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"I will."

He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes searching mine.

"Upstairs," he murmurs. "I want you in my bed."

I nod, breathless.

Brock takes my hand and leads me up the staircase, down a hallway, and into a large bedroom.

It's masculine and elegant. A king-sized bed with dark gray bedding. Tall windows overlooking the backyard. A dresser and nightstands in rich, dark wood.

It's his space. His real space.

And he's inviting me into it.

Brock closes the door and turns to face me.

"Come here," he says, his voice low and commanding.

I walk to him, my heart pounding.

He reaches for the hem of my sweater and pauses. "Can I?"

"Yes."

He pulls it over my head slowly, his eyes never leaving mine.

Then my jeans. My bra. My panties.

Until I'm standing naked in front of him, my body trembling.

Brock's gaze travels over me, slow and deliberate, and I see the hunger in his eyes.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he says, his voice rough. "Every inch of you."

I flush, my insecurities rising. "Brock⁠—"

"No," he says, stepping closer. "Don't do that. Don't doubt yourself. Not here. Not with me."

He cups my face, his thumb brushing over my lower lip.

"You're perfect, Megan. And I'm going to spend the rest of the night proving it to you."

And then he's kissing me again, his hands sliding down my body, touching and claiming every curve.

He walks me backward until my legs hit the bed, and then he lays me down gently, his body covering mine.

"Say my name," he murmurs against my throat.

"Brock."

"Again."

"Brock."

His mouth moves lower, kissing and sucking at my breasts, his tongue circling my nipples until I'm arching into him.

"That's it," he murmurs. "Let me hear you."