Can't Get Enough (The Original Heartbreakers Book 6)

by Gena Showalter

  Just like that her amusement faded, and tension wafted from her. “Well.” She cleared her throat. “Speaking of sexual intimacy… I was thinking we should maybe might probably take a night off.”

  What! “No sex?” he asked, his new plan crashing and burning spectacularly. “Tonight?”

  For a moment, only a moment, she radiated all kinds of hurt and dismay. But just as quickly as the emotions appeared, they vanished. “No sex tonight,” she said with a nod.

  Panic knocked on the door of his mind, seeking entrance. What if his childish tactics had driven her away? What if she’d come to dread being with him? Why else would she not want to try to make that baby?

  Calm. Steady. He could win her back. Commitment was new territory for him, but seduction wasn’t.

  Seduction…

  Yes. Of course. He would addict her to his touch. She would crave him, only him.

  Determination seemed to fuse a rod of iron to his spine. Tonight he would get her used to conversing with him. Lay the groundwork. Tomorrow he would make her body desperate for his…

  He stood and walked into the kitchen where he gathered a carving knife of his own.

  Lyndie came up behind him, the heat that radiated from her body leading the way. She reached around him to pluck the knife from his grip. “Not that one.”

  “Which one then?” he asked, praying she never moved. He liked having her pressed up against his back and—

  He liked having her pressed up against his back. The realization shocked him.

  Unaware of his inner turmoil, she clasped his wrist and lifted his hand to a pumpkin-carving kit resting on the counter.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly.

  “You’re welcome, city boy.”

  He turned, facing her. His hardening shaft rubbed between the apex of her thighs, and she gasped. Music to his ears.

  She flittered away, but not before he caught the hammering pulse at the base of her neck.

  Fighting a grin, he plucked a pumpkin and returned to the counter. “I’m starved. What’s for dinner, wife?” he asked as he got to work.

  “Whatever you want to cook. And hurry, ’cause I’m starved too. My stomach has been rumbling for the past ten minutes.”

  He barked out a laugh. Darling Scottie. She never pandered to him or treated him as anything other than an equal. “I’d cook, but you told me I could only do so once. Been there, already done that.”

  “Congrats! I’m giving you a kitchen hall pass for the rest of the week.”

  “In that case, I hope you like pizza.”

  “Love it. But I’ll only eat it if you agree to let me pay half.”

  “No,” he said. “I’m paying.”

  “No way. You’ll find my half in your wallet. I’m sure I put it there for safekeeping.”

  He snorted, wishing she spoke true. Wishing she would let him take care of her in this way. In all ways. “Tell me about your day.”

  The request seemed to surprise her; she blinked over at him, her lush red lips forming a small O. “All right, but first I have to share a little backstory. So, you don’t know this about me, but I allow a lot of movement in my classroom. It’s called kinesthetic learning.”

  Interesting. He found himself interrupting her story, fascinated by her and desperate for more information. “Did you hate sitting still as a child?”

  “I did. But I was so afraid one of my teachers would tell my father I’d caused trouble, I ended up sitting as still as a statue every single day. It was absolute torture.”

  His Scottie never got to be a child, did she?

  “Anyway. I digress,” she said, unaware of just how badly his heart ached for her. “As soon as class started, I had the kids do a little jumping around. One of my boys hunched over and puked all over my shoes.”

  As he imagined the incident and his wife’s reaction, amusement replaced sadness. “My poor, sweet Scottie.”

  She nodded, not seeming to notice his possessive phrasing. “By lunch, three more of my kids were puking. Not to mention the other kids in other classes. Apparently there’s some kind of stomach bug going around.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  She winked. “My stomach is made of steel. I’ll be fine. So tell me about your day.”

  Pleased by her interest, he said, “I haven’t pulled the trigger on the Hud and Son Group. First I want to find new jobs for the employees.” More than that, he wasn’t yet ready to lose his reason for remaining married to Lyndie. Unfortunately, time had become his greatest enemy.

  He’d told Lyndie they would be together a month, maybe two though highly unlikely, but he’d already wasted month one.

  “To be honest,” he said, “I like the idea of ruining my father’s legacy less and less.” And liked the idea of passing a legacy on to his son or daughter more and more… Not that he could admit that little gem.

  Morning, noon, and night the two desires fought a new battle: preserve the business…or destroy it. The constant tug-of-war had left him with a serious case of indecision.

  In the past, he would have used alcohol and sex as a coping method. Now? Even the thought of drinking added all kinds of stress.

  “Brock, that’s wonderful.” She pressed a pumpkin-gut-smeared hand over her heart, leaving stains on her apron. “I’m so proud of you.”

  Proud? Of him?

  She must have sensed his confusion, because she said, “You are going to so much trouble to ensure your employees are okay. Not everyone would do the same or be as kind.”

  The praise went straight to his head, like a fine wine. “I don’t know what I’m going to do about Miranda. While my father battled cancer, she was busy stealing millions. Not just from the company but also from clients.”

  “Well. She’s just given you another reason to doubt everything she’s told you throughout the years. She’s a thief and a liar.”

  Lyndie was…right. Miranda was a liar. She’d shown the darkness of her heart. Why should he believe the hateful things she’d said throughout the years?

  “Throughout history, privilege has created few heroes while adversity has created thousands,” Lyndie said.

  Brock had certainly experienced his fair share of adversity. A long list of people he’d killed in the line of duty. Friends he’d loved and lost during war. PTSD. A father who’d ignored him. A mother who despised him. A brother who’d once wanted nothing to do with him.

  Boo-hoo. Poor you. Stop whining! Other people had it worse.

  “My therapist told me we have two choices,” she added. “Either we let our past define and defeat us, or we fight for a better future. The responsibility rests on our shoulders. No one can make the decision for us.”

  With Lyndie’s words ringing in his ears, he felt whole for the first time in…ever. How could he ever give her up?

  How could he ever give up their child?

  Brock reeled and hurried to return to the subject at hand. “Braydon offered to repay every cent on her behalf.”

  “You going to let him?”

  “I don’t know. He helped me, as promised, and convinced Miranda to leave Strawberry Valley. He’s been keeping me updated about her antics. But if she made him as miserable as he claims, why would he want to help her?”

  “You know why,” she said, her tone gentle.

  Yes, he supposed he did. No matter how terribly a parent treated a child, the child continued to crave a relationship.

  If Lyndie got pregnant, their child would want to know Brock. And I’ll want to know him. Or her.

  Pang.

  “What would happen if you gave Braydon a second chance?” Lyndie asked. “What if you guys could have some sort of relationship?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Think about it. I can see the longing in your eyes every time…every time…oh my gosh.” She moaned as she pressed a hand against her stomach. Little beads of sweat popped up on her brow. The color drained from her cheeks, leaving her pale and waxen—until
she turned a light shade of green.

  Brock jumped to his feet. “Scottie, sweetheart, are you okay?”

  “I think I’m going to be—” She rushed to the sink, hunched over and emptied the contents of her stomach.

  * * *

  Lyndie vomited all night, and it had nothing to do with morning sickness. Whatever virus had rampaged her classroom now rampaged her. The pain! Fever left her chilled one moment and burning up the next. Aches plagued her, relentless.

  Brock carried her to bed and eased her under the covers. “Earlier I was thinking I’d be Dr. Love for Halloween, and you would be patient zero. Bad idea. Horrible. Knowing you’re hurting is hurting me.”

  The darling took such amazing care of her, cleaning up her humiliating messes, sponging off her clammy skin, and making her weak tea. He even massaged her lower back when the aches were at their worst.

  At some point, as he cleaned her mouth with a damp rag, she managed to croak, “What if I’m pregnant? Do you think the baby—”

  “The baby will be fine,” he said, his tone adamant. “Pregnant women get sick all the time and give birth to healthy babies.”

  “But some haven’t—”

  “Nope. No worrying about something you can’t control. Something that might not even be relevant.”

  He was right. Absolutely. Worry was stress, and stress was worse than any virus. The human body fought viruses—it collapsed under stress.

  “Everything is going to be—” Brock went quiet. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his color faded, leaving him ashen.

  Uh-oh.

  He basically leaped into the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet in time.

  They spent the next three days confined to bed, too weak to leave. They missed Halloween, but at least they had each other and their crazy pack of animals.

  Anytime Lyndie had been sick in the past, she’d taken care of herself. Her father had avoided her. James had avoided her. When they were gone, she hadn’t wanted to risk infecting anyone else, so she hadn’t said anything to anyone about her condition.

  Brock’s kindness was causing deeper fractures in her resistance.

  A thousand times she’d nearly begged him to want her the way he had in the beginning. She’d feared her worries had come true, that he’d had her once and no longer wanted her. She missed the way he’d looked at her—as if the sun rose and set with her. She missed the way he’d touched her—as if he’d never felt anything so fine. As if he couldn’t get enough. She missed his ferocity—as if there was nothing and no one he would rather be doing than her.

  Lately he’d been so cold and impersonal, giving her exactly what she thought she’d wanted from a man.

  How wrong she’d been. She wanted—needed—more.

  Despite every climax Brock had given her the past two weeks, she’d felt hollow and achy, never really satisfied. Dang it, what would it take for him to become lost in pleasure again, like the first time they were together, rather than terse and ill at ease?

  Nowadays, every time they finished having sex, she had to rush out of the bedroom so he wouldn’t see the tears brimming in her eyes.

  Her stomach began to roil, and she doubted it had anything to do with the virus. How had she ever thought she could keep a playboy’s attention? Or rather, playman.

  Why even try?

  Because—just because!

  Just need a little more time with him.

  At some point, she and Brock rallied the strength to shower together. When they finished, they crawled into bed. They even spooned, her back pressed against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, maybe even clinging to her. For the first time in weeks, contentment drifted through Lyndie.

  She’d worry about possible consequences tomorrow.

  “Sorry I got you sick,” she mumbled.

  “I welcome your cooties anytime,” he mumbled back. “Except when the next stomach virus hits. Then I’m taking care of you while I’m wearing a mask and gloves. Now go to sleep and get better.”

  Silence. Then, “Hugsy? I mean darling?”

  A warm chuckle caressed the back of her neck. “Yes, Scottie boo?”

  As weak as she was, she had no real filter and found herself saying, “If I were grading all our recent sexual encounters, I’d give you an F and you’d fail my class.”

  He sighed. “I know. But I was giving you what you thought you wanted.”

  What she thought she wanted, not what he thought she wanted? “You thought I wanted bad sex?”

  “I knew you wanted no emotional ties.”

  Oh. Oh. Diabolical genius. But also a little cruel. First he’d shown her how good they could be together. Then he’d gone all himbot before she could go all fembot, making her want what they’d had.

  “I thought you’d stopped wanting me,” she admitted softly.

  Curse after curse left him. Like her, he had no filter. “I’m sorry, Scottie. Beyond sorry. I was an idiot. I swear to you, I wanted you. I wanted more from you. Badly. Very badly. I acted like a child in an effort to convince you my way is best, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to forgive myself.”

  Could he truly…care about her? Goodness gracious, Lyndie nearly melted into the mattress. “Bless your heart, Brock Hudson. You better forgive yourself, because you just dilled my pickle.”

  “I…have no idea what that means.”

  “It means I’m going to be super turned on when I’m better, and rather than making you suffer for making me suffer, I’m going to let you apologize with orgasms.”

  “Not that,” he said, deadpan. “Anything but that.”

  “Yes. That. You’re getting off easy.” She grinned. “Get it? Getting off?”

  He kissed the back of her neck, sending shivers down her spine. “I won’t be the only one getting off easy.”

  Promises, promises.

  * * *

  Brock leaned back in his chair and let his gaze rove over the LPH Protection offices. Scuffed wood floors, exposed brick on the walls, and visible pipes running across the ceiling.

  Reminded him a little of Lyndie. Her past, her hurts, her hopes and dreams—everything was exposed, vulnerable.

  No wonder he loved the place.

  There were three rooms in back, one for each owner, as well as three desks out front for assistants they’d never gotten around to hiring. Instead, Brock, Jude, and Daniel used those front desks themselves. No walls between them meant face-to-face communication.

  The building occupied the center of the town square, right on Main Street next to Style Me Tender salon, where Virgil spent most of his time playing checkers with Anthony. Roughly ten minutes from Strawberry Elementary, home of the mighty Tornados.

  Tornados… Certainly true in Lyndie’s case. The junior high and high school mascot happened to be a stallion. How fitting for Brock.

  He grinned. He’d been grinning a lot today. Tonight he got to apologize for bad sex with good sex. Did life get any better?

  The worst stomach bug of all time had passed. This morning Lyndie had gone back to school…but not before Brock had kissed her goodbye—a kiss light-years away from perfunctory.

  Lyndie had kissed him back like a woman starved.

  He was grateful for the time they’d spent holed up in the house. Finally he felt connected to his wife again. There at the end, when they’d snuggled in bed, he sensed her contentment too, though he also sensed a tinge of fear. She wasn’t sure she could trust a happily ever after, but he would teach her better. His plan to win her back had officially kicked off.

  Focus. He pulled at the collar of his shirt. Jude was updating the computers; he only came in a couple of days a week now that he helped run the Scratching Post with Ryanne. Daniel was wrapped up in an upcoming job. Brock had done nothing but think of Lyndie.

  Forget focusing. He couldn’t.

  He wanted his wife.

  He missed her when they were parted. Crave more minutes and seconds with her. Even blindfolded,
he could pick her out of a crowd of thousands, like a moth to a flame. The warmth and silk of her skin could not be replicated. Plus she had little tells. Every time he approached, her breath got trapped in her throat. The sound, slight though it was, always drove him wild.

  How long would it take to convince her to relinquish her precious independence? How long would it take to win her heart? Lyndie came first for him, now and always. He wanted to come first for her.

  You couldn’t win your mother’s love. What makes you think you can win your wife’s?

  Stomach twist. Chest clench.

  Nope, none of that. As Lyndie had said, Miranda was a thief and a liar. Her opinion meant nothing. Brock had value. But he also had a disadvantage. The loophole he’d allowed to be added to their prenup.

  He was stuck between a rock and a hard place, and both were of his own design.

  Trust was precious and fragile. If he shattered hers…if she looked at him with disgust…if her good opinion of him changed…

  Denial roared inside his head. No! Unacceptable. He would not be able to bear it.

  Therefore, he had to work even harder to win her. If—when—she fell in love with him, she would want to stay married to him, would want to raise their child together.

  His phone beeped, jolting him. The timer, he realized. Another realization: he’d gripped the arms of his chair so tightly he caused them to bow.

  Breathing deep, he pried his fingers loose. Lyndie would be home, ready for him…

  His heart began to race, anticipation and excitement propelling him to his feet. “Boys, I’m taking off. You’re on your own.”

  A bell chimed over the door as Ryanne sauntered inside. She was smiling, both of her hands resting on her rounded belly. “Hey, cowboy.”

  “Hey, shortcake.” Jude hopped up and closed the distance to wrap her in his arms and kiss her brow. She leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder. “I missed you.”

  Twist. Clench.

  That. That was what Brock wanted with Lyndie. A beautiful give-and-take. A flood of joy every time they were together.

  Daniel offered Ryanne a mischievous wink. “Please tell me you brought food.”

  Like Jude and Brock, he had a second job. He worked at the Strawberry Inn with Dorothea, which was located just around the corner, allowing him to go back and forth with ease.