Can’t Get Enough

by Showalter, Gena

  In an instant, Lyndie had known. Aisha must have visited Ryanne’s bar while staying with her family, must have become one of Brock’s many conquests.

  Small world, smaller towns. Should have known I’d run in to one of Brock’s bar babes. The only real surprise? She hadn’t come across more.

  “Yes. That Brock Hudson,” she’d said gently, admiring the way her wedding ring sparkled in the light. For some reason, the piece of jewelry no longer felt quite so heavy.

  “When did… I mean…” Aisha had licked her lips. “I’m sorry. I’m just in shock. I mean, he has a rep—I mean, he doesn’t seem like your type—okay, I’ll be quiet now. I’m only shoving my foot deeper into my mouth.”

  A petty part of Lyndie—a part she hadn’t known existed—wanted to dislike Aisha. No one enjoys my man but me! Instead, Lyndie decided to dislike that petty part of herself.

  “Okay. I can’t leave this alone. How long were you guys, uh, dating?” Aisha had asked then, her cheeks flushing…with concern? Trying to work out the dates to make sure Brock hadn’t cheated on Lyndie with Aisha?

  Lyndie had reached out, patted her hand in reassurance. “My best friends are married to his best friends. We’ve known each other a while, but never dated…until we decided to get married—a week before the wedding. He didn’t cheat on me with you.”

  Relief had radiated from the student teacher.

  Now, as Miss Khatri wove through the rows of desks, asking different children different questions, Lyndie perched behind her desk, her mind wandering.

  How would Brock react if she made a move? Excitedly? Or just meh?

  Maybe just meh. Otherwise he would have made a move of his own by now, right?

  Ugh. She had to stop doubting him. He’d earned her trust. All her trust. Time to face her fears and show him.

  When she noticed her hands were gripping the arms of her chair so tightly her knuckles looked ready to pop out of her skin, she decided now wasn’t the time to ponder the ramifications of going all in with Brock, even temporarily. Instead, she’d think about her new family. A true source of joy.

  The cats—Peanut and Thor—were loud and rambunctious, always on the go. The dog—Pepper—was a mixed-breed beauty with only three legs. (Lyndie refused to call her a mutt!) If she had to guess which breeds, she’d say Lab and blue heeler. The pig—Athena, AKA Ms. Pork and Beans—had to weigh one hundred and fifty pounds. At least! Thankfully, both Pepper and Athena had quickly learned to use the doggy door Brock installed.

  How could anyone abandon such sweeties?

  Pepper and Athena had to wear collars with motion sensors. Anytime they approached the doggy door, it automatically closed. That way, there would be no great escapes for her clowder, because a previous owner had declawed Peanut and Thor, rendering the pair defenseless.

  Lyndie wondered if prosthetic claws could be made?

  A pipe dream, perhaps, but worth looking into.

  To her shock and amazement, Brock had taken to life as a daddy/farmer very well. Not once had he complained. Or scolded her. Well, he’d said, “The dog sheds like a mother f— trucker.”

  Lyndie had chuckled about his non-potty mouth and said, “She doesn’t shed. She emits magical fairy dust that makes wishes come true.”

  Brock had snorted and muttered, “In your dreams.”

  In his spare time—meaning, way too early each and every morning—he worked on building an enclosed playpen outside. The thing had central heat and air so the animals could hide out in comfort whenever guests came over. Newcomers made her pack nervous. Daniel almost lost a finger to Pepper the last time he came over.

  Despite the mid-October winds, a heat front had blown in, forcing Brock to work without a shirt. The sun would stroke his bronzed skin with golden rays, paying him absolute tribute, and sweat would roll down his chest and back.

  How Lyndie had kept her hands to herself, as she’d spied on him through her bedroom curtains, she hadn’t yet figured out.

  Brock’s continued goodwill—and amazing body—pushed all the right buttons. Fembot? Tough as nails? Not even close! She looked at him and her knees weakened, her body burned with desire, and dang it, she had to fight the urge to rip off all his clothes and have her wicked way with him.

  Well, crap. Looked like she was going to think about her hubby, after all.

  Next time they were in bed together, she wanted to make him desperate for her. She wanted to take her time and study every inch of him. Wanted to taste every inch of him.

  Blowjobs had never been a favorite pastime. Actually, she’d hated every second, every time, and had performed only when James insisted, too afraid of the consequences if she refused.

  With Brock, she sometimes fantasized about working him into the throes of passion, his head thrashing, hips writhing, hands fisting the sheets beneath him, all while he moaned her name and begged for more.

  Lyndie fanned her burning cheeks before anyone could notice her overheated state.

  Dang it! She was a mess. One second she wanted to be a fembot—no, wait, now she wanted to fall into her husband’s arms—no, wait, now she wanted perfunctory sex that meant nothing—no, wait, now she wanted world-rocking sex that meant everything.

  Her heart and mind were at war, and her sanity had been the first casualty.

  Maybe it was time to enact the KISS method: keep it simple, stupid. Zip their mouths, shut down their brains, get naked, and pound one out. Maybe pound two out. Probably more like six.

  Yeah. Yeah!

  Lord have mercy.

  As Miss Khatri wrote on the board, Lyndie forced her mind to travel a new mental highway before she slid out of her chair. Destination… Lambertville.

  She shuddered. Lambert had stopped coming around. Hadn’t even ventured into her bushes. Maybe because of the cameras Brock installed, or maybe because of the dog. Pepper’s bark was not false advertising.

  Also, there’d been no more break-ins at home. Brock’s brother had stayed away. Only once had Miranda Hudson phoned Lyndie. After the woman had spent three whole minutes spewing vitriol in an obvious attempt to paint Brock in a terrible light—his temper… I fear for your safety—Lyndie had hung up and only wanted to wrap her husband in a bear hug. To survive childhood with such a horrible woman…

  The midday bell rang, startling a gasp out of Lyndie. After her classroom emptied, the kids at lunch with Miss Miller, Lyndie grabbed her phone to message Brock. Four missed calls had come in, all from an unknown number. She frowned. Bill collector? Solicitors?

  Whatever. She had a man’s seduction to kick off. Chewing on her bottom lip, she typed:

  Complete these sentences in order, & send ONLY the answers back to me:

  (1) Where there’s a ______ there’s a way.

  (2) Thank _____.

  (3) Lyndie wants to ____ to bed with Brock.

  (4) Lyndie Scott-Hudson better chill____.

  (5) Bite ___, please.

  Send.

  Brock’s reply came in a few seconds later: You want answers, you get answers. Give me a moment to crack your code.

  One minute bled into two. Then her phone buzzed. Heart hammering, she checked the screen.

  Brock: Will/You/Go/Out/With/Me.

  Smiling now, she typed YES! Thank you so much for asking. How about tonight?

  Send.

  Brock: Well, well. Look at you, being all adorable. I approve.

  Another call came in from the unknown number. Curious, she answered, but only static crackled over the line.

  How irritating. She hung up. Just in time. Brock’s next reply came in.

  Complete these sentences in order, & send ONLY the answers back to me:

  (1) Are ____ okay?

  (2) I’ve ____ a hard-on for days.

  (3) ___, myself and I.

  (4) Scottie is ___ school and on my mind.

  (5) I ___ do you right.

  A happy laugh escaped her. You/Had/Me/At/Will. Can I tell you one of my famous secrets, Hugsy?


  Brock: I’ll be disappointed if you don’t.

  Lyndie: I want to have sex with you TONIGHT. In case you need clarification, that means I want to go all the way and insert tab A into slot B.

  Brock: Tab A is going to give it to slot B so good! How soon can you get home?

  Lyndie: Few hours. Unfortunately.

  Brock: What do I have to do to shave time off your estimate?

  Lyndie: Pray the minutes fly by. I know I will!

  By the time school ended, every child passed on to a parent or guardian, anticipation had turned Lyndie into a jittery, giddy mess. Nerve endings tingled and butterflies danced inside her stomach.

  “You’ve been distracted all day,” Aisha said, and winked. “Can’t keep your mind off Brock, huh? Oh, man, do I under— Never mind.”

  Lyndie took her hands, squeezed. “This doesn’t have to be weird. Okay?”

  How would Lyndie feel after the divorce, when she’d run into women who’d nailed the father of her child? She’d wondered before and had easily shaken off her unease. This time the unease remained—and redoubled.

  “Okay. And thank you.” Aisha extracted her hands from Lyndie’s now too-tight grip. Then she grinned. “Speak of the devil. I have a feeling you are going to have a ton of fun tonight, Mrs. Hudson.” Still grinning, she adjusted the strap of her purse and sauntered to her car.

  Lyndie turned, a sudden spike in her pulse. Brock stood across the street, dressed in an immaculate suit, forcing an older woman inside a bright red sports car.

  Why would—

  That had to be the brother, Braydon. Not Brock. His dark hair was several inches longer, his face not quite as…lived in. Or arresting.

  The woman’s identity clicked next. Miranda, mother to the Hudson brothers.

  Braydon shut the door, sealing her inside the vehicle. His gaze lifted, met Lyndie’s. He nodded before climbing behind the wheel and speeding away.

  Had Miranda come here to speak with Lyndie? Ugh. No, thank you.

  “Lyndie?”

  She turned to see the other kindergarten teacher, Henrietta—Mrs. Campbell—rushing over with a worried expression. “May I have a moment of your time, please?”

  Henrietta was sixty-three and one of the best teachers Lyndie knew. Lyndie student taught for her, but had also been a student in her class however many years ago. With a silver beehive teased and sprayed to the max, a shoulder-pad fetish, and a collection of oversized dresses that ended at her ankles, revealing scuffed black pumps, Henrietta personified the term “old granny.”

  “What’s wrong?” Lyndie asked.

  Wringing her weathered hands, Henrietta said, “There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to blurt it out, okay? There are rumors circulating that your new husband likes to…well, hit women. Especially his mother. I just wanted to make sure—”

  “The rumors are wrong,” Lyndie rushed to interject. Ryanne and Dorothea had already warned her of Miranda’s attempt to poison Strawberry Valley against Brock. How dare the witch continue to spread such bold-faced lies? “Miranda Hudson is willing to do or say anything to convince me to divorce Brock. As long as we’re married, Brock inherits his father’s fortune and Miranda gets very little. So, to be quite blunt about the matter, I would like to beat her.”

  “Well, I declare. Why, she sounds meaner than a wet panther.”

  “Please help me remind the town of Brock’s innocence.”

  “Oh, I will, honey. You can count on me.” Henrietta pressed a hand against her heart. “I’m so glad my worries about you were unfounded. After what happened with James…”

  Very few people knew the truth about Lyndie’s past, but Henrietta was one of them.

  Most times, James had used Lyndie as a punching bag from the neck down to avoid causing cuts and bruises she couldn’t hide with clothing. But one terrible night, she’d failed to have his dinner ready on time after he’d told her and told her he would be working through lunch and coming home early and he would be starved. He’d “lost control.”

  It had always struck her as funny how a little slip of a girl could cause him to lose control, and yet he’d somehow managed to exude unending patience with men who were bigger and stronger.

  A few days after the beating, Lyndie had driven to Strawberry Valley to grocery shop, per James’s orders. Since they’d lived in Blueberry Hill, he hadn’t wanted to risk one of his friends seeing her black eye and asking questions. He also hadn’t wanted her to stay home, because he’d had a craving for meatloaf and mashed potatoes and, wonderfully generous man that he was, he’d been willing to give her a chance to make up for her failure.

  Lyndie had run in to Henrietta that day. Upon seeing her, her former kindergarten teacher had gasped and demanded to know what had happened. Lyndie had almost run from the store. Would have run if she hadn’t found herself rooted in place, her feet as heavy as boulders.

  In the silence, Henrietta started crying. Lyndie started sobbing. The pain too much. The stress too much. Life too much. Never had she felt so defeated.

  “Oh, my sweet girl,” Henrietta had said while drawing Lyndie against her; gentle, so gentle. “I’ll be praying for you.”

  She’d said nothing else, and Lyndie had said nothing, period. They’d walked away from each other. Lyndie had finished her shopping, because there was no way she could return home without the necessary ingredients for meatloaf and mashed potatoes.

  Later she found out Henrietta had done more than pray. She’d gone to Sherriff Lintz in Strawberry Valley to report what she’d seen and ask local PD to look into James’s actions. Which he’d done…getting Lyndie into more trouble.

  In the present, Lyndie’s body went rigid. Her nails cut into her palms. Her chest felt too tight, her heartbeat too weak, even fluttery, making her think of a broken butterfly wing.

  So many years of her life, wasted.

  To get a degree, she’d had to do most of her classes online, in secret, and finish after James died. She’d used money he hadn’t known about, money her mother had left in a trust for her—money her mother had saved, hoping to leave her father one day. By using Ryanne’s address and phone number, Lyndie ensured no paperwork could be traced back to her and that no one from the school could contact her directly.

  One of her only rebellions.

  James had expected her to stay home, looking her best while she cooked his meals, cleaned the entire house from top to bottom, and fell into bed whenever he desired. If ever he’d found out about her secret life as a student, he would have forced her to drop out. After beating her, of course. He’d liked keeping her helpless, dependent on him for everything.

  “I’m sorry for opening old wounds, dear.” Henrietta tucked a lock of hair behind Lyndie’s ear. “I’ve seen your new husband around town. He’s quite something, isn’t he?”

  Lyndie latched onto the subject change with both hands and a rope. “He sure is,” she replied with no small amount of pride.

  Pride? Uh-oh. Was she growing attached to him already?

  “Well, I better go.” Feigning nonchalance, she wiggled her brows. “We’ve got a hot date tonight.”

  “Have fun.”

  Oh, I will. Tonight was the night. Tonight she and Brock would have sex for the first time. Ovulating or not—probably not—she didn’t care. It was time. She trusted him to stay with her, to want her afterward. He’d said he would, and she believed him.

  The ten-minute drive home proved uneventful, and yet her body acted as if she’d nearly crashed a dozen times. Racing heart, trembling limbs, churning stomach.

  No sign of Brock’s sedan. Fighting disappointment, she made her way inside the house, expecting to see animals but no husband. Instead, she found her husband but no animals and came to an abrupt stop.

  Her husband stood in the center of the living room, shirtless, pecs and abdomen on spectacular display. The only thing he wore? A faded pair of jeans. She moaned, already hopelessly aroused.

  Red
rose petals formed a trail behind him, wrapping around the hallway. A beautiful floral scent mingled with the savory aroma of…tacos? Her second favorite meal. The first? Soup of any kind.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, breathless.

  “Isn’t it obvious? I’m romancing the hell out of you.”

  She snorted but also melted. “And where are our critters?”

  “Playing in their pen. I finished it early this afternoon.”

  And he’d spent the rest of the afternoon planning and executing this date, she would bet. Considering she was a sure thing, he must have done it just to make her happy.

  She gulped. When he motioned to the roses, she noticed a slight tremble. She started to pant. He was the only man alive who could make her pant. And yet, despite the intensity of her reactions to him, she always retained her feminine power. He wants me as much as I want him.

  “What changed your mind?” he asked.

  She didn’t have to wonder about his meaning. “I trust you fully,” she admitted. “You’ve never tried to control me or the situation. Never pushed. You simply waited and kept your word.”

  He jolted, swallowed hard. Voice hoarse, he said, “Follow the path. And for the sake of my sanity, follow instructions.”

  A sexual game? Oh, la la. This would be her first.

  Grinning, she followed the petals, as ordered, pausing only to rise to her tiptoes and press a soft kiss into his lips. “For the record? Consider me romanced.”

  He made a strangled sound in the back of his throat as he set her away from him. His pupils were enormous, almost completely overshadowing his irises. “Go,” he rasped. “Before I forget my plan and carry you straight to the couch.”

  “You want the couch, you get the couch.”

  Another strangled sound as he reached for her. Just before contact, he scowled and dropped his arms to his sides. “Couch later. Path now.”

  Oh, very well. But dang it! She hated leaving him and now dragged her feet, every inch away from him a special kind of agony. The trail ended in…her bathroom. She jolted, shocked to the bone. He’d drawn a bath for her, more rose petals floating along the surface of the steaming water.

  Tears burned her eyes as she stripped and anchored her mass of hair on the crown of her head. Why did he want to make her happy? Why go to so much trouble for her?