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Because something is very clear suddenly.
Something that I don’t want to admit to myself.
That maybe the reason I didn’t cross that bridge isn’t so brave and noble as I thought.
Maybe I was stopped by that same whisper from the depths of my soul.
That whisper which said, “Stay.”
Stay with him.
And now a sob bursts out of me. Just one solitary sob, but a choking gasping desperate sob that threatens to break me into a quivering heaving bawling mess of a woman. Somehow I manage to hold it in, but obviously not well enough, because through the closed door comes his voice.
“I’m here, Yolanda,” says Brock through the closed door, like he’s been right up against it on the other side, his heart listening to mine. “And I'll stay here.”
Did he hear my heart whisper, “Stay?”
“I’ll stay right outside the room while you’re bathing, all right?” he says again gently through the door. “Nobody’s going to walk in on you. Especially not me. You’re safe with me, Yolanda. All that stuff about owning you was just . . . teasing.”
Brock hesitates at the end of the sentence, making me wonder whether he’s lying.
Then I remember something the loathsome Kazi said.
Something about how a man’s cock doesn’t lie.
How it can’t lie.
And if that’s true, what was Brock’s big hard cock saying when it entered me, drove in deep and hard, claimed every corner, filled every space?
Does a woman’s pussy have the same truth-telling properties, I wonder now as a strange smile lights up my face even as a strange tightness clenches my sex.
And if that’s true, what was my throbbing pulsing pussy saying with those violent climaxes, when I came like a squirting spitting gasping gaping woman in heat, a woman in season, a woman in . . . love.
“Damn it, Brock!” comes the sudden wail, and now those barriers burst open and I crumple to the carpet as the sobs erupt like little explosions in my chest, making me heave and gasp, squeal and sputter as my mind unravels and my strength gives out and the emotions come cascading down like rain in a storm, hammering me like hail, suffocating me like snow. “Oh, damn it, damn it, damn it, Brock!”
Now I feel the bedroom door open against my sprawled sobbing body, and Brock’s gently rolling me over so he can squeeze through the half-open door. And then he’s on the carpet beside me, pulling my wrenching sobbing body against his, stroking my hair, kissing my forehead, whispering against my cheek, words I can barely hear through my wailing cries but whose meaning I can feel in my heart.
“I do love you, Yolanda,” he’s whispering with feverish urgency into my hair, his embrace so tight I can barely breathe. “Fuck, I know it’s crazy, I know I shouldn’t say it when you’re vulnerable like this, when you’re emotionally exposed like this. But there’s no way this isn’t love. Not when it feels like this. Not when I’m ready to die for you, kill for you, burn for you, break for you.” He gulps back what sounds like a thickness in his throat. “And letting you off my bike at the border almost did break me, Yolanda. Just like feeling you mount up behind me again was like coming home. Yeah, that’s what it felt like, baby. Like coming home. Like you’re my home, you know what I mean? Like home is a feeling, not a place. A feeling of belonging. You and me, Yolanda, we belong, we fucking belong.”
“We . . . we belong,” I manage to repeat through heaving sobs into his warm chest, my fists curled between our bodies as his strong arms wrap me tighter than a vise, warmer than a blanket, safer than a vault. “We belong. Together. You to me and I to you. I feel it too, Brock. Oh, I feel it too.”
The feeling overwhelms me as I snuggle into Brock’s big warm body. He smells of whiskey and leather, gunsmoke and gasoline, sex and salvation, always and forever. Now he kisses my lips, gently at first, then harder as my lips part beneath his mouth, my sobs smothered by his love, my fear squashed by his embrace.
Another kiss and I feel Brock leave my side. Through tear-blurred vision I see him going to the bathroom, sliding open the shower curtain, reaching into the tub and turning on the faucets. He tests the water temperature, adjusting the knobs until he’s satisfied.
Steam rises as the tub begins to fill, and when Brock adds some lavender-scented suds to the water, I feel my body relax to the point where I’m totally limp like a rag-doll, completely exhausted from the stress of the past few days, my brain finally sending the signal that I’m safe and can let my guard down, lower my defenses, fall apart and let him put me back together.
Now Brock is back, and before I understand what’s happening he’s lifted me clean off the carpet like I really am that little doll. I’ve never been carried like this in my adult life, not even that often as a kid. It feels like I’m floating, like I’m weightless as a cloud, light as a breeze, carried through the air by some mythical hero with incredible strength and immaculate grace.
“Tell me if it’s too hot,” Brock says as he lowers me towards the steamy sudsy lavender-scented bubbles that giggle and gurgle as I dip my filthy little toes into the water.
“Ohmygod, it’s perfect,” I murmur through a lazy smile. “It’s perfect, Brock.”
“Good,” says Brock, and now he lowers me into the water, sundress still clinging to my skin, like even though he’s been inside me, fucked me on a tabletop, come inside me until I dripped his seed all over the place, there’s a part of this rough biker that’s careful to preserve my modesty, allow me my dignity, like he won’t undress me until I’m concealed beneath the sudsy bubbles, protected by the lavender steam. “There we go, baby. Arms up so I can take this filthy dress off. Come on, arms up.”
I stick my arms up above the water like a girl in a swimming pool as Brock pulls my dress off over my head and tosses it over his shoulder. My bra goes next, and immediately the warm water envelopes my body, sucking me down into its comfortable depths as I groan with pleasure, moan with relief, sigh with satisfaction.
“Lean your head back and close your eyes,” Brock whispers through the clouds of sweet-scented steam. “Keep them closed.”
