Can't Let Go

by Gena Showalter

  The command nearly undid him. He hesitated but ultimately reached for the hem and eased the material overhead.

  A sharp intake of her breath made the fire crackling inside him burn hotter. Sensual smoke filled his mind.

  "Oh, wow," she said, and fanned her cheeks. "Good news for you, bad news for me. I have a replacement shirt for you. Well, maybe this is bad news for you, too. I keep a few clothing items in my office as a 'just in case' for customers. You get to pick between a double XL T-shirt with a bikini printed on the front, or a small T-shirt with the Scratching Post's logo."

  "Give me the bikini," he said, doing his best to ignore her admiration of him.

  "Is it because your muscles will rip the small one like you're the Hulk? Good thinking." With a smile she tried unsuccessfully to hide, she tossed the requested garment in his direction. He caught it and yanked the material on, then pitched the ruined one in a trash can.

  She pressed her lips together. "Who knew you'd look so good in a bikini?"

  "I did. Brock and Daniel, too."

  Now she snorted. "If you tell me you've worn a real bikini, I will absolutely, one hundred percent, insist on seeing pictures."

  "I lost a bet and as my punishment, I had to sport a two-piece G-string on the beach. I threatened to kill anyone who took pictures--so of course both Brock and Daniel have hundreds."

  She giggled and the happiness returned. This time, he basked.

  "I need to borrow your laptop so I can change the code to every lock in the building," he said. "And if it's okay, I'll work up here tonight to keep an eye on the security cameras." No way he would be leaving her side any time soon. As added protection, he would text his friends and have them begin the search for whatever cameras Dushku had placed inside and out.

  "Sure thing." She walked over and gently placed her hand in his. Her skin was soft and warm--it was life. Slowly, giving him time to protest, she lifted his fingers to press his knuckles against her cheek. "I'm glad you're okay, cowboy."

  He closed his eyes tight, knowing he needed to man up and fight her allure. But she felt so good. The connection to her felt good, and damn it, he was tired, so tired, of fighting.

  "I thought you were covered in their blood, but some of it belongs to you." Her voice was infinitely tender. "You injured yourself in an effort to defend me."

  A vine of thorns seemed to sprout inside his throat. "I've had worse." He peered at her again; somehow, she'd become even more beautiful. "Do you want to talk about what happened down there?"

  Maintaining her hold on him, she shrugged. "You took out the trash. What more is there to say?"

  Blink, blink. "I took out the trash violently. You should fire me, or at least order me to control my temper." Why wasn't she frightened of him? Of Dushku? This was only the beginning. This battle marked a turning point for the war. "Tell me to apologize to Dushku. Something! Now he's going to up his game. No more minor inconveniences and veiled threats, guaranteed. He'll come after you, as well as the bar."

  She arched a brow. "First, an apology wouldn't do either of us any good. Not with a man like him. Second, why will he come after me, but not you?"

  Hurting Ryanne was the best way to strike at Jude.

  Dushku had done his homework. He knew Jude had failed to protect his family from a drunk driver. If Jude failed to protect Ryanne as well, his guilt and mental anguish would never be appeased.

  When he remained silent, she sighed. "I'll deal with whatever comes. Thanks to you, I've taken a boatload of precautions."

  I'll deal, she'd said. Not we'll deal. Thinking you're ready for anything and actually being ready for anything were two different animals. "Your trip to Rome," he grated. "Leave now. Today. I'll deal with Dushku and the bar." There was no line he wouldn't cross, no task too dark.

  "Jude, honey, there's something you need to know about me. I'll never do what a man commands. Call it a quirk. And even if you were to wise up and ask nicely, my answer would remain no." Silky locks danced at her temples as she shook her head. "I'll be staying here, with you."

  "Why?"

  "Because."

  "Because why?" he insisted.

  "Because!" She raised her chin, the picture of feminine stubbornness and sexy beyond belief, as strong and brave as the soldiers he'd once served with. Her grip on his hand tightened. "I don't run from my problems."

  The way he'd been running from his desire for her?

  A muscle twitched in his jaw. He wanted her, yes, but he also refused to insult his wife's memory by being with someone who sold drinks to potential motorists, even someone like Ryanne, who fought against drunk driving to the best of her ability.

  He bit the inside of his cheek. Ryanne wasn't looking for anything serious, so his lack of attachment and attention afterward wouldn't hurt her.

  Perhaps they were perfect for each other?

  Damn it, the lines between black and white had begun to blur. This woman had well and truly screwed up his head. Well, screwed up his head more.

  If he took her profession out of the equation, he would already be on her, lost in the throes. Sex could be basic, primal, but it didn't have to mean anything.

  If it didn't mean anything to him, would it--he--insult Constance's memory more or less?

  Worry about the particulars later. He needed to work Ryanne out of his system now. Until he did, she would obsess him.

  Rationalizing never helped anyone.

  Afterward, he would feel guilt, he was sure of it, but he could deal. He would have to deal, because he didn't have the strength to walk away. Not tonight.

  I'll never give up.

  I'm sorry, Constance. I'm alive, and I'm going to live.

  "You should go downstairs," he said, his tone flat. "And you should hurry."

  Her eyes widened--with arousal or fear, he wasn't sure which. Still she clung to his hand. "Or what?"

  Arousal. Definitely arousal. Her breathless voice shattered what remained of his control.

  "Or you're going to get fucked."

  CHAPTER NINE

  RYANNE REELED, UNABLE to catch her breath. Jude was in her apartment. Gorgeous Jude, who looked a little shell-shocked by the intensity of his desire for her. Sexy Jude, whose gaze remained locked on her as he removed the shirt she'd given him.

  As if she could leave now. The man was cut with muscle, enhanced by sinew. In the light, his bronzed skin appeared dusted with gold, and his plethora of tattoos only added to his masculine appeal. A heart in the center of his chest, pierced by five different swords. On the handle of each sword was a name. Constance. Bailey. Hailey. Daniel. Brock.

  Constance, his wife. Bailey and Hailey, his twin daughters.

  Ryanne's own heart squeezed. Over and under Jude's tattoo was a detailed countryside, complete with trees and winding roads.

  She wondered if the countryside reminded him of home while overseas?

  Her gaze followed the trail of golden hair leading from his navel to the waist of his jeans, and she groan-gasped. An odd sound. An animal sound. He was already hard, and his erection appeared to be as thick as her wrist, so long the glistening tip stretched above the waist of his jeans.

  Something had changed for--and in--him. He hadn't made a token offer. You're going to get fucked. He'd meant what he'd said. She could have him. Here and now.

  Things had just gotten real.

  She'd gone two and a half years without a man...not that she'd ever had one. So. Scratch that. She'd gone two and a half years without kissing or making out or even hand-holding, and now she was dealing with a sexual god.

  "I notice you're not running for the door." Jude's voice was low and husky now, setting her blood on fire.

  "The only place I'm willing to run to is my bedroom." She walked away, but didn't actually stop in her bedroom. Instead, she ended up in the bathroom.

  As she'd hoped, Jude followed.

  The large space had counters made of Italian marble, mirrors framed by hand-hammered brass from Scotla
nd and wall tiles that created a beautiful Spanish mosaic of colorful flowers. Beside the Victorian claw-foot tub was a shower stall complete with steamer, rainspout and her beloved bench. That stall was her most extravagant indulgence.

  Jude took hold of her hand, as if he couldn't bear to be parted from her. For some reason, the new position was far from comforting. It said: you are well and truly trapped.

  He was the spider, and she was the fly.

  Shivers danced through her as he clasped her by the waist and anchored her against him.

  "Jude." So hot, so hard.

  He swooped in, thrusting his tongue into her mouth. He conquered. He owned. The heat of him scorched her, the stubble of his beard abrading her cheeks, sending tingles straight to her core.

  He kissed her slow, and he kissed her fast. He kissed her as if he had no tomorrow. As if his dying wish had just been granted: Ryanne, in his arms. Warm honey seemed to flow through her, softening her--hardening him further. His muscles bunched underneath her hands, and the shaft he rubbed between her legs began to cover more and more ground.

  Desire fogged her head, and for a moment, she felt as if she were in an X-rated dream. Her nails curled into his shoulders, scraped through his hair. He nipped at her bottom lip--approval. When he cupped her breasts, her nipples puckered for him; they wanted his approval, too.

  A growl rose from him, and it was pure auditory porn. More shivers danced through her.

  About to reach a point of no return...

  Okay, she really needed to think this through, maybe weigh the pros and cons. Sex with Jude, here and now, during work hours. A delicious idea. But. Despite all her flirting, she hadn't learned much about the man. Plus, his low opinion of her hadn't really changed.

  Did she trust him not to brag to others about nailing her? Strangely enough, yes. Could she trust him not to cheat on--

  Whoa. How could he cheat? They hadn't agreed to any sort of commitment, only momentary pleasure.

  "Ryanne?" He lifted his head, his warm breath fanning over the lower part of her face. "A second ago, you were eating my face. Now you're stiff and unresponsive. What's wrong?"

  Head check! Ryanne jolted from his arms and took a step back, remaining out of reaching distance. "I can't do this. You don't even like me."

  His brow furrowed, his eyelids slitting. "I like you. I just don't like what you make me feel."

  "Or maybe you like what I make you feel too much?" The question lashed from her.

  He glowered but nodded. "Maybe. Probably. Definitely." His gaze remained steady as he unclasped the button on his fly. "How do I make you feel?"

  Heated breath snagged in her lungs, and goose bumps rose, sensitizing her skin. The tingles returned. Between her legs, she ached. "You make me feel--" Sexy. Powerful but vulnerable. As if I'm standing in the middle of a storm but also flying. "--curious. How can you like me? I'm the bane of the world, remember?"

  Let's say they hooked up. Would they cuddle afterward, or would he rush out the door, hating himself for what he'd done? Or worse, would he blame her for any perceived weakness in his resolve to avoid her? And like she'd told him, she wasn't in the market for a long-term boyfriend. As a teenager, she'd made a vow. She would not become her mother, and her happiness would never depend on a man.

  "Will this be a one-time thing?" she asked.

  Jude toyed with the top of his zipper, teasing her with what she wanted but couldn't have. "I like you," he repeated. "Don't make me try to explain why or how. I just do. And yes, this will be a one-time thing."

  He'd just told her everything she'd wanted to hear, so why did she experience a flicker of disappointment?

  Didn't matter. Two of her worries had been alleviated. He liked her, and they both wanted a one-night stand. Did anything more need to be discussed?

  Well, yes. One thing.

  Mimicking him, proving she could tease, too, she played with the button on her jeans. "You want me, then you can have me. But first you've got to compliment me. Just one. Tell me something you like about me."

  As he watched her, riveted by the movements of her fingers, his pupils swallowed his irises. What he didn't do--lower his zipper. Imbecil!

  "I'd rather touch you," he said, "and show you the parts of you I like best."

  Tempting, so very tempting. "Compliment me, then," she insisted.

  A vein pulsed in his temple, but he grated, "I'm glad I met you."

  "That's not a compliment but a statement of fact." He'd taught her the difference. "Why are you glad you met me?"

  "You--" A low growl rumbled in his chest. "Damn you, you brought me back to life."

  She gasped.

  He yanked her into his embrace, crashing his lips into hers.

  Swept up in a searing wave of desire, she poured herself into the kiss, tasting him, devouring him, becoming addicted all over again. Their panting breaths blended, his every inhalation marked by her every exhalation, until they survived on the other's air. This couldn't be real. Men only kissed women like this in books and movies.

  Anticipation collided with a sense of contentment. There was no man so danged perfect.

  Really going to do this?

  Yes. Yes! She was going to do it. She was going to give herself to Jude.

  Should she tell him she was--technically--a virgin?

  "Take off your shirt," he commanded.

  New shivers of excitement danced through her. No, she wouldn't tell him. What if he stopped?

  She obeyed his command, revealing her lacy pink bra. Cool air kissed her bared flesh, and yet, inside she continued to heat up, her bones seeming to crackle with flames. Her tremors worsened, remaining on her feet a chore. Every fiber of her being longed to stretch out on the floor, his weight pressed against her as her hips cradled his.

  "Jude." She flattened her palms on his chest, his nipples hard little points against her skin.

  His gaze perused her, aggression radiating from him. "I want more of you. Take off your pants."

  He was so fierce, so male, she only wanted more of him, too. But she forced herself to say, "And deprive myself of a show? No way, cowboy. It's your turn to take something off."

  She would give, but she would also take.

  Without a moment of hesitation, he kicked off his boots. Zzzzzip. Down went his zipper. He lowered his jeans, kicked the denim out of the way, and her heart nearly beat its way out of her chest. He wore white boxer briefs, his leanly muscled physique the sexiest she'd ever seen.

  "Now it's your turn," he rasped. "Show me everything."

  Nibbling on her bottom lip, she toed off her shoes and slipped out of her jeans, revealing pink lace panties to match her bra.

  He stopped breathing, his chest no longer rising and falling. "You..."

  "Yes?"

  "You are exquisite. And I'm...not." He motioned to the sleeve art covering the prosthesis. It had an American flag.

  She'd done a little research and knew the metal appendage had a custom-made socket, a pylon and a foot. A pin on the end allowed the liner to lock into the socket.

  "This is me," he added. "Broken."

  "You aren't broken. You are perfect." And that wasn't a lie.

  Maybe he believed her, maybe he didn't. He wouldn't meet her gaze as he said, "Give me a few minutes to shower off the blood. Alone," he said, his voice now hard and uncompromising. "I have to remove the prosthesis. It's sensitive to moisture, and I'd rather not have you--"

  "Whoa. You want me to leave when things are just getting good? I don't think you understand. Water is going to drip down your muscles, and that's a show I'd pay to see." Did he think the missing limb bothered her? Or was the strong man embarrassed to reveal a weakness, and didn't want her to see him hop or crawl into the shower? Was he too proud to ask her for help? Well, too bad. "I'm going to shower with you and that's that."

  When she twined her fingers with his, he stared at her, silent, for a long while. But he didn't protest.

  "Want to know a secre
t?" she asked. "I've been attracted to you since the second I laid eyes on you. Getting to know you has only made me want you more."

  "Ryanne," he croaked.

  "Want to know another secret?"

  Appearing dazed, he nodded.

  She rose to her tiptoes and whispered, "I'm eager to get my hands on you."

  He jolted, as if punched. Then he drew in a heavy breath, slowly released it. "You're killing me. You know that, right?"

  A slow smile bloomed. "The French call an orgasm la petite mort. The little death. I hope I kill you well."

  Another jolt. With his free hand, he reached inside the stall to turn the knobs. Water streamed from multiple spouts, and in seconds, sultry steam thickened the air. He didn't enter, but released her to sit on the vanity stool, where he removed the covering from his prosthesis, pushed the lock on the ankle and removed the device from his leg. Next he rolled a thicker piece of cloth from his leg, and she saw his injury for the first time. Scars circled the top while the bottom appeared red and irritated.

  Compassion squeezed at her. How much pain did he endure on a daily basis?

  Though she longed to kneel before him, massage his knotted muscles and kiss every single scar, she remained in place, several feet away, and played with the straps of her bra. "My turn."

  As soon as his gaze lifted and glued to her, she undid the center clasp. He sucked in a breath, tense as he waited for the straps to fall down her arms. A smile bloomed at the corners of her mouth as she held the bra's cups to her breasts, forcing the material to remain in place.

  "How badly do you want to see my breasts?" she asked.

  "Badly. Now stop teasing." He scowled at her one moment, and devoured her with his eyes the next. "I want to see every inch of the body I've been craving."

  He craves me...

  Shivers slid down her spine, a groan of need nearly wrenched from her. "You mean this body?" She let the bra fall to the floor at long last. The kiss of cool air. Her nipples puckered, begging for his attention, ignored too long, now desperate.

  He sucked in a breath and gripped his knees. To stop himself from reaching for her?

  "How about these? Should I get rid of them?" Empowered by his admiration, Ryanne hooked her fingers in the waist of her panties and pushed the lace down one inch...two...only to pause and draw the material back up. "Perhaps I'll leave them on."

  He swiped his tongue over his teeth. "If you were the enemy, Wade, and this were an interrogation technique, I'd be screwed."