Cheeks flushing with shame, Selma said, “I only disowned you because you betrayed me, choosing that man over your own flesh and blood. But I’ve forgiven you. We can move on now.”
That man. Earl. The best person she’d ever known. “Talk about him with respect, or don’t talk to me at all. Are we clear?”
The color in Selma’s cheeks deepened, and she shifted uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, cariño. All right? Better?” When Ryanne nodded, she grinned. “I admit I was over the moon when you called me.”
Too little, too late. When Selma disowned her, Ryanne had sobbed. She’d mourned. Then she’d picked herself up, with Earl’s help, and learned to live without her mother.
“Just...go away. Please. We’ll talk later, okay?” The nausea had finally eased, but the urge to cry had escalated. This was her life. No matter how bad things got, something could always be worse.
“Te he extrañado, cariño.” I’ve missed you, sweetheart.
“Is that why you called, texted and wrote me so many letters?” she snapped.
A soft sigh. “I was hurt and jealous, that’s all. You loved that—Earl so much more than you loved me.”
“Do we have to do this now?” She had a choice to make. Sell the Scratching Post to Dushku, admitting defeat, and get a normal job, or find a way to open the bar regardless of the problems. “I need to be alone, need to think. The bar is closed for repairs, so I’ve been opening on the patio, but the parking lot is now a mud lake.”
“Ohhh. You should invite men to strip and mud wrestle. I’d pay good money to see that. Well, I’d let a man pay good money for me to see that.”
Of course her mother would pay to see people—Ryanne’s mind zinged with the possible solution. Mud wrestling. Or better yet, oil wrestling. Oil was sexier than mud, and watching people oil wrestle would give customers a good reason to get dirty.
Pay to play.
They could lay tarps over the ground. A little mud would find its way to the surface, but a little was better than a lot. Or she could do both mud and oil wrestling, filling giant plastic pools with whatever substance she decided, and charging “combatants” ten dollars a match. Plus a cover fee! Food for thought.
If someone got hurt and sued...
Once upon a time, Earl had a mechanical bull. To ride it, patrons had to sign a waiver releasing the bar of any liability, and they had to sign before they’d had a single drink. She could do the same.
“Thank you,” she said, reaching for her phone to call Jude. How excited he would be when he found out—
Would he be excited?
Her shoulders sagged, her eyes burned. “You really need to go, Selma.”
“Selma? I’m your dear momma. You should call me—”
“There’s no time to chat. I have a ton of planning to do.” She leaped to her feet, careful of the kittens, and propelled a sputtering Selma toward the exit.
Opening the door, she spotted Jude, headed straight for her, and her heart thudded. Thank the Lord! He was alive and looked to be uninjured.
He stopped in front of her, their gazes clashing, brown against blue. Concern tightened his features, and locks of sandy-blond hair stuck out in spikes, as if he’d tried to rip out a hunk or two.
“Are you all right?” he asked. “Daniel told me you’ve been throwing up. I thought Dushku might have—” His voice cracked.
Might have what? Poisoned her? And Jude had worried about her health? “No, I’m fine,” she assured him, her tone gentle. “How are Savannah and the boy?”
“You’re sure you’re okay?” he insisted.
“Yes.”
Relief brightened his expression. “I’m not sure about Savannah. She chose to leave with someone else.”
What! Why? “As long as she’s safe from Dushku, I’m happy, I guess.”
“Who’s Savannah? Who’s Dushku?” Selma fanned her face as she looked over Jude. “And just who are you, hermoso?”
“No! Absolutely not. Do not flirt,” Ryanne barked. Not with him. “He’s off-limits forever.” Not that saying “off-limits” had ever done any good with her mother.
“What?” Selma wiggled her brows. “I’m single, still young, and I appreciate a man with—”
“Stop. Just stop.” Please. “You don’t want my sloppy seconds, okay?” Oh, crap! Had she really just said that? She cast an apologetic look to Jude.
He looked far from offended. In fact, he studied Selma for several long moments, and his eyes narrowed to tiny slits. From anger—or attraction?
Of course he found her mother attractive. Who didn’t?
“Oh! Do tell, baby girl. How was he?” Selma bumped their shoulders together. “Spill. Start with every inch of him covered and end with him naked and exhausted.”
Tell her mother about Jude’s spectacular bedroom prowess? Gag!
Ryanne gave the woman a gentle push into the hall, at Jude’s side. The two looked good together. She gnashed her teeth. “I’ll be opening the Scratching Post tomorrow night.” Though she would prefer to wait till the end of the week, after she’d done some planning and spoken to her lawyer, she had to capitalize on the town’s ignorance of what had happened to her parking lot. Rather than feeling sorry for her, people might think she’d created the mess on purpose. For fun. “If you decide to stop by, wear clothes you don’t mind getting dirty. It’s going to be oil and/or mud wrestling night.”
“You’re using my idea?” Selma grinned and clapped. “See, cariño. We make such a good team!”
Jude seized the opportunity to enter the room and bid Selma a swift adieu by closing the door in her stunned face. “Oil and/or mud wrestling?” He cocked an eyebrow at Ryanne before striding to the bed to cuddle and pet the kittens.
Dang it, she’d gone too long without hearing the sound of his voice. Now the huskiness of his tone stroked her ears, and she wanted to purr like the kittens.
And what a glorious picture he made. The alpha male with a clowder of fragile felines. Worse, his scent permeated the room, intoxicating Ryanne, making her body clench with longing. Her blood heated, and her bones seemed to begin the slow process of liquefying. A reaction only he could cause.
Stay strong. “You got a problem with oil and mud wrestling, or just the survival of my bar?”
He flinched. “I thought you forgave me for the smile.”
She had. She really had. Ashamed of herself for lashing out—again—she replied, “You’re right. I’m sorry. I have no excuse for my behavior. Except for all the excuses I have. My mother, throwing up a million times and Dushku’s latest plot against me.”
“You’re forgiven. And I promise you, Ryanne, I would never want your home or livelihood destroyed. If you can’t trust me about anything else, at least trust me about that.”
The urge to jump into his arms, to hold on and never let go, bombarded her. The urge to use his chest as a punching bag followed. How light and free she’d felt last time. The urge to drop to her knees and cry—no laugh, no cry—came last, and lingered.
What the heck was wrong with her?
She’d never been this emotional. It was just, Jude was so sweet, so concerned for her.
Well, she’d decided to resist him romantically, so, she had better freaking start resisting him. Not just when it was easy, but especially when it was hard...so wonderfully hard.
Staring at his fly? Bad, Ryanne. Bad!
Bad Jude. That fly grew...and grew...
“I want your bar to succeed,” he said, his voice smoke and gravel now, “and I think oil wrestling is a great idea. But you’ve been sick. You should be in bed, not planning a major event.”
“I was sick. As you can see, I’m feeling better.” Without depression and defeat weighing her down, her energy returned and her stomach fully settled. “And I do have a l
ot of planning to oversee, so...”
“I’ll help. Tell me what you want done, and I’ll take care of it. You’ll rest.” As he spoke, he carried the kittens to the bathroom, two at a time. He had a slight limp today, and it tugged at her heartstrings.
“What are you doing?” Ryanne asked.
“Giving us a little privacy.”
She gulped. “Because you’re afraid the kittens will gossip about our conversation?” Alone or in a crowd, it didn’t matter. Nothing was going to happen today. Probably.
“Because I don’t want to corrupt their innocent eyes.”
“Please tell me you’re thinking about murdering me.” That, she could fight. If he kissed her...
“Some people do consider pleasure a weapon.”
Poo on a stick!
“All you have to do is resist me,” he said, “and I’ll stop.”
That. That was the problem. Could she?
“We want different things, Jude.”
“We want each other, Ryanne.” When Belle joined her babies, he shut the bathroom door and approached Ryanne. She lost her breath and stepped back. The exit blocked her retreat. Her heart began to beat harder, faster, and the air crackled with awareness.
Only a whisper away, he rasped, “My body craves yours every moment of every day. Does yours crave mine?”
The hope and heartbreak in his tone tore her insides to shreds. Resist! “Cravings aren’t always good for us.”
Unabashed, he forged ahead. “You always remind me of strawberry shortcake. You are the tastiest treat in town.” His cheek nuzzled hers, his beard stubble tickling her sensitive skin. “In the world.”
Softening...
Buck up. Stay strong. Ryanne reached out to push him away...but ended up curling her fingers into the collar of his shirt. He was deliciously muscular, tough and hot, and she was weak and needy, tremors prancing along her spine.
Panting, she met his gaze. To her delight, he was panting, too.
“I need you, Ryanne, and you need me. Give me a chance to prove it.”
“We shouldn’t...”
“Oh, shortcake. We should.”
The endearment weakened her knees, as always, but the ragged tone he used...pure, unadulterated desire.
Stay. Strong. “I wanted to... I mean, I should have... I expected... Argh!” Whatever. She’d tried, and failed. Now she would enjoy. “I can’t resist you,” she admitted, and triumph turned his navy blues into sapphires. “But this is the last time. This is goodbye.” Closure for them both.
Now his eyes darkened. “This isn’t goodbye. I’ll never tell you goodbye. This is hello.” Before she could protest, his lips crashed against hers, his tongue thrusting inside her mouth.
She melted against him, welcoming him, kissing him back as if her life depended on it. And in a way, it did. This was goodbye. As much as it pained her, they would be better off as friends.
His sweet taste invaded her senses. No, not just invaded. Overtook. He was pure aggression, a conquering warrior, determined to have his woman. His prize.
I’m not his woman or his prize. Constance is. Constance always will be.
But here, now, for this brief, stolen moment, he would belong to Ryanne.
“Don’t stop,” she rasped.
He required no further encouragement, ripping at the waist of her pants, shoving the material down her legs, along with her soaked panties. On his knees, he devoured her, paying homage or supplication, or both, drawing moan after moan from her. Moans he answered in kind.
Her legs trembled and her nails dug into his scalp as his tongue flicked, working her into a frenzied state, where only pleasure mattered. He reached up to play with her breasts, pluck at her nipples, and drive her far more insane. Just when she was about to break apart at the seams, he stopped, stood.
Argh! “Jude!”
“Not yet.” He ripped open his jeans and pushed his underwear underneath his testicles, freeing his massive erection.
A new flood of arousal pooled between her legs. He lifted her, forcing her to lock her ankles behind his waist...
And then he kissed her again, letting her taste herself on his lips. Then, oh, then, he slammed inside her.
Pleasure consumed her; the most intense orgasm of her life. It tore her down and built her back up. Moans and mewls flowed from her lips, practically a song. Something was different this time...something...what? Can’t think. As he hammered in and out of her, harder, faster, she had to bite the cord between his neck and shoulder to contain a scream.
The orgasm continued to build...and build...until a second exploded through her.
As she clenched and unclenched on his length, Jude joined her, shouting her name, grunting, then shuddering against her while jetting inside her.
His shoulders sagged, and he leaned into her, pressing her more firmly against the wall. His heart raced in sync with hers, the puffs of their breathing flowing together.
For a long while, neither of them spoke. Too afraid to ruin the moment?
Her legs trembled and eventually slid down, down. Waves of sadness washed over her as her feet rested on the floor. Was this truly the last time she would be with Jude?
He straightened, pulling from her, severing contact, and she finally realized what had been different. He hadn’t worn a condom. For the first time, he hadn’t been hypervigilant about protection.
Maybe he was ready to take their relationship to the next—
What are you doing? Stop! That line of thought would only set her up for another failure.
“You don’t have to worry about your little swimmers, if any still happen to be active.” Even though she’d thrown up her birth control this morning, she’d just had a period. It had been lighter than usual, and shorter to boot, but it had been a period all the same.
He sucked in a breath, as if only just realizing he’d forgotten a latex barrier.
See! He wasn’t ready.
“I want to stay here with you,” he said as he righted his clothing, “but I’ll leave if you tell me to go.”
Too vulnerable to deal. Trembling, she dressed. “I...yes. Go.” Stay. “I want to be alone. Thank you for understanding.”
“Ryanne.”
“No.” Unwelcome tears burned her eyes as she gave him a nudge into the hall. “Goodbye, Jude.”
As she shut the door, his gaze remained on hers until the last possible moment, his features pale, breaking what remained of her heart. There at the end, she thought she heard him whisper, “Hello, Ryanne.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHEERS ECHOED THROUGH the night. Three rival towns had come together to engage in the ultimate showdown. Strawberry Valley, Blueberry Hill and Grapevine. In three different plastic pools, citizens challenged each other to oil wars. Others watched.
Jude had donned a special boot in order to protect his prosthesis from mud and oil. He stood off to the side, ready to spring into action if anyone got too rowdy—or Dushku struck. The man had to be fuming about Savannah and Thomas, not to mention Ryanne’s ingenious plan. A true lemons to lemonade story.
To Jude’s knowledge, the Scratching Post had never drawn such a large crowd. Even Glen Baker, the guy who’d almost given his number to Ryanne at Daniel’s engagement party, had come.
Jude had run a background check on him. As Glen had admitted to Ryanne, he’d recently lost his job. What he hadn’t told her: he was being investigated for stealing from the company.
If he put his sticky fingers anywhere near Ryanne, he would lose them.
Sutter and the waitresses worked the crowd, while “snack specialist” Caroline Mills walked around with a basket in her arms, selling sandwiches wrapped in plastic.
Jude was happy for Ryanne and her success. He just wasn’t ha
ppy for himself.
He’d had mind-blowing, unforgettable sex with her, like a junkie who’d needed another fix. He’d suffered so much for so long; she offered euphoria—then took euphoria away. Now he was twitchy. Desperate.
Seeing her every day and not having the freedom to kiss, touch and hold her was worse than taking a knife to the chest.
Hello.
Goodbye.
He’d only been fooling himself. Ryanne might want him, but she didn’t want to want him. Their roles had reversed. She fought her attraction to him the way he’d once fought his attraction to her.
He hated it, but what could he do? He’d damaged their relationship beyond repair.
He would be better off returning to Midland. Strawberry Valley offered prolonged torment, nothing more. What would happen the day Ryanne decided to date another man? Jail time, that’s what.
So, decision made. As soon as he’d taken care of Dushku, Jude would move back to Texas. Carrie and Russ would be pleased.
Daniel and Brock would be upset, but they would understand.
“You should be in one of those rings, big boy.” Selma sidled up to him and wiggled her perfectly plucked brows. “I’d love to see your dirtiest moves.”
Flirting with him? You’ve got to be kidding me. She was a beautiful woman, and he could see where Ryanne had gotten her innate sensuality, but the only thing he wanted to do to Selma was shake her. She should have taken better care of her only child.
Like I have room to judge.
“Please don’t hit on me, ma’am. I’m kind of dating your daughter.”
She wagged a finger in his face. “Don’t you dare ma’am me. I’m young. Vibrant.”
“And in denial.”
“Anyway. I know all about your sexual escapades with my girl. But tell me this, macho man. Has she forbidden you from having fun when the two of you aren’t together?”
Right on cue, someone in the ring called out, “I got mud on my boots and oil in my butt crack. Gonna need a rubber hose to get it all out.”
“Excuses, excuses,” someone else shouted. “Admit it. You’re just hoping for a little backdoor action.”
Can't Let Go--A Bad Boy Romance Page 22