Can’t Get Enough

by Showalter, Gena

  “I understand.” He brushed the tip of his nose against hers. “In the meantime, we can make these next two weeks of extended foreplay feel like heaven and hell on earth.”

  She snorted. Then, oh then, she softened against him, leaning forward to press her chest flush against his. Male to female. Heated skin to heated skin. “Consider this your formal invitation to join me in the shower…pickle.”

  Now this was a work-reward program he could get behind. “I prefer precious.”

  “How about Hugsy Wugsy? Chippendale? Casanova?”

  “Ding, ding, ding. We have a winner. You will now call me Hugsy Wugsy,” he said, knowing she would rather choke.

  She sputtered for a moment, only to burst into a fit of giggles. “Very well. After our bodies and minds are clean, we can cook dinner, my sweet Hugsy Wugsy. I didn’t eat at the reception.”

  “Nope. Sorry. I agreed never to cook for you, remember? Something about you not wanting to get used to relying on my amazing services.”

  “We can make an exception this once,” she said and nipped his chin.

  Didn’t want to part from him? He grinned. “All right then. I won’t just help you cook. I’ll cook, and you’ll watch. But only this once, and only because I’m a nice hugsy wugsy.” He kissed her lips, a quick peck…but a peck would never be enough with Lyndie. He kissed her again, and this time he lingered, tasting, savoring.

  When finally he lifted his head, she gazed up at him with hazy eyes. Her cheeks were rosy, her lips red and slightly bee-stung. Her chest rose and fell in swift succession.

  She’d become the incarnation of desire.

  “I look forward to feeding you…,” he began.

  “If you tell me you’re going to feed me your penis—” She traced a fingertip down the center of his chest.

  “My penis,” he hurried to finish.

  “I…might just take you up on the offer.” When she realized what he’d said, she barked out yet another laugh. “Or I might not. Only time will tell.”

  Prim and proper Lyndie Scott had a wicked sense of humor, and he loved it.

  Feeling like the king of the world, Brock led her into the bathroom where he stripped her of her last remaining article of clothing—her bra. Freeing her beautiful breasts at last, he cupped and kneaded the plump flesh, then licked and sucked her perfect little cotton candy nipples. All of Lyndie was cotton candy.

  As she moaned and groaned, her fingers combed through his hair with enough force to ensure his head remained where it was.

  She likes what I do to her.

  Slow down. Savor this time.

  He worked the knobs in the shower until hot water sprayed from the spout. Soon steam thickened the air. Facing his wife, he noticed how beautifully her nipples glistened from the moisture left behind by his mouth, how his beard stubble had etched little pink scratches on the sides of her breasts. How the tiny bruise he’d sucked at the base of her neck stood out against the paleness of her skin.

  Marked her as mine.

  One day he would mark her another way. Her body might grow to accommodate his child.

  A child he might or might not claim.

  His hands fisted as a sharp lance of devastation cut through his chest.

  She reached up to toy with the ends of his hair, oblivious to the turmoil raging inside him. Or maybe not so oblivious. Maybe she sought to distract him. “What did you say to me, there at the end of our make-out session?”

  Get control of your thoughts. Now. “I said, Je bande pour toi. French for I’m hard for you.” True then…true now. Despite coming only minutes ago, he wanted Lyndie all over again.

  “How’d you learn all these languages?”

  “Army sent me all over the world, but I only learned come-ons.”

  Her eyes glittered with amusement, but her tone was dry as she said, “Of course you did. My playboy likes his pleasure.”

  “Playman, Scottie. Playman. Now, less talking and more showering.”

  “Sir, yes, sir.”

  Brock removed what remained of his clothing, entered the stall, and held out his hand. Lyndie accepted, and he tugged her close…closer still. They stood face-to-face, the hot cascade of water raining over them, the steam turning the stall into a true midnight fantasy.

  “Want to know another secret?” Lyndie asked.

  “I want to know all your secrets. FYI you have the best secrets.”

  She beamed at him, even petted his chest. “I don’t know how I resisted this”—delicate feminine fingers wrapped around his shaft—“for so long.”

  Air hissed between his teeth as pleasure stampeded him. “Scottie, sweetheart, I hate to point out the obvious, but you’re still resisting it.”

  If she’d given him the go-ahead—while still in her right mind and not moaning in pleasure, begging him to take what she hadn’t wanted to offer only minutes before—he would have already lifted her up, pressed her against the tiles, and slammed deep inside her. Her inner walls would have closed around his length, gloving him, and he would—

  Stop! Focus on the moment. Focus on what is, not on what could be.

  He hadn’t yet earned the full breadth of her trust, but he would.

  “Oh, that’s right. How almost cruel of me.” With a coquettish smile, she released him and reached for a bar of soap. Then she turned, presenting him with her back. “Wash me?”

  His gaze traveled down the elegant ridges of her spine only to jerk back up. A sharp lance of fury pierced him straight through the heart. Between her shoulder blades and just over the curve of her ass, scars formed crisscross patterns. Scars of the same size and shape marred her abdomen as well, just as she’d said, most likely caused by multiple strikes of a belt buckle. If her father and ex weren’t already dead, Brock might have killed them both.

  She went rigid, as if she’d discerned the direction of his thoughts.

  He kissed her shoulder. Forcing a light, airy tone, he said, “You are definitely cruel, a straight-up femme fatale, but don’t you dare stop. I love every second of it.”

  The tension left her, and she melted against him. He knew she reveled in her feminine power over him, and that was okay. He reveled in her.

  Brock took the offered soap, wrapped his arms around her, and worked his hands into a lather. As she rested her head on his shoulder, he massaged the soap into her breasts…along her stomach…between her legs… Her little panting breaths drove him wild.

  His erection fit between the cheeks of her ass as he rinsed her off.

  “My turn to wash you?” she ask, sounding hopeful.

  “Not yet. I’m loath to give up my position.”

  “And I’m the cruel one? You’re stopping me from putting my hands on you.”

  “Yes, Red, you are still the cruel one. I’m not going to seek revenge though. No, I’m going to reward you instead and take you on a honeymoon. I know you said you want to stay home, and we will…but how about staying in one of my homes? I have three. Or rather, we have three—a penthouse in Manhattan, a Bel Air spec house in LA, and a private island off Florida.”

  She glanced at him over her shoulder, her amber eyes wide. Water droplets caught in the tantalizingly long length of her lashes. “You own all that?”

  “We do. For now.” They were family. What belonged to him belonged to her. “But I’m thinking about selling.”

  “Why?” A second later, she stiffened and shook her head. “Never mind. Not my business.”

  He wanted to assure her that she could ask him anything she wanted, whenever she wanted, but they were venturing into dangerous territory.

  Earlier she’d claimed learning about him turned her on, but how long would her fascination last? His own mother hadn’t liked him, much less loved him. And okay, yes, logically he knew the blame for that rested on Miranda’s shoulders. He knew Lyndie valued him.

  You are not the person she says you are. Understand? You are worth something. You are valued. You are…mine. For now.

&nbs
p; But she would give him up, and rightfully so. Besides, heart trumped logic, and deep down, the little boy he used to be still believed something was wrong with him.

  What chance did he have of winning a woman like Lyndie for an extended length of time?

  When she started to dislike him—and she would—he would… What?

  Nothing. He would absolutely nothing. Brock wouldn’t let their relationship reach that point. He would destroy the Hud and Son Group before then. He and Lyndie would part on happy, friendly terms. The baby…

  He gnashed his molars.

  As she faced him, she chewed on her bottom lip. “I have one more week of school, then I have a week off for fall break. But…” No woman had eyes as expressive as his Lyndie. Her concerns were clear. This wasn’t a real marriage, so why was he treating it like the genuine thing?

  Easy. “I only have you for a short while, and I want to do you in all fifty states.”

  She snorted, then handed him a bottle of shampoo and turned. “Wash my hair, please.”

  There was a great deal of intimacy in this kind of act, something Brock had never before dared experience. Taking care of Lyndie proved addictive. As he cleaned and conditioned her hair, he grinned like a loon.

  “Oh, I know! For our honeymoon, why don’t we buy you a kilt and pretend we’re in ancient Scotland?” she said. “The Highlands, to be exact.”

  “Got a thing for Outlander, do you?”

  “A big thing. Huge! And then we can donate the bulk of our travel budget to an animal shelter in the city. The place where I got Cameow and Mega.”

  Such a softie, his wife. “Scottie, we have no budget. We can travel and donate.”

  “But the cats—”

  “Can come with us. The Hud and Son Group has a private jet.” He nibbled on her earlobe. “Any other excuses?”

  “I’m not sure I want to travel,” she admitted, her tone quiet, as if the words embarrassed her. “I told you, I like my home. I like my surroundings. I know the people in town, and and and…”

  Ah. He thought he’d understood before, but he gained even more clarity now. This was her safe space, something she hadn’t had as a child or even as a married woman, and the thought of leaving freaked her out.

  “If you want to stay, we’ll stay.” Aching for her, he circled his arms around her. His new favorite position. One hand cupped her breast while the other played between her legs.

  Once again, she rested her head on his shoulder.

  “I think I like married life,” he admitted. Except one day he would be in a terrible mood, snap at her, scare her, and she would no longer melt in his arms like this.

  And there went his erection.

  She patted his hand. “What’s wrong, Hugsy?”

  No way he would discuss his fears. How can you expect her to trust you when you refuse to trust her? He ground his teeth so forcefully his jaw ached. “I—”

  An alarm suddenly screeched to life, emitting a high-pitched wail. Lyndie gasped, nearly jumping from her skin. “Break-in?”

  Most likely. Blanking his mind of all thoughts but the protection of his wife, Brock left the water running. He pulled Lyndie out of the stall, quickly dressed her—she’d frozen up, as if her muscles refused to move—then just as quickly dressed himself. He ripped the duct tape from a semiautomatic she’d hidden behind one of the cabinet doors.

  She didn’t know it, but he’d come over three days ago while she was at work to beef up her security. He’d found her stash of weapons and marveled.

  “How did you— Never mind.” Teeth chattering, she wrapped her arms around her middle. “What do we do now?”

  “We get you to safety.” He exited the bathroom only after peeking out the door to study her bedroom. No one leaped out at him, no shadows moved in or beyond the door. No weapons were fired. He gave Lyndie a gentle push toward the closest where the door to the safe room waited. “Lock yourself in and stay put.”

  “Stay with me.” She clasped his hand, refusing to let go as her eyes beseeched him. “Please, Brock.”

  Hide? No. If Rick Lambert had broken in, Brock now had a legal right to shoot him—which he would do without a qualm—thereby ending Lyndie’s troubles.

  Brock might not like being a bad guy capable of doing bad things, but Lyndie’s well-being came first.

  Pots clanged together, and Lyndie jolted. The intruder was tossing the kitchen?

  “Safe room,” Brock instructed, his hard tone broking no argument. “Now.” In stealth mode, he made his way out of the bedroom.

  All the lights had been turned on, from the hallway to the living to the kitchen. They’d been off when Brock and Lyndie arrived…right? He’d been a little too preoccupied to notice.

  Once he reached the kitchen, he spied the back of a tall, dark-haired male wearing an expensive pinstriped suit, perfectly tailored. Not typical B&E attire. The man was…washing dishes?

  On the counter was a breakfast fit for a lumberjack. Pancakes, bacon, sausage links, scrambled eggs, and hash browns.

  The man turned, his gaze going straight to Brock. “I hope you’re hungry,” Braydon said. “I would have cooked dinner, but I only know how to make breakfast.”

  Chapter Twelve

  As Brock lowered the gun, he ran his tongue over his teeth. “What are you doing here, Braydon?”

  His brother set aside a pot and smiled. Obviously the man had been here a while. Hadn’t tripped the alarm on the way in but had set it off on purpose?

  Braydon should have looked out of place in the colorful, cheery kitchen with pink walls, blue cabinets, and ruby-veined marble counters, but he’d donned a frilly red apron and blended right in.

  Motions jerky, Brock punched the proper code into the wall unit, finally putting an end to the high-pitched screeching. In the ensuing silence, he heard his cell phone ring. He didn’t have to glance at the screen to know who waited at the other end. A dispatcher from LPH Protection. His company monitored all alerts for this house.

  He dug the cell out of his pants pocket and let dispatch know he was all right, then apologized for the false alarm.

  “Thank you for not killing me. Or turning me in,” Braydon said, almost as an afterthought.

  Though they had different fathers, they were clearly brothers; both had dark hair, bodies well over six feet and cut with muscle. Braydon’s jaw was a little more square and his nose a shade longer. His eyes were ice blue rather than pale green, but they were shaped just like Brock’s, with a thick fan of black lashes.

  “Lyndie,” Brock called.

  He heard a muffled “Yes?” through the walls.

  “The intruder is my brother. You can come out or stay put, your choice.” He really hoped she stayed put. If Braydon were to tell her some of the things Brock had done as a child…the fights, the bullying, the thefts…

  No reply and no footsteps. Staying put, it is. Thank God!

  Braydon motioned to a plate of food. “Hungry?”

  “For arsenic? Rat poison? No, thanks.” Brock plopped onto a barstool. “You frightened Lyndie. Next time I see you and Lyndie isn’t around, I’m going to beat you senseless for it. Well, more senseless than you already are.”

  Braydon hiked a single shoulder in a careless shrug. “Fair is fair. Can it wait though? Till after we speak?”

  “We have nothing to say to each other.”

  “I’ll take that to mean you’re happy for me to do all the talking.”

  Well, why not? That way Brock could tell Lyndie he’d tried to be nice. “Fine. Start with what you’re doing here and why you didn’t knock on the front door. End with how you bypassed security.” LPH Protection installed a top-of-the-line system. The best of the best. Brock didn’t make mistakes. Nor did Daniel or Jude. Their work was never sloppy or subpar.

  Even still, Brock would double-check the entire system tomorrow. He would also install new…everything. No lock would be the same. He would put a camera in every room but the bedrooms and bathrooms, and t
he feed would be accessible by an app on both Lyndie and Brock’s phones but nowhere else. In her bedroom, he would put a panic button, and that particular signal would feed straight into his cell phone.

  Leaning over to anchor his elbows on the counter, his brother said, “If I’d knocked, you’d have shut the door in my face. I saved us an argument about it. You’re welcome. As to why I’m here.” Another shrug. “Believe it or not, I want to help you deal with Mother.”

  “Sorry. I don’t believe it.” No way he’d get his hopes up.

  Once upon a time, Brock had loved his brother, and Braydon had seemed to love him. Then Braydon caught Miranda’s disdain, as if it was contagious. Brock had been crushed, but for a long time, he’d tried to make things work.

  At sixteen, he’d gotten a job bussing tables at a nearby restaurant, because he hadn’t wanted to rely on his parents for anything. He’d been saving up for a car but decided to use a hefty chunk of change to buy Braydon a birthday present. A new gaming system the fourteen-year-old couldn’t wait to play. How stupid Brock had been. At the time, he’d been so proud. He should have known Braydon would toss the gift back to him with a carelessly uttered, “Mom already got me one. Hers came with games.”

  In the present, Braydon piled a plate with food, not quite meeting Brock’s gaze. “Whether you want my help or not, you get it. I’ll keep Devil Mom busy while you do your thing with Dad’s company.”

  Devil Mom? Please. She’d been an angel to Braydon.

  Exhaustion set in, making Brock feel he’d aged a hundred years in the past minute. “Just…get out. Go home. I don’t want you here.”

  His brother paused to take a breath. When his gaze flipped up and landed on Brock, his usually icy blues blazed. “I did you wrong as a child, and as a man. I get it. I do. But I’m sorry, and I will make it up to you.”

  “Why? Why now?” Stupid questions. The answers didn’t matter. No way Brock would believe a single word that came out of his brother’s mouth. Braydon either hoped to fool him to try to get more money, or he was using the gesture as a smoke screen to keep tabs on him while Miranda did everything in her power to screw Brock out of his inheritance.