Can't Get Enough

by Gena Showalter

  How could she trust him fully as he hoped when some unknown thing stood between them? Then again, why should he bother sharing his past with a temporary wife? An arrangement she had wholeheartedly supported and did wholeheartedly support. She had no right to complain about his right to protect himself.

  Then he surprised her, saying, "In the military, I was part of a unit of ten. We were sent on the most dangerous missions. Adrenaline was always high, our minds telling us everything that could go wrong, the friends we could lose. Afterward, we had to deal with the things we'd seen and done. I imagine life was the same for you. Never a moment of peace."

  Yes. Exactly. "You are so brave," she said, shifting again to rest her head against his shoulder.

  He tensed. "Brave? Not...violent?"

  "Well, I'm sure you had to get violent. You were part of a war."

  "And that doesn't frighten you? Make you want to leave me?"

  He worried she would want to leave him because of the things he'd done for the Army? "Of course not."

  Some of the tension left him, only to return in a blink, as if he wanted to believe her but couldn't. "When you called me brave... I think I detected a note of envy in your tone. Scottie, you are braver than you think. After everything you've endured over the years, you still decided to take a chance on me in order to live your dream."

  Kind words but a far too generous sentiment. Not only had she had a panic attack in front of her new husband, she'd acted cowardly well before it. While Brock had rushed headfirst into danger, she'd stayed safe behind a closed door. As usual. Besides, could any woman refuse this man anything?

  "I would have liked to meet your brother," she said, directing focus away from her.

  "He isn't worth meeting."

  She waited for him to say more. This time he didn't. "I'm sorry. People never change, I suppose."

  "No," he said, his tone flat. "I suppose they don't." He cleared his throat. "You're tired. I'm tired. We should probably go to bed."

  "Um, yes. Of course." Why so abrupt now?

  "Good night, Red." He kissed her forehead.

  "Good night, Hugsy."

  He hesitated only a moment before setting her aside, standing and stalking from the room. Leaving her alone. The way she claimed she wanted to be. But already Lyndie mourned the loss of him. Not just his strength and his calming presence--but him. The man.

  The husband she hadn't wanted but now craved with every fiber of her being.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Brock sealed himself in the guest room and stretched out on the bed. His mind refused to settle as he stared up at the ceiling.

  He had no idea how he'd managed to suppress his own panic at finding Lyndie in such poor condition, struggling to breathe, her skin chalk white, her pupils fully dilated. No woman should have to fight such all-consuming fear.

  Seeing his wife so...so broken had nearly proved to be Brock's undoing. He'd wanted to beat Braydon for triggering such a reaction in her. He'd also wanted to exhume Lyndie's father and ex and somehow make them deader.

  Brock was glad he'd found the strength to leave her bedroom.

  Desire her too strongly, too desperately--too quickly.

  Deep down, he'd never wanted to let go. If he didn't find a way to pump the brakes, he would become attached. Then he would crash and burn during the divorce. There was only one way to pump the brakes though. He'd have to put a little emotional distance between them.

  Better to be proactive than full of regret, right? But every cell in his body shouted: This is wrong! Drawing back would be a coward's move.

  He punched the pillows behind him. Lyndie thought he was brave. So, he would be brave. No way he would willingly turn her into a liar. What's more, he had an opportunity to experience heaven on earth for the first time in his life. Why end it before it had even begun?

  An idea struck, sparking anticipation. Why not do the exact opposite of what fear demanded? Why not draw closer?

  When the time came, he would take Lyndie in every sexual position known to man. Maybe a few they'd have to invent. He would spend more time curled up with her, talking and laughing, even sharing. He would taste the very family life his friends were now enjoying, even temporarily.

  And he could. As long as he put the work in.

  Tomorrow Brock would begin to romance his wife. He would wake up early, cook her a big breakfast. He would take her anywhere she wanted to go, do anything she wanted to do. Compliments would abound. If she wanted to know more about his past, he would share...some, only some.

  Eagerness joined the anticipation, and he smiled. As he'd told her earlier, a new day meant a new chance to get things right.

  He would not fail.

  *

  Lyndie tossed and turned, alone in her bedroom. She took off her ring, but an hour later put it back on. Argh! At some point she got up to collect the cats. They'd slept with her since their adoption, and they would continue to do so despite her change in relationship status.

  Except, both Cameow and Mega jumped down, preferring to curl up on the floor rather than deal with the bouncing mattress as Lyndie continued to toss and turn. Ugh! Why did she continue to miss Brock, as if she'd already gotten used to having him around? As if she needed to have him around?

  When the first rays of morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, she sprang out of bed to shower and dress in a pair of jeans and her brand-new Halloween T-shirt with a picture of Cameow and Mega dressed as a princess and a pea. Though Lyndie hadn't had the felines long--only a few months--and though this would be their first Halloween together, she'd posed them in early September in order to have the T-shirt made.

  Yes. She was one of those. A proud cat mom.

  Last night, before Braydon Hudson's untimely interruption, Brock had looked at her with intense desire, admiration, and maybe even a tinge of adoration. How would he look at her now? He'd left her bedroom so abruptly.

  Had she done something wrong? Should she apologize?

  Dang it, why did she care about his opinion? Hadn't she refused to travel this road with him? Humans might have been made to have partners, but it wasn't a requirement for happiness. And really, Lyndie wasn't alone. She had Ryanne and Dorothea. Soon she would have her baby.

  But okay. Time to get serious about keeping her heart free of Brock's influence. Starting today, she had a new motto: be a fembot. All sex appeal, zero emotion.

  There'd be no getting used to having Brock around. No craving him for an entire night. No sinking back into old habits, making sure the man in her life was happy every second of every day.

  When the time came--Ovulation O'clock--they would have sex, and they would keep having sex until she started her period, conceived, or their marriage ended. When they parted, their relationship would remain cordial. Seeing each other at functions wouldn't agonize her.

  She might become a mother, but he would definitely revert to his man-whorish ways.

  Seeing the father of her child with other women would be no big thing.

  Motions jerky, Lyndie swiped up her purse, dug out her keys and marched down the hall, through the living room. The scent of bacon saturated the air, and her mouth watered. Brock was cooking breakfast?

  For himself? For her?

  Guilt pricked her. She would not apologize to him. And she would not eat, and she would not feel guilty about it or anything. Nope. Not even a little. She would treat this Monday like any other. Well, like any Monday she didn't have to go to work. She would...what? Run errands. Yes. The perfect distraction.

  Except she had no errands to run. With the wedding over and done, her plate was cleared. Oh! She'd go to the animal shelter in the city, walk the dogs and pet the cats, and use the time to streamline her wayward...everything.

  Head high, feet feeling as if they were on fire, she turned off the alarm and exited the house. On the porch, however, she paused. A storm brewed, the sky black, blue, and gray, as if the massive expanse had been bruised. Gusting winds se
emed to carry shards of ice, causing her teeth to chatter. She'd forgotten a coat. Oh, well. No way she'd go back inside.

  As she was sliding into her little sedan, the front door banged opened and closed, and harried footsteps pounded on the porch.

  "Scottie."

  Heart racing like a jet during turbulence, she turned to face him. Fembot, baby! Tough as nails.

  He stopped a few feet away, his short dark hair sticking out in spikes. The chaotic mess looked good on him. Danged good. His eyelids were hooded, his features roughed by sleep. He looked confused, hopeful, and boyish, like a kid at Christmas, ready to unwrap his present.

  Despite the frigid breeze, he was shirtless, wearing only black boxer briefs, his bronzed eight-pack on spectacular display. His feet were bare. And oh, wow, he was even more gorgeous than she'd realized--and she'd already realized he was pretty danged gorgeous.

  Okay. It's official. I'm about as tough as a wet noodle.

  Last night she hadn't gotten a good look at him, had been too caught up in the moment. Too frenzied with need. Now? She had a view of pure masculine aggression, and she loved it. Even in his underwear--especially in his underwear--Brock was wildly, wonderfully savage, unpredictable, and absolutely, utterly sovereign over the five acres of land surrounding him. Some sections were heavily treed, others flat and sandy, but all of it was untamed.

  The landscape loved him too.

  And oh, WOW. Brock had just looked her up and down, giving her the same thorough perusal she'd given him. Slowly, almost languidly, as if he'd taken the time to mentally strip her out of her clothes.

  Now he knew what waited beneath...

  Her nipples puckered--the traitors--and she couldn't blame the cold. The blazing heat in his eyes warmed up her, even made her sweat a little bit.

  Lyndie gulped and, needing a moment to regroup, looked away. She spotted Mrs. Abramowitz, her neighbor from across the street. Mrs. Abramowitz was in the process of leading one of her mini donkeys to a pen. As soon as she caught sight of the half-naked Brock, she stopped to gawk.

  I know the feeling, Mrs. A.

  "Where are you going?" The boyish hope in his eyes darkened to devastation. "Without leaving a note. Or saying goodbye."

  Devastation? Somehow, she'd crushed this big, strong male.

  For the best. Fembot, remember? Despite the guilt agitating her stomach, she jutted out her chin and said, "I have things to do and people to see."

  "We can do them together."

  "I want to do them alone."

  "This is your honeymoon," he said, his eyes narrowing.

  A tremor of fear worked through her, a survival instinct ingrained in her. But she lifted her head and stood her ground. "I think we'll survive spending a few hours apart." We must! I must.

  He scrubbed a hand over his face before handing over an envelope she hadn't noticed, too caught up in him. "There's a check inside. For the shelter."

  A check? This man...he was too good to be true. She'd thought it before, but she knew it now. At some point, something had to give.

  Still, she felt like crap for bailing on him. "Thank you, Brock."

  He did not acknowledge her words. "My mother and brother are staying at the Strawberry Inn. If you spot them, do not engage. Just...call me. Please. I'm not commanding or trying to control you, I'm just asking. I want you safe. Same deal with Rick Lambert. I've got a man tailing him now, with orders to step in if necessary, so Lambert shouldn't be a problem." Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his bare heel and stalked inside the house.

  Lyndie waited, frozen, brimming with the desire to go after him but determined to stay put.

  He glanced over his shoulder, leveling her with a look of seething disappointment.

  A sudden realization exploded inside her head: Brock was obviously upset with her, and yet he'd walked away. Without lashing out.

  He deserved more than an apology, but right now, they'd both have to settle for words.

  "I'm sorry," she blurted out. When he stilled, the muscles in his back all knotted up, she continued. "I'm sorry I wasn't--that I'm not--I'm sorry I'm not as brave as you think I am. Sorry you don't have a wife like Jude and Daniel, who go after the things they want."

  He was frowning as he faced her. "What do you want?"

  "I don't... I don't know." To be alone, but also to be together. She was being pulled in two different directions!

  He inhaled deeply, exhaled sharply. "All right. We'll pick up the what do you want conversation at another time. For now, you see yourself as...what? A coward? That's why you're upset this morning?"

  One of the reasons. "You risked your life for mine, but I did nothing for you."

  Tension drained from him as he searched her face. "Sweetheart, it's not cowardly to stay in a safe room when someone breaks into your home. It's smart."

  After swallowing the lump growing in her throat, she said, "I didn't go into the safe room. I just stayed behind a closed door. But not you. You headed straight into danger."

  "I never said I was smart."

  An unexpected laugh burst from her. Eyes widened, she covered her mouth with her hand.

  Gaze locked on her, he closed the distance a second time and backed her up against the car. "I thought you were leaving because you were afraid I'd hurt you."

  "Afraid of you physically? I'm not. Well, not most of the time. Every so often, old fears try to rise, but they have nothing to do with you. Logically, I understand that."

  A heavy weight seemed to lift from his shoulders--shoulders used to being crushed? "I'm glad," he said.

  Warm, minty breath fanned her face. He'd recently brushed his teeth, yet he'd chased after her so quickly he hadn't had time to dress. How long had he been awake?

  His body heat enveloped her. So did the scent of cinnamon and vanilla.

  Quivers ignited in her belly, tremors in her limbs. Her gaze remained locked with his as she began to pant. "Guess what? You survived your first night of married life, even though tab A never made it inside slot B."

  "And some people say miracles never happen." His pupils dilated, black swallowing green. He stared at her lips as if they held the secrets of the universe. "I'd kiss you goodbye, but I'm pretty sure Mrs. Abramowitz would have a heart attack."

  He'd never moved his gaze from Lyndie, yet still he'd noticed their audience? "Forget Mrs. Abramowitz. I'd have a heart attack."

  "No sudden-onset medical conditions for you, ever." He kissed the tip of her nose. "Have fun, and make sure you spend our money. On lingerie."

  "Sure thing." She batted her lashes innocently. "What size thong should I buy you?"

  He snorted. "You want your man to wear butt floss, he'll wear butt floss. Extra large." With a wink, he headed back inside the house.

  Feeling as if a heavy weight had lifted from her shoulders, Lyndie finally slid into the car. Thunder boomed, and lightning flashed in the distance. How soon until the rain fell?

  She would love nothing more than to snuggle with Brock in front of a fire while the storm raged. They could talk and laugh and kiss and touch, and she would love every second. Perhaps crave more.

  Definitely crave more.

  My body does not control me!

  Now, what errands did she need to run again? Her gaze snagged on the envelope Brock had given her. She peeked inside and gasped. Ten thousand dollars. Almost half a year's salary for Lyndie.

  Brock, you darling man, what am I supposed to do with you?

  *

  Brock spent the morning working on security for the house. When he needed more tools and supplies, he called Jude and Daniel, and the two came over with everything on his list.

  For one odd moment, he wondered what life would have been like if he could have called his brother too. If they could have talked and laughed with each other, perfectly at ease.

  A pang of longing. A pang he ignored. Too many years of dislike and distrust had passed. Some bridges were burned beyond repair and could not be rebuilt.r />
  More than likely, Braydon would have come over with hopes of convincing Brock to ease up on Miranda. To give her far more than she deserved.

  Too bad, so sad.

  His friends helped set up cameras that would watch over all five acres Lyndie owned. Every five minutes or so, there were short but heavy bursts of rain. Everyone would huddle under a tree until lightning streaked the sky, then they'd rush back inside the house. By the time they finished setting everything up, they were soaked to the bone and covered in mud.

  "I didn't think I'd hear from you for a week. At least," Daniel said as he rubbed a towel over his head. "Thought you'd be busy in bed."

  Yeah. Brock too. "Women," he said, basically the answer to every question that had ever been asked.

  Jude tossed his towel in the laundry room. "Missing single life already, are we?"

  "Not even a little." A fact that surprised him to the core of his soul. The guy who'd always avoided commitment should have felt trapped as soon as he'd said "I do," right? Or at least the day after. "But I'm not exactly enjoying every aspect of married life either. My relationship with Lyndie is complicated."

  "Wrong." Jude shook his head, locks of hair dancing over his forehead. "Relationships are never complicated. You either want one to succeed and fight for it, or you let go."

  Let go. The words echoed in his mind as he pictured Lyndie pregnant with his child while he returned to the life he'd lived before his marriage. Banging random strangers. Another pang seared him, this one born of self-directed fury. How could he ever abandon his child? How could he have entertained the notion, even for a second?

  He had not thought this marriage through.

  And what would happen if Lyndie ever grew to hate him? Would her hate spread to their child, the way Miranda's hate for Brent had spread to Brock?

  Sweat broke out on the back of his neck. No. Absolutely not! Lyndie was nothing like Miranda. She would love her child even if she despised Brock.

  Breathe, just breathe.

  "By the way," Daniel said, unaware of Brock's internal freak-out. "I hate to be the one to tell you, I really do, but your mother is spreading rumors about you."

  Brock stiffened as his fury found a new target. "What is she saying?"