Can't Let Go

by Gena Showalter

  She jabbed her fingers into the keyboard, typing, Aren't you precioso. Consequences, cowboy? Try. Please.

  Then she added a gif of two people jumping up and down, laughing and clapping.

  No way Ryanne would do what the big, strong man had told her. How many times had her mother obeyed every whim, command or request of a husband, boyfriend, lover or even potential lover, losing her own identity? Lyndie, too, had lost her identity in her father and husband. Though Dorothea loved Daniel, she had given up a promising career as a storm chaser in order to be with him.

  I'll give up nothing.

  Would Ryanne be in danger? No!

  Okay, maybe. But probably not. This was a public place. Even if Cigarette decided he didn't care about their audience, he couldn't come within ten feet of Ryanne without getting shot. Having gotten her conceal and carry license at Earl's insistence, she never left home without protection. What truly motivated her to get out of her car, however, was the thought that Blondie might be a sex slave in need of rescue. The way Cigarette had grabbed her...

  Determined to ferret out the truth, Ryanne marched down the sidewalk. Cool air stroked her bare arms, causing goose bumps to sprout. In September, or any month, really, Oklahoma weather could change from one hour to another, from sizzling hot to ice cold. Picking up the pace, she snaked around the corner, tense and ready...

  Dang it! No sign of Cigarette or Blondie. She checked between the buildings and inside a few of the shops. Still nothing.

  With a sigh of frustration, she pivoted--

  And smacked into a brick wall. Or at least what felt like a brick wall.

  Big hands settled on her hips, pinning her in place. Her mind reacted before her eyes had time to assess the situation. Cigarette? On instinct, she drew back her fist and punched. Pain exploded in her knuckles, but she swallowed a yelp, determined to maintain a strong persona.

  Nope, not Cigarette. Jude Laurent rubbed his jaw. "You hit like a girl," he grated.

  Deep breath in, out. Meanwhile, her heart continued to race. "If you put a little more strength behind your blows, you could hit like a girl, too," she retorted.

  The corners of his lips twitched. Rays of sunlight spilled over him, framing him in gold, and oh, wow, he looked good. Like a fallen angel. His hair appeared lighter today, and his tan darker. A storm brewed in his navy blue eyes.

  The urge to soften against him was insistent, but she somehow found the strength to step backward rather than forward. Now wasn't the time for romance.

  "How'd you get here so quickly?" Wait. "How'd you know my location?"

  A muscle jumped beneath his eye. "I was following the pair before you spotted them."

  Of course he was. Sexy warrior. "Were you able to learn anything about the woman?"

  "Nothing. A shameless flirt spy-blocked me." He flicked a lock of hair from Ryanne's shoulder, his knuckles brushing against her skin. Warm tingles erupted.

  She gasped while he peered down at his hand, as if shocked by what it had just done. Was he experiencing tingles of his own?

  Was she getting to him at last?

  Little fires ignited in different parts of her body, until every inch of her burned. "Why would I ever entertain shame, cowboy?" A breathless note stole into her tone. "Flirting is fun for everyone involved."

  Before he could respond, Virgil Porter and Anthony Rodriguez rounded the corner.

  Virgil--Daniel's dad--tipped his baseball cap in greeting as he passed. Anthony, owner of Style Me Tender Salon, waved. The two were best friends and daily checkers partners, and while they didn't stop to chat, they did slow down to eavesdrop.

  "Very subtle, Mr. Porter." Jude threw the universal sign for I'm watching you at Virgil. "But I'm on to your tricks."

  "I told you to call me Virgil, son. And FYI, I have no tricks. I just wish you'd use your outside voice so we could hear your conversation better." He never even glanced over his shoulder, just kept moseying along. To Anthony he muttered, "Did I use that there acronym right or not?"

  "Yep, sure did," Anthony replied, "but really the only acronyms you need to know are WTF and GOML. Wait! Too Fast and Get Off My Lawn."

  The two disappeared around the next corner.

  Adorable old bears.

  "I need to speak with you. Privately," Jude said to Ryanne.

  Uh-oh. "Why?"

  Determined, he clasped her hand and hauled her into the nearest alley. Then he backed her into the brick wall, looming over her, his narrowed eyes glaring daggers at her. "I told you there would be consequences if you followed a man in Dushku's employ."

  She tried to focus on his anger, she did, but her brain short-circuited. This was the closest she'd ever been to Jude, and she was having trouble catching her breath. Her blood heated another thousand degrees, and her skin tingled worse than ever before, little quivers rocking her on her feet.

  Just then, she didn't want to make him laugh; she wanted to make him hot.

  Led by desire, logic nowhere to be found, she wrapped her arms around his neck and combed her fingers through his hair.

  He didn't jump away. "What are you doing?" His ragged voice was as potent as a caress.

  Why not tell him the truth? She licked her lips, reveling as his eyes followed the motion. "I think I'm...seducing you."

  "You think?" he croaked.

  "I've never done this before." Others had tried to seduce her, but this was her first attempt. "For a long time, I had serious trust issues and didn't date. When I decided there were good guys in the world, I wasn't attracted to anyone...until you."

  He gulped. "How long since your last date?"

  "Two and a half years," she said, toying with the ends of his hair.

  He stiffened but still didn't jump away. "Were you cheated on?"

  Growing bolder, she plucked at his collar, her nails lightly scraping his heated skin. "Twice my mother slept with my boyfriends. And the things I've seen at the bar..." With a nibble on her bottom lip, she asked, "What about you? How long since you--"

  "Two and a half years." Another croak.

  Ohhh. They had more in common than she'd realized. And the fact that they'd remained alone for the exact same amount of time, well, the odds had to be astronomical.

  "Jude?" Wait. What did she want to ask him?

  For a moment, he ceased moving, perhaps even ceased breathing. Then he took two steps back. Oh, heck no. He wasn't leaving her, not now. She fisted his shirt and tugged him forward, and the impromptu action caused him to stumble.

  She opened her mouth to tell him she was sorry, but suddenly found herself plastered against his chest, speaking a talent beyond her. Their gazes clashed. His eyes sizzled with molten awareness. Again he stopped breathing. And this time, so did she...

  "I should go," he rasped, even as he braced his palms flat on the brick, caging her in. A predator who'd just captured prey.

  This prey wanted to be devoured.

  Her pulse points hammered and throbbed as his body heat enveloped her. Scorching waves of agony and ecstasy swept over her, destroying her but also making her into a new woman.

  Jude's woman.

  This man had suffered for years. He deserved pleasure. While Ryanne couldn't replace his beloved wife, and didn't want to, she could help him forget the past, if only for a little while.

  Shouldn't she at least try?

  "Don't freak out, okay?" Her whisper caressed the air. She cupped his face and, not giving either of them a chance to think, pulled him down while lifting on her tiptoes. Her lips pressed against his scar, once, twice. The softness...the sweetness of him...

  More.

  He stiffened and wrenched from her hold, but again, he didn't storm off. He glared at her, panting now. She was panting, too, the scent of him teasing her nose. Spiced rum with oranges and a subtle floral note; it wasn't feminine but strangely--deliciously--masculine.

  A whimper escaped her. She was so hungry for him. "You freaked out," she accused.

  He closed h
is eyes for one second, two, before focusing on her with fury...and fiery lust. "You surprised me."

  If she continued with this, she would stoke both the lust and the fury? Probably. He might like it, but he might not forgive her, either.

  She had a choice. Stay here, and risk ruining their relationship before it ever began, or leave, never knowing what could have been.

  No contest. Great risk, great reward. If she walked away, she would always regret not taking a chance.

  Seduce...

  "Did I also turn you on?" Slowly, giving him time to process her intention, she leaned forward to nip at his lower lip. "Because I turned myself on."

  "Ryanne... Wade."

  He had to force himself to put distance between them, didn't he? It no longer came quite so naturally. "Yes, cowboy." Yes.

  With a growl, he dove down and devoured her mouth, his hunger a perfect match to her own. Their tongues dueled, creating a hot tangle of desire. Her nipples crested, needy, and the apex of her thighs ached, liquid need pooling there. As her bones melted, passion surged through her, flooding her. Move, she had to move. She arched her hips--contact! Her throbbing core rubbed against the long, thick length of his erection, and a groan spilled from her.

  In the midst of the earth-shattering kiss, his aloof veneer shed like a winter coat he no longer needed, because the sun had peeked from behind storm clouds at long last. With a hiss born from raw frustration, he seemed to shed a thousand pounds of anger, sadness and pain. She felt their absence, the temperature of his skin heating, arousal ashing everything else.

  "More." He stepped closer to her, forcing her spine flush against the brick wall while smashing his chest into hers.

  Ice cold behind her, searing heat in front of her. The warring temperatures bombarded her with sensation, a tornado of lust ravaging her. Inhibitions were the first casualty.

  She and Jude were outside, in a public setting, but so what. And so the heck what if this man disliked her most of the time. He kissed her as if she were his last meal or the air he needed to survive.

  As if she alone held the key to his happiness.

  "Ryanne." He kicked her legs apart. The action lacked finesse, and yet it electrified her from head to toe.

  Can't get enough of me...

  A cry of abandon split her lips as he ground his shaft between her legs. Currents of passion whisked through her bloodstream. She trembled. She craved.

  How desperately she wanted to strip and ride him, to feel him deep inside her, moving, thrusting, pounding. Finally she would experience everything a man had to give--everything this man had to give.

  "Jude." She pulled at the hem of his shirt, her knuckles brushing the blistering skin that covered his rock-hard abs. Her knees threatened to buckle.

  She might have gone two and a half years without a kiss, but she couldn't go two more weeks...two more days...two more minutes without Jude Laurent.

  "You taste like strawberries," he rasped. "You smell like strawberries, too. How is that possible?"

  "I've lived in this town most of my life. I'm shocked I don't taste and smell like pineapples. Dummy," she teased, and nipped at his bottom lip.

  He chuckled. A husky, rusty chuckle that was ragged at the edges. It shocked them both. In unison, they stilled. Once again their gazes met, clashed. His pupils were blown, what remained of his irises glittering wildly. His cheeks were flushed, and his nostrils flared every time he inhaled.

  So beautiful. I'm not ready for this to end. Ryanne traced a fingertip along the seam of his lips. Such soft lips for such a hard man.

  "No." His eyelids narrowed, and he stepped back, leaving her bereft. A scowl darkened his features.

  Was he about to blame her for what just happened? Would he vow never to come near her again?

  She braced for whatever vitriol he planned to unleash, determined to roll with the punches. She'd known a kiss would upset him, but had plowed full steam ahead, anyway, because she'd wanted him.

  She wanted him still.

  But all he did was take another step back and wipe his mouth with his hand. Then horror replaced his scowl and he took another step back, and another. The silence cut deeper than a knife.

  "Jude," she said. "Care enough to talk to me about what you're feeling." Please.

  "I...won't. I'm sorry, but I won't talk about feelings, and I won't let myself care." He spun on his heel and stalked off, soon disappearing around the corner.

  Ryanne remained in place. Her heartbeat refused to slow, and her bones refused to solidify; they were too hot.

  Deep breath in, out. Won't let myself care.

  Harsh words, and yet she took no offense. Part of him did care, or he wouldn't have to fight it.

  Did he feel like he'd betrayed his wife? Maybe. Probably. Constance had died two and a half years ago, and he'd gone two and a half years without kissing or touching another woman.

  The poor man hadn't wanted pleasure. Actually, he'd done everything in his power to ensure he couldn't, wouldn't, enjoy his life, she realized. Misery had become a treasured friend.

  Been there, hated that.

  Whether he knew it or not, Ryanne had helped him take a step in the right direction. His body had new life--she'd felt every inch of it. He'd been long, hard and thick. For me. Only me.

  Already addicted... One kiss had been too much, obsessing and possessing her, but hundreds...thousands would never be enough.

  Hope joined the festivities. All was not lost. If she could turn Jude on once, surely she could do it again...

  CHAPTER SIX

  WHAT THE HELL did I do?

  Jude burned rubber, hauling ass to the home he shared with Brock. Unfortunately, the thousand-square-foot log cabin in the heart of five wooded acres offered no solace. Nor did the winding creek that split the property into two sections. My half, your half, Brock often joked.

  The wealth of pecan, hickory and oak trees surrounding the property offered a private, tranquil escape from the rest of the world, yet Jude only felt turmoil.

  Granted, he only ever felt turmoil, period. Especially at the Scratching Post. Or anywhere Ryanne Wade happened to be.

  She hadn't dated a man in two and a half years.

  The timing wasn't lost on Jude, and it threw him for a loop. We waited for...each other?

  No. Absolutely not.

  Why did she want him? He'd done nothing to lead her on.

  Idiot! Of course he had. Constantly he watched her. He stared at her lips, riveted, when she spoke. He sought her out, and cock-blocked anyone who flirted with her.

  Damn her. The woman had tied him into knots, and he wasn't sure how much more he could take. Soon he would break.

  Wrong. He'd already broken. That kiss...

  To his utter shock, he hadn't felt a shred of guilt--until the kiss had ended. Now he knew Ryanne's sweet taste. The feel of her silken skin, and the little mewling sounds she made when pleasured. How was he supposed to resist her?

  Easy. If he couldn't resist the owner of a bar, he wasn't a man deserving of Constance's love.

  The bartender who'd served his family's killer hadn't been charged for serving an obviously drunk man or for allowing that man to drive away. And really, Frat Boy hadn't received much of a punishment, either. His ten-year split sentence--five years behind bars, five years on probation--was a joke. Soon the murdering asshole would be out on the streets, ready to murder another family.

  How was that okay? The most ridiculous crimes sometimes came with a severe life sentence, but kill a mother and two young girls and you'd only have to push the pause button on your life for five too-short years.

  Cursing, Jude slammed his fist into the steering wheel again and again. As his knuckles bled and throbbed, his cell phone buzzed, signaling a text had come in.

  If Ryanne had messaged him, expecting to talk about what had happened, he would--what? Say something terrible he could never take back.

  Angry, uncertain--hopeful?--he checked the screen. The ang
er and hope drained as the name Carrie Jones flashed. Constance's mother.

  I found a baby book Coni made for the girls, and I think you should have it. When I saw the pictures inside, well, I laughed through my tears, and I think you will, too. Please, Jude, tell me where you're living so I can send you the book.

  With another curse, he tossed the phone on the floorboard and smashed his fists into his burning eyes. After the car wreck, he'd packed up everything he and Constance owned and shipped the boxes to her parents. When he moved to Strawberry Valley, he'd left his own belongings behind to be sold or tossed, and hadn't told anyone back home. Too raw to handle anyone else's grief, he'd simply cut all ties.

  Through it all, his love for the Joneses had never faded. He'd never known his biological dad, and his mother had washed her hands of him as soon as he could take care of himself, just as she'd done with his sister and three older brothers, each of whom had moved out or run away by Jude's thirteenth birthday. Russ and Carrie had welcomed him into their family with open arms and, through example, taught him how to be a good father to his own children.

  He'd wanted to be a better parent to his girls than his mother had been to him. And unlike his dad, Jude had planned to be there any time his babies needed him. A monster under the bed? Dad to the rescue. Got a hankering to give a makeover--lipstick, hair bows, nail polish, the works? Dad's your man, or model. Can't reach the cookie jar on the kitchen counter? Dad will lift you up so you can pretend to fly.

  But in the end, Jude hadn't been a better parent than his own. He hadn't been there for the girls when they'd needed him most. No, he'd been in bed, recovering from the bomb blast that had taken his leg.

  Not your fault, so many had said. But it had been his fault--he had made the decision to join the army. He had fought to join the Ten against Constance's wishes. He had wallowed in self-pity, refusing to work harder to leave the hospital sooner.

  He was so ashamed. And he was ashamed of his desertion of the Joneses. The past few months, Carrie had contacted him at least once a week. Her grief had eased, he supposed, and she'd found the strength to go through her only daughter's things, and probably assumed he had the strength, too.

  Maybe he should fly to Texas...where his relationship with Constance had begun. Where memories lurked in every corner. He shuddered.