Uncomfortable of where this conversation was going, I edged away from the coffee table, moving so I was standing in front of it, my back to the TV. “Brock—”
“But I knew that wasn’t the case. I wasn’t a fucking idiot.”
I stiffened.
His hands hung between his knees. “And I wanted to just think of you as someone who was like a baby sister to me.”
“You did. You didn’t once treat me like I was anything other than that.”
“I told you. I couldn’t let myself. You were six years younger than me. Now? Not a big deal. Then? Not to mention jailbait, but your father would’ve murdered me. Hell,” he grunted, a wry grin on his lips. “He still might kill me. You were too young and I was . . . I was too caught up in my own head. All I had were my dreams—be this big UFC star. Get a shit ton of endorsements. Work hard and party fucking harder, and you—”
“I didn’t fit into that,” I said without an ounce of bitterness, because I hadn’t. I’d been a little girl compared to him, full of silly dreams and hopes.
And there was a part of me that still felt like her sometimes. That I could be easily swept off my feet again, sucked back into Brock just when I was finally, finally starting to live my life.
“But I always knew,” he said, lowering his gaze. He let out a ragged breath. “I fucking knew how you felt.”
Crossing my arms across my chest, I shivered. I didn’t know what to make of that confession, what to make of any of this. A huge part of me was in shock. When you’ve spent a good part of your life wanting something and then another decent chunk of your life accepting you’d never have it, to now have it seemingly within reach was hard to comprehend.
I glanced over at him, and my stomach dipped in the most pleasant way. What would it be like to be with him, with our past no longer between us, and just now? My skin flushed with sweet anticipation, but at the same time, a part of me held back.
A part of me wanted to run screaming for the hills.
“I just . . . I really need to think about this. I mean, I don’t even know what you really want, if you just want to get laid—”
“If I wanted to just get laid, I’d already have someone in my bed right now. That would be easy.”
“Wow,” I muttered.
“I’m not saying that to be an ass. It’s true, but I don’t want that. Obviously.” His jaw tightened. “If I just wanted that, I wouldn’t be here.”
I bit down on my lip. “So . . . what are you saying?”
“I’m saying that I want you,” he said. “That is what I want, and I don’t know what’s going to happen. I have no idea, but I’m sure as fuck not going to deny what I feel and want just because it may turn out to be shit.”
Except if it turned out to be shit, we had to face each other every day, and if it turned out to be shit, how would we really move past that a second time? How could I?
Taking a deep breath, Brock rose from my couch and approached me. I eyed him warily as he walked around the coffee table and stopped in front of me. Before I knew what he was doing, he cupped my cheeks in his large hands and tipped my head back.
“Walking out of this apartment is not what I want to be doing.” He lowered his mouth, stopping a hairsbreadth from mine. “What I want to be doing is taking you back to the bedroom, stripping you bare, and fucking every single doubt from your mind.”
Oh goodness.
“But I get it. You’ve got to wrap your head around the way things are now,” he went on. “I’m going to give you that time. All right?”
“Okay,” I whispered back, because what else was I supposed to say? His mouth was so close to mine, and I was absolutely thrown through a loop.
Then Brock kissed me.
Really kissed me.
His mouth came down and his lips moved against mine like he was committing the feel of them to memory. My arms unfolded and somehow my hands were back to his chest. He nipped slightly at my lower lip, startling me. I gasped, and then his tongue slipped through the seam of my mouth.
Now this was a kiss.
Hot. Hard. Wet. His tongue slipped over mine, and he didn’t so much kiss me as he did devour me. The scratch of his beard and the softness of his lips, the prick and satin, was such a heady mixture, dragging a throaty moan out of me.
“Fuck,” he groaned, lifting his mouth. “That sound.”
I couldn’t speak. I opened my eyes and gazed up at him dazedly. I was officially going to count that as our first kiss. Yep. Sounded good.
Brock held my gaze and then he let go of me. “Hardest thing I’m about to do is walk out of here,” he murmured. “Dream of me tonight.”
Then he was gone, walking out of my apartment and closing the door behind him, and I was left standing in the center of my living room, my lips tingling from his kiss and my body a riot of unfulfilled desires.
Go after him.
I started to but stopped, because I . . . I was scared. Truly terrified by what was happening, because I had lived for so long no longer hoping Brock would wake up interested in me, and now he was. On what level and how deep, I had no idea. I wasn’t sure even he knew, but I wanted him—wanted him more than I ever wanted anyone, because I’d always wanted him and he had never wanted me.
Until now.
And what terrified me was the knowledge that if I fell for him again, I would fall deep, and I’d never recover. If I loved him again, I’d be lost forever.
Chapter 22
Sleep had not come easily Saturday night. Not with my body wishing it was still pinned between Brock’s hard body and the wall. My mind would not shut down.