Something I couldn’t decipher flickered across his face. “You love me?”
“Yes.” I swallowed hard. “I loved you when I was eight. I loved you when I was twelve. I loved you when I was twenty, and I . . . I love you now.”
Brock rose. “If you loved me all those times and love me now, then why haven’t you asked me what I was thinking the first time I saw you at the restaurant? Why don’t you ask me what I was feeling when I realized you were going out with that guy again? Ask me what it was like when I woke up the first time with you in my arms? Why not ask me how I felt the first time we kissed?”
A tremble coursed through me as he took a step forward. “You could’ve asked me what it was like the first time I got inside you and every time after that. If you loved me all this time, then why haven’t you asked me if I loved you?”
Air punched out of my lungs as what he said settled over me like warmed silk.
He stopped a few feet in front of me. “I don’t bring up Kristen because that part of my life is way over. The things that happened with her are a part of the past. They have no impact on anything that I do now and she sure as fuck has nothing to do with us. That might sound cold and cruel as fuck, but it’s the truth. And you’re right. I should’ve told you that she’d been calling and texting me. Then we could’ve talked and you would’ve been prepared for the kind of shit she was about to dump on you. I am sorry for that, because that’s my fuck-up.”
My fingers eased on the ends of the cardigan.
“I’m going to address the whole me feeling guilty over Kristen losing the baby. Did it upset me? Yes, it did. Did I feel bad for her—for her having to go through that when I wasn’t even there? Because I wasn’t. I was at a match in Australia when it happened. That I felt guilty over. Because I should’ve been there when she had to go through that, but I don’t feel responsible for her losing the baby. I don’t know what she told you to back that up—”
“She said you two were arguing often and that she was upset with you not being around.”
A dry, humorless laugh broke the silence. “Maybe she thinks it’s my fault. We weren’t fighting bad. Just normal shit. Hell, who knows, but contrary to popular belief, I don’t go looking for things to feel like shit over.”
I let go of the cardigan and lowered my arms.
“And this whole I’m with you out of guilt?” His lips pressed into a thin, hard line. “I can’t deny that guilt had eaten me up, and sometimes, there are moments where it still does. I know you don’t blame me. There was a time where I wished you did, but I’m damn glad now that you don’t. But for you to think that I’d get this involved with you because of that?” Brock stopped and closed his eyes, almost as if he couldn’t continue, and I knew—I knew right then—that I had hurt him. I’d hurt this man who was so strong, both physically and mentally. I had wounded him with my doubt.
A bitter knot formed in the back of my throat, and I drew in a shallow breath. “What . . . what were you thinking when you first saw me in the restaurant?”
His lashes lifted. “I was thinking that I was glad I sought you out. I was thinking that you looked more beautiful than I could’ve possibly ever imagined. And I was thinking . . . I was thinking that even though it was risky approaching you and having you figure out why I was there, I just had to hear your voice.”
The next breath I took was shaky. “What were you thinking when I said I was going out with Grady again?”
Brock’s lip twitched. “I wanted to punch my fist through a wall.”
“How did . . . you feel when you woke up with me?” I asked, my voice hoarse.
“Calmer than I’ve felt in fucking years,” he said, his eyes warming. “Like I was waking up and I was home.”
Oh.
Oh God.
My eyes blurred. “When you kissed me? And when you were finally with me?”
“Felt like it was the first time and the best and the last time.” He took one more step, and with his long legs, he was right in front me. I tilted my head up, and he slowly lifted his hands, cupping my cheeks. “I think there is one more question you need to ask me.”
The lines of his face faded as tears filled my eyes. “Do you . . . do you love me?”
“I love you . . .” He lowered his forehead to mine, and a shudder rolled through me. “I love you like I wish I allowed myself to when we were younger. I love you because you’re not just sweet but you’re kind. I love you because you have this fire in you that you don’t even recognize, but I do. You’re strong and you’re a survivor.”
A tear slipped down my cheek, and he chased it with his thumb. I couldn’t speak. If I tried, I knew I’d start sobbing. Hearing him say these words, these beautiful words, weren’t even from my wildest dreams. My heart swelled like a levee about to break. I wanted to laugh and cry. I wanted to dance and I wanted to hold him.
He loves me.
“There is not a single part of how I love you that has anything to do with guilt.” He dragged his thumbs along my cheeks, catching another tear. “And I’m in love with you and I’ve never felt this way for anyone. You’re my first,” he said, pressing his lips to the deep scar in my left cheek. “You will be my only.”
Brock kissed the left corner of my lips and then he tipped his head, kissing the right side of my jaw. “I love you, Jillian.”
I was beyond words.
Clutching his shoulders, I turned my head, blindingly finding his mouth, and from there, everything spun beautifully out of control. My shirt came off. His sweater joined it on the floor. One after another, items of clothing fell away until there was nothing between us.
His hands flexed on my hips and in one powerful move, he lifted me up and had me on my back. I took a startled breath and then he was hovering over me, caging me in with his arms and his body.
Brock swooped down, claiming my lips in a feverish kiss that was full of so much love and passion. My heart fluttered unsteadily as molten lava coursed through my veins. “I love you,” I said to him, cupping his cheeks and dragging his gaze to mine. “I will never stop loving you.”
“You’ve never stopped.”
Then there were no words. All communication was through lips and teeth, tongue and hands. He nipped at my breasts and suckled deeply as he trailed a fiery path of hot kisses down my stomach and below my navel, and he still went lower. He licked every inch of my skin and every breathy moan he drew out from me was an expression of love.
Intense heat built, turning into a glorious ache. Lust and love spread throughout me, and when his mouth closed over the tight knot of nerves, I screamed his name. My head fell back as his fingers plunged deep inside me. He worked me up and took me over the edge.
I was coming when he rose above me once more and planted himself deep, delving into my mouth with his tongue, and he thrust his hips against me almost savagely. I bucked under him, grasping his straining arms as I wrapped my legs around him.
As he moved, I no longer knew where I began and he ended.
My head thrashed as he thrust in and out, in and out, his mouth leaving mine so his hot breath panted in my ear. We were fucking. We were making love. Grinding his hips, he reached between us, and the tension spun tightly. Pressure built, and then it happened. I came again in a burst just as powerful and beautiful as the first. Tight, sensual spasms rocked my body as Brock’s thrusts lost all rhythm. He moved so fast and so hard, pushing me across the bed. The thump of the bed against the wall filled the bedroom.
“I love you,” he said, and then he was falling over the edge, surrendering to the bliss still echoing through my veins.
Skin slick with moisture, we held each other as the minutes ticked by. I don’t know how long we stayed like that before he eased out of me and onto his side. He brought me with him, circling his arms around me and holding me so I was facing him, holding me in a way that said he was never going to let me go.
Brock kissed me in a way he never had before. At least that was how it felt.
He kissed me slowly, tenderly, and so deeply that tears rose.
Love.
This kiss was what love felt like.
* * *
Long after our bodies stopped moving and our hearts slowed, I lay awake beside a sleeping Brock, replaying his words over and over again. A crooked smile was probably permanently fixed to my face, and I didn’t care. There was so much Brock had said to me that had brought that smile to my face. The fact he loved me was a big reason. Duh. But there was something else.
He’d said I had fire in me.
Hearing that and knowing he believed that meant that I had come so, so far from the Jillian he’d grown up with.
I was loved.
And I had fire in me.
Both were important and amazing, but the latter . . . God, it meant everything.
Because from the moment I decided to take the job at the Lima Academy, I’d been changing. Even before that. The process had been slow and painful at times, but the realization that I wanted to live differently, wanted to take more risks and experience life, had started before Brock reappeared. His presence had aided in the process, but it hadn’t been him.
It had been me.
Some people were born with fire in them. They burned intensely bright, full of fiery drive and ambition for everything and everyone, but never fully committing one hundred percent to any one thing. They have that fire, but they burn out halfway through life, forever dwelling on what should have been and never what could have been.
Others have the same kind of fire in them from the start, their hunger and determination to succeed the cornerstone of every decision and choice they make. Their flame may flicker, but it never goes out. They never focus on what they should have in life, but focus on what they could have.
Then there were people who didn’t realize they had that fire, that it lay kindled inside them, needing to be stoked into flame. I never would’ve believed that I had that fire, but I did, and sometimes it would flicker and fade and other times it would rage and burn.
But it would never be extinguished.
Never.
I looked down at Brock, soaking in his beautiful face and stunning body. He was more than all of that, so much more. Brock was intelligent and he too was a survivor. He was a good-hearted man and loyal, and when he cared, he did care deeply. That was why he felt remorse and regret. Those things weren’t obligations. That was where Kristen had been wrong about us—about them.
And I’d been wrong to ever doubt him.
There was a part of me that wanted to search Kristen down and either smack her upside the head or explain in great detail about how wrong she was. Or do both of those things. But . . . why? Why waste one more second of my life on something or someone who was living in the past? I’d done that for far too many years, and I wasn’t going to do it for one more second.
Lowering my head, I kissed the medallion I’d bought him so long ago, the necklace I’d planned to give him that night. The one he wore every day. Then I lifted my lips to Brock’s and kissed him once more. I was rewarded with a sleepy little half-smile.
There were no more yesterdays.
There was only today.
There was only tomorrow.
‘The inner fire is the most important thing mankind possesses.’
—Edith Södergran
Fire In You: Volume Six (Wait for You Series) Page 31