He shook his head.
“A part of me kind of figured that doing this would help me atone for what happened eight years ago. But the pain still lingers.”
He sighed. I put my hand on his leg and squeezed gently.
“And yet, I still have hope. I finally feel like I can be someone and not fuck it up. I feel like I can be something to this town, that I don’t have to be a gas station attendant who occasionally fights bad guys.”
Brock’s voice was picking up. It was a lovely thing to hear.
“And I think I’m realizing I can’t do it alone. I’ve tried in spots, but every time I tried to do it alone, I fail. But with Cole’s help, with the boys’ help—”
“Not the boys,” I said. “The Black Reapers.”
Brock beamed with pride.
“I really hope you all stick with that name,” I said. “The Bernard Boys name was so childish. Black Reapers sounds so badass!”
“It does,” Brock said as if trying on the name for the first time. “It does, doesn’t it? It’s fucking cool. And yeah. I guess… I guess you could say we’re growing up.”
I leaned in and hugged Brock, cooing with delight. Growing up didn’t happen overnight, and I wasn’t exactly one to talk; as of tonight, I still lived at my parents’ house, though at least that would change soon. But we were all maturing. We were all better understanding ourselves and what we could do.
And it was no surprise to me that the man leading the charge was Brock.
“What did they make you in the club?” I said. “Did they make you president?”
Brock couldn’t contain the grin that practically forced his lips up.
“I knew it! I knew it! I told you they all take after you!”
“You were right.”
“Cheers to that, Brock Noelle,” I said, clinking glasses with him—something that didn’t sound quite as good with plastic, but it barely diminished the moment. “You can make a difference. And you know what?”
“What?”
I couldn’t help myself.
“You better have me along for the journey,” I said. “If I can’t be associated with the club, I want to be associated with you.”
It was all Brock needed to hear. It was all I had needed to say.
He leaned forward, kissed me, and slowly pushed me to the couch. I nearly spilled my wine before I got it on the coffee table in front of me, though somehow I doubt Brock would have cared that much if I spilled it. Brock almost tossed his glass of wine over; it was more luck than skill that it didn’t spill to the ground.
But thoughts of wine were almost instantly replaced by the touch and weight of Brock on my body. I needed him, but the need differed from before. I guess you could say it was almost a more mature version of needing him.
Instead of just needing sex with him, needing his cock, I needed all of him. I needed his presence. I needed his vigor, his courage, and his spunk with me. It would be here in the form of passionate sex, but it wouldn’t stop here.
Hopefully, it would never stop at all.
He moved from kissing my lips to kissing my neck. I moaned his name softly, wrapping my legs around him and feeling his cock press against his jeans. I reached down under his shirt and scratched and grabbed at his back. I had so much tension built up, so much desire…but also so much love. I had to have him naked, had to have him be one with me.
He quickly stood up, grabbed my hand, and walked with me to the bedroom, merely a temporary pause in what was to happen. As soon as we were back on the bed, we were back to taking off clothes. In a matter of seconds, I went from having on a button-down shirt and slacks to black underwear. It was unsexy underwear, given I wore it for work, but Brock had a way of looking at me that made me feel like the sexiest person in the world.
“Wait,” I said.
The man had saved my life. The least I could do was let him have some fun first.
“Lie on your back,” I said.
