"I've got to touch you." She released the headboard to wrap her fingers around his length and squeeze. "Got to taste you."
Air hissed between his teeth. The heat. The new--and perfect--pressure. The knowledge that Lyndie Scott-Hudson, his wife, was the one who gripped him...it almost proved to be his undoing.
"Don't want to come in your mouth," he managed to croak. "Not this time."
She rubbed him up, down. Up, down. Of their own accord, his hips rocked in time to her movements, slowly closing the distance between male and female. The second the tip of his erection brushed against her wet heat, what little remained of his control snapped.
His hips jerked forward, once, twice, pressing his length against her soaked folds, making his mind careen with desire. Throaty little mewling sounds left her. Her lids were heavy, her breaths hoarse. He wondered if her body burned like his. If she lived for desire alone.
For Brock, sex had always been a distraction from his demons. A past steeped in violence, a family unconcerned for his well-being. With Lyndie, he felt connected, felt so much a part of her that nothing else mattered.
What would happen when he finally got inside her?
Let's find out.
"Condom--never mind." He'd never taken a woman bare, male to female. That his first time would be with Lyndie...
Can't wait a moment more. Need her. Must have her. Now. Now! Brock positioned himself at her entrance--and thrust deep. She screamed his name, her inner walls clamping and unclamping around his shaft as she came a second time.
Incredible. Exquisite. A climax nearly ripped through him, but he fought it off. Consumed by her, Brock pulled out, only to slam in again. And again. Breathing was impossible. He didn't care. Who needed air? Lyndie now kept him alive.
One of her hands cupped his nape while the other lifted his ass. She drew him down for a kiss, rolling her tongue against his. Her taste...better than fine wine, more intoxicating. All the while he continued to thrust, and thrust. The headboard slapped against the wall. Pictures shook and threatened to fall.
She scoured him with her nails, branding him. Lyndie's man. He would never be the same. Never again wanted to use a condom. This was...he was...
His thoughts fragmented. Pressure, so much pressure. It filled him, filled his lungs, drowned him. Blinded him. Lyndie was all he could see, all he wanted to see, bliss hovering just out of reach.
Thrust, thrust, thrust. Faster. Harder. He lifted to his knees, settling on his haunches while lifting her, angling her lower body. Faster. With his arms hooked behind her knees, he forced her legs farther apart. Harder. Her breasts jiggled with his movements, cotton candy nipples bobbing.
So beautiful...
So mine.
Her gaze met his, and that was it. He was done. As her orgasm continued, her inner walls clenching and unclenching on his length, Brock erupted, jetting inside her.
*
It felt like an hour had passed before Lyndie's heart rate slowed and her mind had the power to form complete sentences that didn't involve the words "yes" "more" "please" and "oh."
That was...absolutely and utterly...amazing. Better than she'd thought possible, and she'd had high expectations for Brock.
The man had rocked her world. He'd stretched her, filled her, consumed and remade her. In short, he'd possessed her.
Maybe, after her marriage ended, Brock could be her regular booty call. A little of her happy buzz faded. Would he be amenable? Would she want to sleep with him knowing he'd been with someone else the night before?
What about her need to cut all ties with him when things ended, for the sake of the baby and her heart? What about her independence? Dang it, if she was going to rely on someone else, that someone else needed to rely on her, too. It was only fair. But again, she wondered what she could ever give him.
Brock lay at her side, seemingly content to hold her against the hard line of his body. Part of her expected him to jump up and head to his bedroom. And she would be totally okay with that. Really. The sex was over, and he'd done his part. Why remain?
Unless he stayed with every woman he slept with?
Jealousy pricked her, a white-hot needle she couldn't ignore. How did she compare to his other conquests? His many, many, many other conquests. Probably hundreds.
Stop! I'm one in an assembly line. So what? I knew it going in. I'm fine with it. More than that, we aren't a real couple. Must get that through my stupid head.
Besides, after the way he'd roared, she must've compared just fine, thank you very much.
He tugged her closer, closer still, as if he would like to be fused with her. Yes, please! One of his arms slid under her nape while the other brought her wedding ring to his mouth. He kissed the diamond before draping his arm over her stomach. No, not her stomach. He rested his palm over her womb, and the knowledge turned her world upside down and inside out. Was he imagining her growing big with his child?
Longing washed through her afresh, little ripples flowing under the surface of her skin. She wanted a child so badly, but more than anything, she wanted Brock's child.
"You'd never experienced oral sex, and I'd never experienced sex without a condom." His tone dripped with masculine satisfaction and pride. "A night of firsts."
"And the verdict?" she asked.
"You loved it."
Snort. "I meant the verdict about the lack of condom."
A pause, as if his mind struggled to find the right word. Then he grinned with wicked amusement, pleasuring her all over again. "Once you're bared, you're snared."
"Ha!" She traced a fingertip around his nipple. Hesitant, somehow more vulnerable than ever before, she said, "So you liked?"
"Scottie, I loved. I've never felt anything so incredible."
Loved. The word reverberated inside her head, as thrilling as it was ominous. Could the wealthy playboy ever fall in love with the quirky kindergarten teacher?
Whoa! Seriously, this has to stop. Her orgasm had fried her brain, that was all. And really, she'd known this could happen. That she could confuse sex with love. Or a desire to be loved. But at the end of the day, Brock's emotions mattered as much as hers--not at all. Love wasn't part of their deal, so there was no reason to think about it and ruin the afterglow.
He cleared his throat. "Well?"
She racked her brain, came up empty. Brow furrowed with confusion, she said, "Well, what?"
"Well, did you like?"
"You told me I loved it."
"And now I want to hear your agreement." With a hard roll of his hips, he positioned her atop him, chest to chest. Expression stern, he smacked her butt. "I need reassurance too, so--" The moment he realized he'd hit her, he stiffened and stilled. So still she doubted he breathed. Goodbye, passion-flush. He became chalk white, almost sickly. "Scottie, I'm so sorry. I never meant--"
Pressing a finger against his lips, she quieted him. Pale green eyes continued to project all kinds of guilt.
This, she realized, was a make-or-break moment. A pattern would be set for the rest of their relationship.
"Brock, darling, you didn't hurt me. And yes, yes, a thousand times yes, I liked--loved--having you inside me."
Slowly he relaxed.
"Tell me something," she said, hoping a subject change would revive his teasing mood. Something else she'd never before experienced with a man--playfulness.
"I'll tell you anything. Maybe. Probably."
"No, I mean, tell me something. Start a conversation."
"All right." He roved his fingers down the ridges of her spine. "If you had to choose between eating soup or facilitating world peace, would you want broccoli cheese or chicken noodle?"
Her chuckle drifted between their bodies. "Funny man. So, if I choose world peace--"
"You can't have soup for the rest of your life."
Oh, the horror! "I'd choose world peace." Barely. "Then I'd pour soup over bread and call it a sandwich. Boom! Problem, meet Solution."
Her scalp tingled
as he wrapped a lock of her hair around his fingers. "Moral of the story: there's always a way to get what you want."
"Exactly." She traced the edge of his navel, drawing a ragged breath from him. "You once told me you're a mess, but I've seen no evidence of it. You've even stopped drinking excessively."
"You don't like when I drink, so I'm not going to drink."
This man! "You said you have trouble sleeping, but you appear well-rested. If you've had nightmares, I'm unaware."
"My mind has been...quieter lately. More focused."
Because of me? Feeling bolder by the second, she urged her fingertip along the length of his shaft. A tattered sound rumbled in his chest. His whole body shook, sending vibrations along the mattress. He hardened right before her eyes. A fascinating--and titillating--process.
I touch him, and he is helpless to react... Another first for Lyndie.
"Scottie," he prompted, his jaw tightly clenched. "It's been a long time for you, and you might be sorer than you realize. I'm ready for round two, but I don't want you regretting it tomorrow and hobbling around. So which is it? Either we talk or we fu-- screw. Lady's choice."
She almost said Let's screw! But he was right. Her lady business was a little tender. And really, getting to know each other better was far more important than getting each other off.
"Fine. We'll talk," she said. "Tell me why you won't cuss in front of me."
"Cussing is often associated with a temper. With you, I will never have a temper."
Resistance, crumbling. Every time he complimented her or teased her, her trust in him deepened. But this went far beyond compliments and teasing. And as her trust deepened, her attraction to him intensified.
Already falling for him.
Careful. Pretending he hadn't rocked her world, she said, "Do you think I have a magical vajayjay?"
He sputtered for a moment. "Magical...excuse me?"
"Well, a few months ago, I started reading romance novels. Since I didn't have a love life, I thought it might be nice to live vicariously through the characters, and it wasn't long before I noticed a pattern. Somehow the heroines always manage to heal the hero's broken heart while they're having sex. Meaning her vajayjay is a magical healing portal. So of course I'm wondering if sleeping with me cured you of all your ills." She tried for a teasing tone, but this particular topic of conversation had inadvertently struck a genuine chord of yearning inside her.
I want to heal him.
Her mother used to say: Always leave a person better than you found them.
It was simple common courtesy.
Brock appeared thoughtful. "I suspect you do have some healing properties, but I'd need to do more research to be sure."
She chuckled.
"Maybe after our divorce, we can keep seeing each other." A muscle jumped underneath his eye, as if he wasn't happy with his words. "Romance novel heroes probably need to visit the magical healing portal often. Preventative medicine is important."
"Excellent point. But..." To silence a whimper of longing, she chewed on her bottom lip. "I considered the same thing earlier, but we probably shouldn't." Already in too deep. On top of every other reason, they shouldn't confuse their--her--kid.
And what if Brock later changed his mind about wanting to see her? Commitment wasn't his thing. He preferred variety. So. When the time came, she would be better served severing ties.
Stiff as a board now, Brock kissed her forehead. "You wore me out, Red. I better go. Don't want to accidentally fall asleep in your bed."
She'd hurt his feelings. So not her intention.
Already grieving his loss, Lyndie opened her mouth to ask him to stay. Perfect opportunity to assert your independence. She held her tongue. But oh! She was wasting an even better opportunity to question him about his past. Or maybe not. Maybe he would have left sooner if she'd tried.
Well, she had to try.
"Stay," she said. "Tell me about your childhood and your years in the Army."
As quickly as humanly possible, he disentangled his body from hers and stood. Ignoring her request, he said, "I tend to toss and turn when I sleep. If I sleep." He scrubbed a hand down his face. "And I know how much you value your independence."
Had he read her thoughts?
As he strode from the room, shutting the door behind him, a silly little piece of her heart actually...broke.
Chapter Sixteen
Keeping busy, Brock dressed and escorted the animals inside the house. The whole bunch of them were over the moon excited to see him, as if he'd left for a year and had only just returned. When he plopped on the couch in the living room, Pepper and Athena joined him, cuddling into his sides. The cats--the overlords of the home--prowled through every room, inspecting their "lair" to make sure nothing had been changed.
He was tempted to head to the Strawberry Inn to kill a bottle of whiskey with Daniel. He'd go to the Scratching Post, but Jude was working, and Brock didn't want townspeople talking.
Just married and already back to his old ways.
If you wanted different results, you had to do something different.
Maybe he should just tell Lyndie everything. Confess every sin, every crime he'd ever committed. She'd handled a few details about his time as an Army Ranger surprisingly well. What if she offered comfort rather than fear or censure?
No! Can't risk losing her.
Especially not now. What if she'd gotten pregnant tonight? Timing wasn't perfect, but wasn't impossible, either.
He sucked in a breath. A baby. With Lyndie. A family--his family. Longing clawed at his insides, but so did fear of his own. He would not be able to walk away from his child even if Lyndie insisted. He would assert his rights as a father.
She would hate him, would believe he'd tricked her. He would break her trust in him. Hard-won trust, at that.
Guilt scalded him, and a cold, clammy sweat beaded over his skin, but he could not regret what he'd done.
I want my family.
Brock popped his jaw and let his head fall against the back of the couch. He'd just had mind-blowing sex. Never had a woman felt so good. Magical healing portal? Undoubtedly.
Somehow Lyndie had healed him. Not fully, not yet, but the potential was there. For the first time in years, he felt as though he was finally on a path to recovery.
When he was a little boy, his mother had convinced him of his worthlessness. Tonight Lyndie had looked at him as if he wasn't just something special to her--as if he was something special, period. He did not want to change her mind.
She'd clung to him, unable to get enough. She'd thrashed and writhed and screamed with pleasure. Other men might scare her, but not Brock. Not anymore. She trusted him.
Another prick of burning guilt. One he ignored.
His wife wasn't perfect, but she was perfect for him. He felt calmer in her presence, and valued. Worth something. When they weren't together, thoughts of her constantly invaded his mind. He didn't have time to ponder the past, the people he'd killed, the wrongs he'd done, the wrongs that had been done to him, or how different things could have been if he'd taken another path.
After Lyndie, no other woman would do. Ever. The connection they shared--
He closed his eyes. He was going to say it, wasn't he? He was going to go full-on romantic, with all kinds of cheese.
She completes me.
He cringed, all that cheese leaving a bad taste in his mouth. But no way he would go through mental hurdles to override the sentiment. Truth was truth, and he finally understood his obsession with her. He'd loved her at moment one, when his heart had known what his mind had not. She's my other half.
Brock Hudson loved, adored and worshipped Lyndie "Scottie" Scott-Hudson.
She had such a kind heart, not just for people but also for animals. She was sexier, wittier, and far more fun than he'd ever anticipated. Her wicked sense of humor was a perfect match for his.
The past week, he'd kept his distance sexually because he'd wanted her
on fire for him. Something he'd quickly discovered? He was content just breathing her in, watching her do anything, everything. Read, grade papers, hook a lock of hair behind her ear. Chew on the lid of an ink pen. Relax on the couch with a glass of wine.
His biggest goals in life? Keeping Lyndie safe and making her happy.
He needed her to love him back. Would beg for the honor.
What shocked him most? Earlier, he'd loved imagining her pregnant with his child...loved thinking about growing old with an adoring wife. If she loved him back, she couldn't hate him, ever. The two emotions could not coexist.
Down goes the eternal bachelor. How quickly he had changed his tune.
The idea of a lifelong commitment scared him to the core, but losing Lyndie scared him far more.
He had to prove they could make a relationship work forever. But how?
Maybe, if he gave her what she thought she wanted--sex without emotion, space, and very little attention--she would begin to miss what they'd first shared?
Worth a shot, anyway. Determined, he nodded. At the very least, he had a plan.
Tomorrow he would put that plan into motion.
No way he could fail.
*
He failed.
Only took him two and a half weeks, but his grand plan to make Lyndie crave what they'd first had together, to make her want him more than she wanted her independence, had essentially pushed her further away. She seemed more than fine with emotionless sex. Might even prefer it.
Brock parked in the driveway of the home they shared. Home. The word struck him as odd. He'd never felt welcome in his parents' house. After joining the Army, he'd kept an apartment for the months he was on leave, but as little time as he'd spent there, no attachment ever formed. The cabin he'd shared with Jude had come close, but no cigar.
This small farmhouse always welcomed him with open arms.
Night had fallen, but his car's headlights illuminated the Halloween decorations Lyndie had added at some point today. There were jack-o'-lanterns scattered across the porch and a fake skeleton sitting in a rocking chair. A white sheet--ghost--hung from the roof, flapping in the breeze.
A smile teased the edges of Brock's mouth. The decorations were new, in more ways than one. Couples celebrated holidays together, meaning he never had, because he'd never had a significant other before.
Now he wasn't sure he liked the idea of being without a significant other.
Can't Get Enough Page 16
