Page 68
Inside the suite—a different one this time, larger and more elegant—he sets me down gently, his hands sliding to my waist. The room is warm and softly lit, and when Brock looks at me, the heat in his eyes makes my breath catch.
"I've been thinking about this all day," he murmurs, his fingers finding the zipper at the back of my dress. "About getting you alone."
"I'm already yours," I whisper.
"Not like this." He pulls the zipper down slowly, his knuckles brushing my spine. "Not as my wife."
The dress slides off my shoulders and pools at my feet, leaving me in white lace lingerie. Brock's gaze travels over me, possessive and hungry, and he reaches out to trace the edge of the lace at my hip.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he says, his voice rough.
He pulls me against him, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that's deep and claiming. Then he lifts me, carrying me to the bed, and lays me down with a gentleness that makes my chest ache. He strips off his suit jacket, his tie, his shirt, revealing the powerful body I've memorized over the past months.
When he settles over me, his weight pressing me into the mattress, I feel safe and wanted and completely his.
"I love you," he murmurs, his hands sliding up my thighs.
"I love you too."
He hooks his fingers into my panties and pulls them down, tossing them aside. Then his hand is between my thighs, his fingers sliding through my wetness, and I gasp.
"Already so wet for me," he says, his voice full of satisfaction.
"Brock, please—"
"I know, baby." He positions himself at my entrance, his cock hard and ready. "I've got you."
He pushes inside me slowly, and the feel of him—thick and deep and perfect—makes me cry out. Brock groans, his forehead dropping to mine, and for a moment we just stay like that, connected and complete.
He starts to move, slow and deep, his hips rolling against mine. Every thrust is deliberate, possessive, claiming me in ways that go beyond the physical. His hand slides between us, his thumb finding my clit, and I arch into him.
"That's it," he murmurs. "Let me feel you."
The combination of his words, his touch, the feel of him inside me—it's too much. I shatter, my body clenching around him, and Brock groans, his movements becoming harder, faster.
"Fuck, Megan," he gasps.
He comes with a shudder, his body going taut above me, and then he collapses, careful not to crush me, his face buried in my neck.
We lie there for a long time, tangled together, our breathing gradually slowing. Finally, Brock rolls onto his back and pulls me against his side, my head resting on his chest.
"I'm going to spend the rest of my life making you happy," he says quietly.
"You already do," I whisper.
We spend five days in the Bahamas, and it's perfect. White sand beaches, turquoise water, and long afternoons where we do nothing but lie in the sun and talk about our future. We swim in the ocean, eat fresh seafood at beachside restaurants, and make love with the windows open, the sound of waves drifting through the room.
On our last night, we walk along the beach at sunset, my hand in Brock's, and I feel completely at peace.
"Thank you for this," I say.
He stops, turning to face me, his hands framing my face. "Thank you for saying yes. For choosing me. For becoming my wife."
I rise on my toes and kiss him, tasting salt and sunscreen and happiness.
When we walk through the terminal doors after our flight from the Bahamas, Brock’s parents are waiting near baggage claim with Kayla. The moment she spots us through the crowd, she takes off running, her face bright with excitement.
"You're back!" she shouts, throwing her arms around Brock's waist.
