He gave it to her. Sliding out gently, he watched her lips part, her eyelids get soft, that sexy-as-hell look that communicated both pleasure and disappointment at losing him being the second best part of fucking her (or the third, maybe the fourth, though it could be the fifth). Then he gave her what she wanted and rolled them so he was on his back and she was on top.

She placed a forearm in his chest, her other hand at his neck under his jaw, and suddenly her face got serious.

“What?” he whispered. Her eyes slid from her hand at his jaw to his, she tipped her head to the side, and she gave him more of her weight, her soft flesh pressing into his.

“When you came back,” she started, her voice soft, “after what went down with you and me with you investigating Damian…” She trailed off, then started again, “When you came back, later, when I was at the shower and I confessed to Martha about everything that went down, well, you know, honey, she wasn’t your biggest fan back then.”

His hands, which were spanning her hips, slid down to cup her ass.

“I know.”

Her lips tipped up in a small grin. “Well, she said I had my head in the sand. She said most women would take one look at you and know you were fun to play with but you weren’t the one for the long haul. But me, she said I took one look at you and had visions of white picket fences and making you birthday cakes until the day you die.”

She swallowed, the smile died, and her eyes grew bright.

Brock held his breath, his fingers clenching into her ass and he waited.

“She was wrong,” Tess whispered. “I was right.” She drew in a breath through her nose, dipped her face closer, and the pads of her fingers dug into his neck when she finished. “We don’t have a white picket fence, baby, but I’m going to bake you birthday cakes until the day you die.”

He let out the breath he was holding, the burn in his lungs moving to become warmth in his gut.

His hands sliding from her ass up her back, one arm curving around, the other one going up her spine, her neck so he could sift his fingers in her hair as he whispered, “Sweetness.”

“I’m glad it’s me who gets to bake your birthday cakes.”

He was happy she was glad but he reckoned he was a fuck of a lot happier he had Tess making his cakes and not just because they were the best fucking things he’d ever tasted.

He closed his eyes, shoved his face in her neck, and rolled her to back, groaning, “Tess.”

“My Brock,” she whispered, her lips at his ear, her limbs moving to grow tight around him. “He’s not so wild.”