Can't Get Enough

by Gena Showalter

  "I'm into this Twister thing. Let's explore it further. Later." The outfit she'd picked was better than she'd hoped. "Tonight, you're stuck in this." As she roved her gaze over him, she burst into laughter. Every garment was a smidgen too tight on his gloriously muscular physique. The vest ended in two points on either side of his navel, and the pants hit the middle of his ankles, making them high-waters. "And I don't think belated Halloween parties are a thing. Now costume balls, well, those are a thing."

  "So we're going to a costume ball?"

  "Nope. Sorry. This is a date," she said, "and we're going...to have fun!"

  He pinched the center of her forehead. "What am I dressed as for this fun date?"

  "What else? A poorly attired man."

  At his outraged look, she burst into another fit of laughter.

  Wasn't long before a grin bloomed, brightening his features. "Well then." He gave the lapels of his blazer a tug. "I've nailed it, haven't I?"

  "You have. There's no one more poorly attired than you." She bent down to pet her snorting pig, then kiss the dog and nuzzle the cats. "We are the perfect pair. Admit it."

  His eyes blazed white-hot, startling her, nearly making her crazed. "Yes. Yes, we are the perfect couple."

  She gulped. "What about me?" The hem of her dress danced around her calves as she twirled. "How do I look?"

  When she stilled, he gave her a once-- twice-over. His eyelids hooded, sending shivers down her spine. "You look like you want me to bend you over the couch, lift that skirt, and stake a claim...over and over again."

  Mercy! Lyndie's heart raced, and her limbs trembled. Maybe they should stay in and make lo-- sex. Make sex.

  Nope. No way. Brock had once romanced the heck out of her. Now it was Lyndie's turn to return the favor.

  As she reached in her purse for another thrift store gem--a bunch of ties sewn together and embellished with a thousand different buttons--her phone rang. She dug it out, saw the screen and scowled. Unknown number. "Unknown" calls came in daily, and anytime she answered, the other person hung up.

  "Something wrong?" Brock asked, going tense.

  She one hundred percent suspected Rick Lambert was the culprit. A few times the past few weeks, she'd spotted him in the school parking lot, watching her or following her along the roads.

  She'd warned the employees at her school, talked to the sheriff of Strawberry Valley and, with the sheriff at her side, had spoken with the chief of Blueberry Hill PD. Though the authorities had questioned Lambert, nothing had been done despite her protective order.

  She'd prayed Brock never learned the truth. If he found out, he would snap, like he'd done at the steak house. He would either (1) beat up Lambert and get in trouble, or (2) Lyndie would allow herself to lean on him when she absolutely had to stand on her own.

  In other areas, she could--and did--rely on him. There. She'd admitted it. Pleasure. Comfort. Companionship. He'd become such an important part of her life. A buffer against the rest of the world. But she couldn't use him as a safety net. If she called or texted him every time something went wrong or she got scared, she'd never learn to fend for herself with confidence.

  And really, she could just imagine the text exchange they'd have after their divorce.

  Lyndie: I heard a strange noise. Come over and check it out?

  Brock: I'm balls deep in a woman I just met. Give me an hour. Or two.

  Okay, so maybe she was exaggerating a bit, but the sentiment remained the same. He would want other women at some point.

  Lyndie's stomach performed a series of flip-flops. If Lambert continued to call her, she would go back to the cops. But oh, putting her well-being in the hands of others--of strangers--knowing they wouldn't be able to do anything without proof Lambert had violated the order...

  A sense of helplessness battered at her. Maybe I should trust my husband with my woes? We could work together and--

  Argh! Stop!

  Rather than answer the phone or second-guess her plans, she turned her phone to silent and returned it to the hollows of her purse. Determined, she squared her shoulders and said, "Nope. Wrong number. And couch bending has to wait. We're going to the Scratching Post." Something Brock had loved before their marriage. So why not enjoy it with him? "We're going to dance and pretend these are our normal, everyday clothes. We can't tell anyone, even our friends, why you look so ridiculous and I look so eighties but screwable."

  Amusement flared in those light green eyes. "We're going to act like the kids we never got to be, is that it?"

  "Exactly!"

  He remained in place, as still as a statue. "Like the kid we might have. Together."

  A sense of foreboding pricked the back of her neck. He sounded hopeful and looked so earnest.

  She'd never before considered the fact that he might change his mind about wanting to be a father. How would he handle the divorce? Would he try to take the babe away from Lyndie?

  No, no. He couldn't. Of course he couldn't. Their prenup protected her rights as a mother and stripped him of his rights as a father.

  And that was what she still wanted...right?

  Dang it! She wasn't sure anymore. What if she could rely on him for, well, everything? Even her safety?

  Stop, just stop. No reason to worry about it tonight. Tonight she and Brock got to be young and silly, just like he said.

  "You ready to go?" she asked.

  "I am."

  "Oh, and by the way, I'm driving. For this date I'm the guy, and you're the girl." With a wink, she grabbed his car keys and led him outside...where she opened the passenger side door of his sedan for him.

  Before he slid inside the vehicle, he paused to peer down at her. Electric currents seemed to sizzle and snap in the air between them. Her breasts ached, and her belly quivered. Liquid heat pooled between her legs. Sensations he always elicited.

  After he'd settled into his seat, breaking the moment and allowing her to breathe, she slid behind the wheel and set her purse in her lap.

  "Are you going to insist on paying for the meal?" he asked.

  "Of course. You charge orgasms, right?"

  "I do. And my price doubles by the hour."

  Her purse vibrated. Ugh. Her phone, she realized with a flicker of irritation. She really really wanted to ask Brock if he could hunt down a blocked number. With all his security experience, he must have tricks.

  But if she asked, he'd find out someone was harassing her. And when he learned the person's identity...

  She shuddered. "Would you be willing to teach me some self-defense moves?" she asked as she settled behind the wheel. "I've taken a few classes throughout the years, but I'd love a refresher and an opportunity to learn more."

  "Absolutely. We can start after our date, once my manhood is returned."

  Brock's hands on her...

  More shivers. More heat.

  "Depends on whether you wear me out in bed first," she said and wiggled her brows.

  "Good point. I'm going to bet I do, in fact, wear you out. I'm going to give it my all."

  "Good. You can't succeed if you don't try."

  He laughed, the rusty sound better than music--more like sex magic.

  By the time they reached the Scratching Post, Lyndie was squirming in her seat. A cold blast of air chilled her overheated skin when she emerged from the car. Brock, the devil, got out without her help and approached her side.

  Behind him, the moon glowed prettily, a golden orb in the midnight-blue sky. With zero clouds nearby, the stars shone like diamonds scattered across black velvet.

  "Moonlight becomes you. Who am I kidding? Everything becomes you." He didn't back off but stayed put to trace two fingers along her jawline. "No woman should look so hot in a puke-green-and-piss-yellow dress...but somehow you do."

  Going to jump him so hard when we get home.

  She lifted to her tiptoes to draw the lobe of his ear between her teeth. "How did I ever resist you?"

  "It's a mystery." Need rad
iated from him as he fisted locks of her hair to hold up her face and ensure her gaze remained on his as he spun them both around and pressed her back against the car. Without pause, he kicked her legs apart, creating a cradle, and rubbed the long, hard length of his erection where she ached most.

  A gasp left her. On instinct, she flattened her palms on his chest. His heart raced in time to hers. Would he kiss her, nothing held back? Would he enter her, here and now? Excitement sparked a fire in her veins.

  "Brock," she whispered.

  "Lyndie," he croaked. "I have to have you."

  "Yes." Yes!

  "I've gone too long without you."

  "Get a room," someone called, and Brock jolted.

  Scowling, he stepped away from her.

  "Well," she said, her voice trembling as relief and disappointment mingled. He needed this date as much as she did and really, their patience would be rewarded. "Shall we?"

  "Get a room?"

  She wished. "Shall we go inside?"

  "I suppose," he grumbled. "Though you can't fault a guy for trying."

  "No, but I can thank him and hope he tries again later," she said with a wink.

  "Oh, I can guarantee he'll try again later."

  "No wonder I like you so much, Brockstar."

  He arched a brow, clearly doing his best not to smile. "Brockstar? Maybe I'll call you Great Scott."

  With a laugh, she took his hand and ushered him into the large metal two-story building. The bar occupied the first floor, and Ryanne and Jude lived on the second.

  Recently, a rival bar owner had tried to torch the place. Both the bar and apartment had to be refurbished. There were new wood panels on the walls and floor. A new bar was built; tables extended from the sides, and they'd been made to resemble massive tree limbs. In one corner, swinging saloon doors partitioned off the bathroom hallway. In another corner was a mechanical bull.

  Ryanne and Jude bustled behind the bar. Despite the early hour--seven o'clock--a crowd had already gathered. Thankfully Lyndie had called ahead and reserved a private table.

  When Ryanne caught sight of Lyndie's outfit, she erupted into a fit of laughter. Jude stopped to find out what was going on, spotted Brock, and grinned wide.

  "Look at us! We're a hit," Lyndie told Brock as she straightened his vest.

  "Agreed. But I'm certain these clothes will look much better on our bedroom floor."

  Heated shivers set off a chain reaction of sensation. First she began to pant. Then her breasts began to ache and the apex of her thighs started to throb. Our, he'd said. Not your. Not my. Our.

  A beaming Ryanne waved to a shadowed corner in back where fake crime-scene tape surrounded a table. Lyndie blew her friend a kiss and led Brock across the bar. When she spotted the platters of food already ready and waiting--the best items on the menu--she twittered with excitement.

  "You're in for a treat." She held out Brock's chair.

  He blinked down at her, all me man, you woman before deciding what the heck and settling in. "I love that we have a secret from everyone else in the room, but I'm not sure I like being treated like a lady in public."

  "Is that so?" she asked, her tone as innocent as possible. Meaning: pure wickedness. "I was so certain you'd enjoy me--the big, strong dude--taking care of you."

  "So, let me make sure I've got this straight. You're the big, strong dude, so you're going to turn everything I say into a sexual innuendo and make me feel like a piece of meat. And later, if I refuse to sleep with you, you're going to pout like a baby and maybe throw a man-tantrum."

  "Your penis is a sexy innuendo." She did her best smolder, all creepy landlord with naughty ideas about how Brock could pay his overdue rent.

  He barked out a laugh, warming her heart. "In that case..." Pretending to flip his hair over his shoulder, he said, "I'm in."

  "Just like I'm going to be in you tonight. Boom!" Grinning, she plopped into the seat across from him.

  "You going to be the man in bed tonight too? Asking for science."

  "I'll make a deal with you. When the clothes come off, you can be the guy again."

  He reclined, eyes so hot the briefest glance singed her--but the wicked man decided to stare. "Maybe I'll take your clothes off...and leave mine on."

  Mercy! She fanned her cheeks. Better get the date back on track, fast.

  Trembling, Lyndie motioned to a bowl of popcorn with sesame-glazed pistachios. "This is known as the one-night stand, and we're supposed to expect an orgasm in our mouths." Next she pointed to soft pretzel sticks with beer-cheese fondue. "This is Horizontal Tango." Then a plate of bacon-wrapped french fries. "The Porking." Then, finally, a plate of Thai-coconut chicken wings. "The Boneyard."

  "I think I'll have a little Horizontal Tango. But please, help yourself to a Porking."

  This time she was the one to laugh. Problem was, he only smoldered hotter. Lyndie started squirming all over again.

  "You once told me you'd answer any questions I had about you," she said.

  He stiffened and frowned. "About my romantic past. But you're wanting answers of a different sort, I'm guessing."

  A nod.

  "What would you like to know?"

  She'd go easy on him--at first. "Tell me about your happiest childhood memory."

  The request must have taken him by surprise. He blinked rapidly before saying, "We had a maid. Sofia. Treated me like a son she adored. One year, she convinced the rest of the staff to throw a surprise party to celebrate my birthday. She made me a cake from scratch. Though she was saving to bring her kids to America, she used her hard-earned money to have a photograph of us printed and placed in some fancy frame. To match the furniture in my bedroom, she said."

  Lyndie rested her hand over her heart. "She sounds like a lovely woman."

  "She was. Of course, when Miranda found out Sofia had used ingredients from the Hudson pantry to make the cake, she seized the chance to fire my only ally."

  Tears welled in her eyes, stinging. "Oh, Brock. I'm so sorry."

  He hiked up one shoulder, the action almost robotic. "When I turned eighteen, I tracked her down. She'd gotten sick and died the year before."

  One of the tears escaped, slipping down her cheek. "What happened to her children?"

  "My grandfather left me a trust. I used some of the money to get her kids into America, just as Sofia wanted."

  "You're a good man, Brock Hudson."

  "No," he said without hesitation. "Not always."

  How could he not see the truth? "Why would you think such a thing?"

  He opened his mouth, closed it. A muscle beneath his eye jumped. The fingers wrapped around his fork bleached of color. The pulse in his neck hammered wildly, and it had nothing to do with desire.

  "Tell me," she pleaded.

  Again he opened and closed his mouth. Finally he said, "Tell me your happiest childhood memory."

  Argh! Frustration mounted. What did he not want her to know?

  A group of women passed their table, the leader making bedroom eyes at Brock. She even knew his name.

  "Hey, Brock," she said with a finger wave. Then she laughed, a sound that rivaled tinkling fairy bells. "Did you just come from some kind of costume party?"

  He went still. Well, stiller. Eyes on Lyndie, tone hard, he replied, "No. But I am on a date. If you'll excuse us...?"

  Okay. Lyndie had made a huge tactical error. Bringing her playboy husband to a place he loved, and coming into contact with all the women he'd banged, wasn't exactly her smartest move.

  The woman frowned, giving Lyndie and her horrible dress a full once-over. "Oh, um. You just got a call, Brock. The bartender told me to tell you there's an emergency. At your house. You should probably leave right away."

  Was she trying to help him make up an excuse to leave?

  Oh, sweet goodness. Fear and worry faded, no match for her amusement. Lyndie pressed her lips into a hard line, doing her best not to laugh. Screw it. She laughed.

  Batting her
lashes, Lyndie said, "Oh, he knows all about the emergency at home. It's in my panties. But my husband and I decided to wait until we finished our dinner before putting out my fire."

  The woman's jaw dropped. "You're not married to Brock Hudson. I mean, I heard rumors, but no one believes them." Her attention landed on Brock. "Tell her that she's not married to you."

  Brock smiled a devastating smile at Lyndie. One of relief, appreciation, and yearning. "She is married to me. Happily, I hope."

  Mumbling under her breath, the woman led her group away.

  "I know you want me," Lyndie said softly. She slid her hands under her napkin so she could wring her fingers without anyone seeing. "But...did coming here remind you of what you used to have, what you used to like, and maybe kinda sorta make you want it again?"

  "Not even a little. What I did before...it cannot compare to what I do now, with you." He reached across the table, offering his hand. "I don't want to give you up, Scottie. I don't want to be with anyone but you, ever."

  Air got trapped in her throat. Her eyes widened as she accepted, twining her fingers with his. An automatic action, one born of instinct. If she had a chance to touch him, she wanted to touch him.

  Was he saying he wanted her...forever? For real?

  The idea...intrigued her. "I want you too," she whispered. But she needed to think this through. Or rather overthink it through. And her favorite place in the world to ponder a dilemma? Brock's arms. She stood, purse in one hand, still clinging to him with the other. "May I have this dance?"

  He straightened, silent, a towering presence at her side.

  Ignoring the funny looks aimed their way, they strolled to the dance floor. Despite the fast pace of country rock playing in the background, Brock pulled Lyndie against his chest and eased into a slow bump and grind.

  Every point of contact made her nerve endings sing. Her blood heated, and her skin tingled. Need pulsed inside her. His heady scent enveloped her. His touch thrilled her, his hands roving over her back...the curves of her bottom...

  He was hard, and as her instincts raged, she purposely ground against his length, ensuring he grew even harder. A mistake. Soon desire for him overshadowed everything. There would be no thinking. Not until she came.

  "I'm beginning to figure you out," he said, a husky note in his tone.

  "Oh?" Her stomach performed a series of flip-flops. "Do tell."

  His gaze hooded. His voice lowered. "Your body tells me I'm doing a very good job of turning you on. My wife is using me as a scratching post."