marks on her hips were silver ribbons, permanent reminders of the nine months she'd carried their son.
"God, look at you." Brock's voice was reverent. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
"I'm a mess. My body is—"
"Perfect. Your body is perfect." He sat up. Reached for her. His hands settled on her hips, and he pulled her toward him, and his lips pressed against the curve of her belly. "This body gave me a son. This body survived seventeen hours of labor."
The tears were back. Victoria blinked them away. "You're going to make me cry again."
"Good. Cry. I'll still be here."
He kissed lower.
His lips traced the silver stretch marks—each one a scar, each one a battle wound, each one a reminder of the months she'd spent growing their child. His tongue traced the curve of her hip. His stubble scraped the sensitive skin of her inner thigh.
Victoria's hands found his shoulders. Gripped. "Brock—"
"Let me."
His mouth found her.
The first stroke of his tongue was deliberate, slow—the way he'd learned she liked in the months they'd been together.
Victoria's head fell back. Her fingers dug into his shoulders.
The sensation was overwhelming—the heat of his mouth, the pressure of his tongue, the way he knew exactly where to press and how hard and for how long.
Her thighs trembled. Her knees threatened to buckle. Brock's hands tightened on her hips, holding her steady, and his tongue circled her clit in slow, deliberate strokes that made sparks dance behind her eyes.
"Brock—" His name was a gasp, a prayer, a plea.
He pulled back just long enough to speak. "Lie down."
She checked the baby monitor. BJ was still sleeping peacefully. She lay down.
The couch was warm beneath her back—still warm from where they’d been lying moments ago. Brock positioned himself between her legs, his shoulders spreading her thighs, and then his mouth was on her again.
Brock's tongue was relentless—long strokes followed by quick flicks, patterns she'd taught him and patterns he'd discovered on his own.
His fingers found her entrance. Pressed inside.
Curled upward, finding the spot that made her gasp.
Her moans filled the living room—quiet ones, muffled by the hand she'd pressed over her mouth—and her hips moved in rhythm with his mouth.
"That's it," Brock murmured against her. "Let go. I've got you."
Heat uncoiled low in her belly, a rising current that hollowed out her chest and pulled every thought apart. Victoria's fingers tangled in Brock's hair—what little there was to grip—and she pulled him closer, harder, and the world narrowed to the point where his tongue met her flesh.
"Don't stop. Please don't stop. I'm—"
The climax rolled through her in waves—spasms that clenched her thighs around his head, that arched her back off the couch, that wrung a cry from her throat she couldn't muffle.
Her vision went white at the edges. Her fingers gripped his skull.
And Brock didn't stop—he kept licking, kept stroking, kept drawing the orgasm out until she was trembling and gasping and pushing at his head.
"Too much. Too much—"
He pulled back. His lips were slick, his gray eyes dark. "Good?"
Victoria could barely speak. "Get inside me. Now."
Brock didn't need to be told twice. His jeans were already unbuttoned, already pushed down his hips. He freed himself completely—his cock thick and hard and gleaming at the tip—and positioned himself between her legs. The head pressed against her entrance.
"Wait," Victoria said. "One second."
She reached between them. Found him. Guided him through her folds—still slick, still wet from her orgasm and his mouth. Rubbed the head against her clit, once, twice, and watched his jaw tighten.
"Now."
He pushed inside.
The stretch was exquisite. Victoria's back arched off the couch. Her hands found his shoulders, his back, the flexing muscles of his ass. Her legs wrapped around his waist and pulled him deeper.
"God," Brock breathed. "You feel—every time—"