“Yeah,” I whispered.

The pounding got faster, harder, his hands jerking my hips back to meet each one.

“Hurry, baby,” he semirepeated, his voice now hoarse but he didn’t have to say it. I was hurrying, so much, I’d hurried and it was on me.

“Brock,” I breathed, then gasped, then moaned, back arching to the bed, ass to the ceiling as it thundered through me.

“Fuck yeah,” he grunted, going deeper, harder, faster, five thrusts then he was there, joining me.

When we were coming down, silently and gently, he moved in and out and, silently and happily, I let him and enjoyed every stroke.

After a while, he pulled out. His hands glided down my sides and in, pulling me up in front of him until I was on my knees, my back pressed to his front. His fingers fisted in the little, slinky, sexy dress that Brock liked, like, a lot, that was bunched at my waist and he pulled it up. I lifted my arms for him. He yanked it free and tossed it to the side of the bed.

His face went into my neck as his hands roamed my body and, against my skin, he murmured, “Love you, baby.”

I lifted an arm to glide my fingers in his hair and whispered back, “Love you too, Brock.”

Carefully, he turned me and deposited me on my back in the bed and then turned his attention to the strappy, high-heeled sandals I still wore. One by one, he unbuckled them and they joined my dress on the floor. But after each one he kissed the inside of my ankle.

Once he was done, he moved his body to cover mine and I moved my legs to surround him, one around his ass, one I curved around the back of his thigh and I did this as my arms circled him, holding tight.

Brock put some weight into his forearm but his other hand came to my face and he traced it with his fingertips while I traced his with my eyes.

“You know,” I whispered and his silvery-gray eyes came to mine. “The first time we were together, after you made me come, I looked at you and my first thought was how beautiful you were.”

His fingers stopped moving, his eyes closed, and his forehead came to mine and when he groaned, “Tess,” I knew it came from his gut because I felt it in mine.

My fingers slid into his hair and my lips went to his cheek. I moved them across, lifting my head and, in his ear, I kept whispering.

“And the way you were looking at me, I knew in my blood you were mine.”

“You were right, sweetness,” he whispered back.

Then he kissed my neck, lifted his head again. I dropped mine and both my arms gave him a squeeze.

“Thanks for drinking champagne with me.”