Can’t Get Enough

by Showalter, Gena

  Soon she would be his, at least for a little while. Mine, all mine. He’d never had a “mine” before. And before this whole thing started, he’d never really wanted one. Never wanted the power to hurt someone the way he’d been hurt. Also, he’d firmly believed he shouldn’t take on the responsibility of a family when he could barely take care of himself.

  His father’s will had forced his hand, but Lyndie had changed his mind. For more minutes, hours, days with her, for more of her smiles and laughter and flirting, Brock could handle any responsibility. His shoulders were wide, his body strong. He could and would carry whatever burden proved necessary.

  Every day his nervousness about marrying Lyndie faded another degree. Maybe because he knew the marriage wouldn’t last forever. Just a month of fun and sex. And what was a month? Nothing. He’d lived in a war zone for half a year. Twice!

  Besides, Lyndie didn’t just know the score—she wholeheartedly agreed on it. They would part as friends, something a genuine relationship wouldn’t have afforded them. Probably. Most likely? He didn’t know anymore. Mind scrambled, remember?

  If she got pregnant…

  That, he still sweated. He’d even taken steps…steps Lyndie wouldn’t like and didn’t know about. If she found out…

  He punched the steering wheel, cracking his knuckles. Brock welcomed the pain.

  If he told Lyndie about the steps he’d taken to ensure he could have paternal rights…if ever he chose to exercise them…

  Brock allowed his attorney to talk him into stretching the truth. To adding a “just in case” clause. Just in case Brock decided he did want to be a father to his child. Lyndie would hate him, thinking he’d tricked her—because he had tricked her.

  Trust mattered. Trust was the foundation of any healthy relationship. Break your foundation, and you had nothing to stand upon.

  No, no, he hadn’t tricked her. When he’d said he had no desire to be a father, he’d meant it. At the time. And he’d only given himself the option to assert his parental rights. He might not ever utilize those rights. Really, his only crime was not explaining the ramifications to her. No big deal.

  No big deal? Yeah, right. He knew how staunchly she defended her independence. She had no desire to rely on a man for anything, ever.

  Still, she might not have to find out what he’d done. She might not get pregnant.

  Part of him prayed she didn’t. The other part of him had begun to…like the idea.

  Might be worse than scrambled. Brock pressed his fingers against his temples to ward off an oncoming headache. Of all the women in the world, Brock wanted Lyndie to like him and think of him fondly.

  Miranda’s voice suddenly screamed through his head, memories from a childhood he’d rather forget.

  How could anyone ever love you?

  Have you realized the truth yet? No one likes you. Everyone wants you for your money.

  You worthless piece of trash!

  He was panting, he realized, close to vomiting. For years, he’d felt worthless. Sometimes, though, Lyndie would smile and laugh, and he would feel prized. A sensation he’d come to crave as much as her body—he was already addicted.

  Headlights flashed as Daniel’s truck parked beside Brock’s sedan. He shook his head, clearing his mind of the toxic past, and pasted on a smile as he emerged into the cold night.

  “I hope you’re ready for a night of poker, trash talk, and white-hot…sizzling…snacks.” Grin wide and toothy, Jude lifted a plastic bag filled with Tupperware containers. “Ryanne promised to castrate me if we hired strippers. She also provided the food.”

  As if his friends had any need for strippers. And Brock had no desire. His hands itched for Lyndie, only Lyndie. His mouth watered, desperate to learn her unique flavor. His body hardened for hers, only hers.

  One day the obsession would fade. Of course it would fade.

  The way Jude’s obsession with Ryanne faded? The way Daniel’s obsession with Dorothea faded?

  Brock popped his jaw. He wasn’t like his friends. He wasn’t built for long term. He could win Lyndie over, but only for a short time. If he let her get to know him, truly know him, she would dislike him. With or without learning what he’d done with their prenup.

  “Poker, trash talk and snacks sounds perfect,” Brock said, only a slight bite in his tone.

  He led his friends inside. They would distract him and help him pass the time. In two days, he would marry Lyndie Scott, soon to be Lyndie Hudson. A slow smile spread over his face.

  Any lingering nervousness withered at last, leaving him anticipatory.

  She’s going to be mine.

  * * *

  That same night, Ryanne and Dorothea showed up at Lyndie’s house for a bachelorette party. And dang, she loved her friends something fierce. No one could ask for better allies.

  They vegged out in the living room and watched romantic comedies—French Kiss, Groundhog Day, and because Lyndie couldn’t resist, Pretty Woman. Afterward, they ate ice cream and laughed like loons as she sorted through a surprise gift: a Wedding Night Survival Kit. Inside a plastic box rested a tube filled with rose petals, a jar of honey and vanilla scented lotion, a lacy white teddy, two energy shots, a pumpkin-spice-scented candle, a pregnancy test, a six-pack of mini wine bottles, ibuprofen, a small container of mouthwash, chocolate body paint, four jars of dried soup mix with instructions to add water and heat, and finally—a notebook.

  “Why a notebook?” she asked, confused. Everything else served a purpose.

  Ryanne grinned. “That is a ticket book, baby girl.”

  “You now have the honor of fining Brock every time he does something wrong.” Dorothea’s eyes glittered with amusement. “I predict only good things will come from this.”

  Now Ryanne snickered, only to don a straight face and nod. “Men are simpleminded creatures, and they need to be told about their transgressions, big and small. How else are they going to learn?”

  “You’re doing the world a favor,” Dorothea said with a nod.

  Oh, really? “Or maybe your husbands want me to torture Brock as much as possible?”

  New rounds of laughter abounded.

  Both of her friends glowed, and not just because of the moment or their pregnancies. The two had never been happier, ever. They loved their husbands with every fiber of their beings. They were loved in return, and cherished.

  But not too long ago, the two couples had been miserable.

  Years before, Jude lost his first wife as well as his twin daughters. A drunk driver killed the trio in an instant. Jude hadn’t wanted to want Ryanne, but he’d been helpless to resist. The Latina hottie with sensual brown eyes and a fall of jet-black hair was an unrepentant flirt, but also unwaveringly loyal with a generous heart and selfless spirit.

  Dorothea was just as amazing and just as beautiful with her dark corkscrew curls, big blue eyes, and pale skin covered in freckles. After being bullied in high school and struggling with her weight most of her life, she’d suffered from low self-esteem. Daniel hadn’t helped…at first. Like Brock, commitment had scared him. He’d lost so many loved ones, he’d feared losing Dorothea too and continually pushed her away.

  Though Lyndie and Brock wouldn’t be getting a happily-ever-after, they could enjoy a happily-right-now.

  “Have you guys noticed all the hot guys who have moved to Strawberry Valley in the past year?” Ryanne speared a spoon into a half gallon of butter pecan ice cream. “First Jase Hollister, Beck Ockley, and Lincoln West, then Daniel returned with Jude and Brock in tow.”

  Dorothea wiggled her eyebrows. “Welcome to Strawberry Valley, where hotties live and love happens.”

  “Maybe we’ll get a new batch of rich, handsome bachelors and other single ladies can be swept off their feet,” Lyndie said. Although Brock would regain his bachelor status soon enough.

  Growing stiff, she snatched a half gallon of strawberry ice cream from Dorothea and dug in.

  A snickering Ryanne bumped her sh
oulder. “So you admit Brock swept you off your feet? I knew it!”

  “I admit nothing,” she said in a rush.

  Dorothea took pity on her and wagged a finger at Ryanne. “You leave our sweet Lyndie Belle alone.” Lyndie Belle. Their nickname for her as teens. “She can’t help it if Brock’s man musk sends her hormones into a tizzy.”

  “Man musk?” Lyndie and Ryanne cried in unison.

  Together, the three of them erupted into a fit of giggles, making Lyndie feel like the carefree kid she’d never gotten to be.

  In many ways, Brock, Jude and Daniel were responsible for this amazing moment. They were men with hearts of freaking gold. Daniel had given Dorothea back her smile. Jude had helped heal Ryanne’s inner wounds—wounds that not even Lyndie had known she possessed. And Brock…he was doing things to Lyndie she’d never thought possible. Soothing her even as he heated her.

  Going forward, she’d have to be a lot more careful. Maintaining emotional distance was proving more difficult than she’d ever imagined.

  * * *

  Finally, the big day arrived. And Lyndie wanted to vomit.

  She and her bridesmaids occupied the choir room in the Strawberry Community Church, were the ceremony was set to take place. They were putting the finishing touches on their hair and makeup.

  Cameow and Mega were in the room as well, chasing a ball of yarn. They were part of her family, and she wanted them to participate in the wedding. Cameow was her flower girl, and Mega was her ring bearer.

  Heart galloping, Lyndie made her way to the room’s only full-length mirror. For a moment, as she studied her reflection, she saw nineteen-year-old Lyndie, who was about to marry James. He’d picked her dress for her—a capped-sleeve corset top with a skirt bigger than Texas. Oh, how she’d hated that dress. And because he’d topped out at five-eight, he’d forbidden her to wear heels. She’d somehow felt both dowdy and overdone, but he’d looked at her with such pride that she’d thought: I’m stupid, and he’s right.

  Of course, she’d been worse than stupid back then. She’d been in love. Gag!

  Was twenty-six-year-old Lyndie equally deluded? Blinded by thoughts of finally living her dream and becoming a mother?

  Nope. No way. Brock was nothing like James. He’d kept his word. He hadn’t visited the Scratching Post this week. Instead, he’d spent nearly every spare minute with Lyndie, charming and delighting her. And driving her insane with lust.

  Now she wondered: How many days could she keep his attention after he’d nailed her?

  Stop! Just stop. For all she knew, she’d get pregnant their first time and that would be that. He could go back to his man-whoreish ways and she wouldn’t care.

  Her nails bit into her palms. Maybe she’d care a little.

  Her period had just ended, so she wouldn’t ovulate for another two weeks. If she had sex tonight, and Brock tired of her afterward, she would waste her only shot at having a baby. Maybe he’d want more of her. He certainly seemed to think so. Could she take the risk though?

  One hurdle at a time.

  Right. As she cleared her mind of debris, the gown she had chosen came into focus. Her something new. A Grecian-style masterpiece made of cream-colored silk, formfitting in places but flowing in others. Also made of silk—the pale pink roses and ice-green ivy woven into the skirt. Both simple and elaborate.

  Her something blue? The most gorgeous shoes she’d ever seen. The four-inch heels resembled mini-birdcages. Twined around actual copper bars were tiny porcelain roses in shades of sapphire, cerulean, and cobalt.

  Something old? The comb anchoring the sides of her hair to her crown. A true antique with copper sparrows. Over the years, the copper had developed a gorgeous patina.

  Something borrowed? Two garters. One from Ryanne, one from Dorothea.

  With Lyndie’s pale complexion, she couldn’t pull off heavy foundation. She had to limit her makeup to mascara, rose-colored blush, and matching rose-colored lip gloss. But even with a generous dusting of the blush, she looked white as a ghost and ready to faint.

  No way in heck she would let herself faint. She’d faced tougher situations than this and thrived.

  What would Brock think of her appearance?

  Ugh! What did his opinion matter? His opinion would not control or dictate her choices. This wasn’t a love match but a business arrangement between friends. With fringe benefits. Their marriage would not change her. Unless Brock gave her a reason to go nuclear, she would treat him as an equal. She wouldn’t pamper him, wouldn’t cook and clean for him. The same way he wouldn’t cook or clean for her! She wasn’t his mother or his maid.

  And if she didn’t want to have sex one night, but he did, she freaking wouldn’t have sex. If she didn’t want to shave her legs, she wouldn’t shave her legs.

  Let him complain. See what happened.

  With James, Lyndie had always feared sparking his temper and had felt as if she had to tiptoe on eggshells. She’d stressed about everything every minute of every day. Panic attacks had occurred daily, the entirety of her life drilled down to a single goal: don’t make James mad.

  She’d kept everything organized just the way he liked—by color. One color per room, and only ever pastels. To James, bright colors had been “sickeningly cheerful.”

  Only fools wanted a little cheer in their lives, right?

  Every morning she’d slaved over a hot breakfast, ensuring he had multiple options even though he usually only wanted coffee. Sometimes he’d thrown fits about the waste of food and money, but nothing had compared to the times he’d raged about not having what he wanted, when he wanted it.

  He’d demanded she quit school and refused to let her get a job, claiming she needed time to clean the house, iron his clothing, shop for groceries, and cook dinner. When she’d run errands in town, she’d spoken to no one. Not even Ryanne. Dorothea had been living in the city at the time. And Lord have mercy if James heard through the grapevine that she’d “flirted” with another guy or that she had friends she liked better than her husband, well, she usually ended up in an emergency room.

  Her gaze narrowed, breaths coming a little faster. Never again would she act like a dog eager to please her master. Never again would another person control her thoughts, words, and actions.

  Trust yourself. Trust Brock. All will be well.

  “What’s going on inside that beautiful head of yours, sweat pea?” Ryanne demanded.

  “Nothing,” she said, and forced a grin. “I’m fine.”

  “Oh, please.” Dorothea wagged a finger at her reflection. “Fine is never fine.”

  “In my case, fine is actually a luxury.” Actually, “fine” had once been a goal.

  Her friends flanked her sides, and oh, wow, they looked gorgeous. Lyndie had told them, “Wear your favorite dress, any color, any style,” and they’d taken her instructions to heart. Ryanne wore a crimson stunner with capped sleeves and a hem that ended just below her knees while Dorothea wore a sapphire fit-and-flare with a ruffle and lace hem. Her pregnancy wasn’t obvious yet, but Ryanne was far enough along that her rounded belly could no longer be hidden.

  I’m next. A genuine smile bloomed. Her future included orgasm(s) and a possible pregnancy. And Brock, the sweetest guy she’d ever met. What could be better?

  “Okay, that’s better,” Ryanne said with a nod.

  “You are exquisite.” Dorothea grinned, all teeth and happiness. Nowadays she always grinned. “The most perfect bride I’ve ever seen.”

  Lyndie pivoted to give her beloved friend a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you.”

  Ryanne wiggled her brows and nudged her shoulder. “You’ll look even hotter when the dress comes off tonight.”

  Tonight. The word echoed in her head. Tonight she would experience her first sexual encounter with Brock…and he would see the scars her father and James had left behind.

  Anticipation and excitement drained, replaced by a sudden surge of dread. Her stomach twisted into a thousand tiny knots
. Brock knew the basics of her past. Would he ask detailed questions about her abuse? Did it matter? He could ask, but she didn’t have to answer. What if he found her scars unattractive though? What if he couldn’t perform?

  Making decisions based on what if will only get us in trouble.

  “Uh-oh.” Ryanne took her by the shoulders and forced her to turn. “The look is back. What’s wrong?”

  Had the air thickened? It must have. Every inhalation burned her nose and lungs. “Am I really going to do this? Marrying a man I’ve never even dated. Trying to get pregnant and definitely getting divorced.”

  “Sister dear,” Ryanne said and sighed. For several years, her mother had the horror of being married to Lyndie’s father. Despite the divorce, the bond between stepsiblings had never faded. “If you need time, you get time. It will be handled.”

  No, time was the only thing Brock couldn’t give her. “I adore you for looking out for me, but I’m doing this.”

  “I think you’re on the cusp of an amazing adventure,” Dorothea said. “You’re being proactive, going after what you want. I’m proud of you.”

  “I’m proud of you too.” Ryanne thought for a moment, frowned. “Oh, crap. What if she falls in love with him? He’s got no sticking power.”

  “I won’t fall in love with him.” She might fall in love with him. Already he’d infatuated her. He’d tempted her, delighted her, amused her, and turned her on. He was quite possibly the best guy she knew.

  No, no. She knew better than to fall for a playboy. No way, no how. She wasn’t going to lose herself, remember?

  Except she had, like, zero sense when it came to matters of the heart. Considering she’d only ever slept with James, she could stumble into the same trap that had led to her first wedding, when she’d confused pleasure with emotion.

  James had introduced her body to passion, so of course she had to be in love with him. Granted, he’d saved her from her father’s wrath beforehand, so she’d already been blinded by hero worship.