Can't Let Go

by Gena Showalter

  Precious woman.

  Dangerous woman.

  "I wish you could feel what I feel. You aren't just irresistible, you are incredible," he whispered straight into her ear.

  As she shivered, he licked the delicate shell with multiple piercings. He kissed his way down the slope of her neck--and bit the tendon running through her shoulder, the way she'd done to him.

  Just. Like. That. She shouted his name, her inner walls clenching on his shaft as she came. She shuddered against him, and her nipples stroked his chest, making him mindless with desire. Remaining in place nearly killed him, but he did it. For her.

  Only when she sagged against him, fully sated, did he press his back against the tiles, arch his hips and drive himself deeper inside her, burying every inch of his erection into her scorching heat.

  She gasped his name.

  He would have given anything to stand and press her against the tiles, using the wall as leverage while he hammered into her, her beautiful legs wrapped around his waist, squeezing him.

  "Jude...I can't...it's...you're... Argh! Why did you stop?" She beat her little fists against his chest.

  "Am I hurting you? You're so incredibly tight."

  "Well, you're so incredibly big. Am I hurting you?"

  He chuckled. "You're killing me with pleasure."

  "You're welcome." She nipped his chin. "And no, you're not hurting me. I'm all systems go, so please, go."

  He bit the inside of his cheek to stop another chuckle. Then he shook his head in wonder. How did she do it? How did she make him want to laugh at the most inopportune times? Or hell, how did she make him want to laugh at all?

  Slowly, so slowly, he pumped in and out of her, propelled to new heights of pleasure every single time. Heights he'd never before known, as if he'd been a boy before and had finally become a man. As if Ryanne Wade had been made for him and him alone. As if he'd lived in the dark long enough and had finally stepped into the light.

  Ryanne moaned in sync with his thrusts, only maddening him further. Somehow, she'd become his entire world. He knew nothing and no one else, wanted nothing and no one else. She was a tempest without equal, a storm he couldn't escape, and she'd swept him. He would happily drown in her.

  He lifted his head to peer deep into her eyes, eyes that were at half-mast as water droplets caught in her lashes. Passion flushed her flawless skin, adding a rosy undertone. The pulse at the base of her neck raced. Plump breasts bounced with his movements, dusky nipples puckering under his gaze. This woman...

  In, out. "Ryanne." Her name slipped past his lips. Her body was a masterpiece. Perfect curves, elegant spine, legs for miles. A flat belly that led to a thin landing strip of dark hair. In, out. In, out. "I'm so close."

  "Want you closer. Faster."

  He grabbed her hips and slammed her down on his lap while lifting himself up, hitting her deep, deep inside. She erupted a second time, screaming his name, her inner walls once again clenching and unclenching on his length.

  Unable to prolong the inevitable any longer, he followed her over the edge, coming...coming...coming so hard...

  It was the most powerful orgasm of his life.

  Strength poured from him and into her, leaving his muscles lax. The same must have happened to her. She collapsed on him, her head resting on his shoulder. Their hearts raced together but out of sync, the pitter-patter of water heralding the return of reality.

  He fought it, wanting to enjoy the moment, to hold her and never let go, but reality was as determined to have him as he'd been to have Ryanne.

  "We finally had fun together," she rasped. "And, honey buns, it was amazing."

  "Yes." Yes, it was, but without the haze of desire to cloud his thoughts, he was left with nothing but raw disappointment--in himself. He should feel satisfied, but empty, guilt ridden rather than blissful. He'd given all his lasts to Ryanne, saved nothing for Constance; but he was far from satisfied and guilt ridden. He already craved another go-round, desperate to claim everything Ryanne was willing to give him.

  Now he knew her sweetness, her softness...the breathy sounds she made when she came.

  Now he needed more.

  He'd gone years without the touch of a woman, despising even the thought of casual contact. Now he couldn't touch this one enough, wanting his hands on every inch of her at once.

  How was he supposed to ignore her appeal tomorrow? How was he supposed to live without another hit of bliss?

  "This was a mistake, Wade," he croaked.

  She stiffened. "Wade again. Well. It's a good thing we decided on a one-night stand, isn't it?"

  He'd hurt her. Damn it, that hadn't been his intention. His head, normally a mess, was screwed up more than usual. "I've got to go." He placed her on her feet and removed the condom. Seeing the tattered remains caused the heat to drain from his face. "You had one job, only one, and you failed."

  "Hey! I'm not--"

  "Not you. The rubber. It broke. Damn it, I knew the water would be a problem." Barely able to breathe, he demanded, "The timing is wrong, yeah?"

  "Only if you mean I'm ovulating right now," she snapped. "I had a period two weeks ago, making today the perfect starter-family day. Except I'm on the pill, and you had a vasectomy, remember?"

  "Sperm remains active for months after the procedure, remember?" He scrubbed a hand down his face. "But you're on the pill, and I'll have to trust its effectiveness. Listen, don't leave the bar tonight or tomorrow, all right. In fact, just stay up here. You'll make yourself an easy target for Dushku. Let Sutter take over again. That's why you promoted him to manager." He stood and lumbered from the stall.

  "Jude. Don't--"

  "No. We both agreed. This was it, a one-time thing. No need to discuss it to death."

  "Did we agree you could treat me like garbage afterward, because I don't recall that particular detail."

  Fighting guilt, he toweled off and reattached his prosthesis, then pulled on his jeans, his shoes, and tied the laces.

  "I'm sorry," he finally told her. "I'll... I'm gonna go."

  "What happened to watching the security feed on my laptop?"

  "I'm sorry," he repeated. "I'll watch it from home." Not trusting himself to say more, he strode from the bathroom, the apartment...never looking back.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  WHAT THE HECK had just happened?

  One minute Ryanne was basking in postcoital rapture with Jude, the next she was alone. No longer a virgin. Now a scorned lover.

  Over the years, she'd imagined her first afterglow a dozen different ways. A little cuddling, a lot of laughter and talking. Drinking a glass of champagne, perhaps taking a bubble bath together to ease her sore muscles. Lying under the stars, quiet. None of her fantasies had ended with her alone in her shower, aching body and soul.

  For however long, she sat on the bench, her knees drawn up to her chest. Wasted my virginity on a hit and run. Jude Laurent had to be one of the worst decisions she'd ever made. But then, she hadn't based her decision on logic but feeling.

  Just like Momma.

  I'm an idiot!

  And Jude, well, Jude was a jerk. How dare he abandon her the second he climaxed? How dare he not realize he'd made a huge mistake and come running back to beg for a second chance she would absolutely refuse to give him?

  Hot water poured over her, steam enveloping her, almost convincing her the entire encounter had been a dream. Almost.

  Despite her inexperience, she knew she'd rocked Jude's world. The look of sublime pleasure on his face every time he'd thrust inside her had affected her on a cellular level. He'd found the ultimate satisfaction in her arms. And then he'd ruined everything by running away.

  This is me. Broken.

  Considering his unwavering devotion to his wife, it was a miracle he'd come near Ryanne at all. Maybe she was being too hard on him? After everything that had just happened, he had to be emotionally vulnerable, or worse, emotionally destroyed.

  Let's face it, Ryanne had
been a wrecking ball to two and a half years of intentional celibacy. To him, up had to be down and down had to be up.

  Why else would he have gotten a vasectomy? It was such an extreme action--one born of desperation? Because he'd known he couldn't resist Ryanne much longer, and he'd feared getting her pregnant?

  Oh, how she would love to shake some sense into the man! He'd screwed up his future, all to appease his fears in the present. What if he fell in love again? What if he remarried and his new wife wanted kids?

  Ryanne's nails cut into the pad of her palms.

  He wasn't her concern. More than that, she wasn't in the market for love or marriage, and didn't have time for a relationship. But dang him! He wasn't the only one who was emotionally vulnerable right now.

  Perched on his lap, spent, great waves of affection had washed over her. The man had taken her virginity--popped her cherry. Whatever you called it, the act would fuel her dreams forever. Jude's attention to her details had set the standard of measure for any other man she invited into her bed.

  I don't want another man. I want him. Jude Laurent. Just one more time...

  Too bad, so sad, mi querida.

  From now on, Jude was off-limits. They would be friends without benefits. But...since they were friends, she should probably prove she had no hard feelings about his deplorable finish today. A few minor--cough major cough--renovations in the bathroom, like a grab bar to offer him support in the shower, one on the wall beside the claw-foot tub and one next to the toilet, should do the trick. Just in case he got into another fight and had to come upstairs to shower off the blood, of course.

  Would the additions embarrass the proud Jude?

  Did it matter? Friends helped each other out, even when it hurt.

  Speaking of hurt, Ryanne stuffed what remained of hers into a box, locked it and shoved it in a hidden corner. Out of sight, out of mind. Feeling more upbeat, she shut off the water, dried off, and dressed in a T-shirt and pajama pants, and tried not to wince at the tenderness between her legs. All the while, her skin tingled, as if to tell her I remember what it's like to be naked and damp, Jude's hands on me. Give me more of that.

  Hello, new addiction.

  If only Jude hadn't played her body quite so masterfully. He'd known when to touch and when to retreat, when to slow down and speed up. Part of her wished the experience had sucked, so she could write him off and move on without a problem.

  She hmphed. Like his expertise really mattered. After a two-and-a-half-year hormonal deep freeze, a strong gust of wind could have given her an orgasm.

  Am I bitter? I sound bitter.

  No hard feelings, remember?

  Oops. Some of her hurt had escaped the lockbox. Stuff. Click. Shove.

  Time to focus on those support bars.

  Taking a page from Coot's book, Ryanne watched instructional videos to figure out what she needed to buy and what she needed to do. Then she called her girls to invite them over and, okay, okay, request supplies.

  "You understand me better than anyone," she said to Belle, then pulled her wet hair into a ponytail and gave her sweetie a pet behind the ears. "Your man loved and left you, too. Hopefully mine hasn't left me in the same condition, though."

  The odds were astronomical. His little swimmers would have to overcome the formation of scar tissue caused by his vasectomy, as well as her birth control.

  Belle gave her a look that said, You should be so lucky, silly hooman.

  "Easy for you to say. You have the cutest babies in the world." She kissed a little black-and-white beauty, her mind straying to Jude's twins. Had the girls looked like him or his wife? Had they been happy children or somber? Princesses or tomboys?

  You couldn't live without experiencing loss, a fact as old as time. Death was hereditary. Ryanne comforted herself with the knowledge that she would one day see Earl in heaven. Because yes, she was going up, not down, and no one could stop her! Did Jude find comfort the same way?

  Well, comforted or not, the pain of losing a child, much less two at the same time, plus a significant other...the pain had to be unbearable.

  Any lingering bitterness over his abrupt departure faded. So. Ryanne wouldn't castigate him by word or deed. She would act like the friend she'd agreed to be...even though she wanted to be more.

  There. She'd admitted the truth. She might not have time for a relationship, but she wanted one--with him. He'd introduced her to the height of sensual pleasure, and once hadn't been enough.

  He'd ruined her for other men.

  She would give anything to be the girl he smiled at, laughed with, and slept with every night. The one he craved under him, as well as beside him.

  By the time her friends knocked on her door, Ryanne had convinced herself to make another play for Jude.

  If he rejected her, he rejected her. She would let him go, content in the knowledge she'd done everything in her power to win his affections. No regrets.

  Also, she would force herself to remain open to possibilities--with other men. No more shutting down her desires.

  "You owe me big-time." Dorothea placed a large box on the kitchen counter. "I had to promise Mr. Mumford a free night at the inn just to open the hardware store after hours. The last time he stayed, he partied like a rock star. He literally swung from the chandelier."

  Lyndie, who'd come in directly behind Dorothea, covered her mouth to muffle a giggle. Ryanne smiled. She loved seeing her former stepsister at ease. For too long, happiness had seemed unattainable.

  After their parents had married and Ryanne had realized the abuse poor Lyndie had suffered most of her young life, she'd done everything in her power to protect the dear one, to offer hope amid a hopeless situation.

  One day we'll run away together and travel the world!

  Lyndie had sniffled. I don't want to travel the world. I want to fight back and win.

  They'd taken a self-defense class together, at least for a little while. Only Ryanne had finished the course. Lyndie had a panic attack and dropped out.

  To Selma's credit, she'd tried to help, too, staying with Mr. Scott far longer than she'd wanted, doing everything she could to convince Mr. Scott to let her adopt Lyndie, at the same time planning to divorce him after the papers were signed so she could fight him for custody. Somehow, he'd learned of her intentions, and he'd divorced her.

  That's when Selma finally filed a report about the abuse. Of course, gossip had quickly claimed the "man-eater" only wanted revenge, that she'd lied in order to hurt the first man to tire of her.

  Ryanne still battled intense guilt over her inability to shield the fragile Lyndie from further harm. But every time her friend displayed some semblance of joy, like tonight, that regret eased a little bit.

  "If Mr. Mumford swings from the chandelier again," she told Dorothea, "I promise I'll cheer you on while you buy a new one."

  This time, Lyndie's giggles burst forth, as if a dam had crumbled.

  "Actually," Dorothea said, wagging a finger at Ryanne, "you'll reward me by coming to my engagement party in two weeks. It's on a Saturday night, your busiest time, but I need you there. My mother decided I absolutely had to have one. She wants to let the town know Spotty Dotty has finally landed a man."

  "Hey. That man is lucky to have you," Lyndie said.

  Saturday was her busiest night, and her employees were always overworked, but they could handle the crush and rush without her. And she could wear a slinky dress. As one of Daniel's closest friends, Jude would certainly have to attend the party; he'd never seen her dressed to slay-and-lay.

  Anticipation washed through her, leaving goose bumps on her skin. "Yes. I'll be there."

  "Why are you installing grab bars in your apartment, anyway?" As soon as the question left her, Lyndie gasped, her amber eyes aglow. "Are you and Jude officially dating?"

  "Oh, oh, are you?" Clapping, Dorothea jumped up and down. "Did he pass the Ten Commitments?"

  The Ten Commitments. A list of requirements they'd come
up with in high school, for anyone hoping to date Ryanne, Dorothea or Lyndie.

  A boy shalt not:

  1) Lie to anyone, ever, not even to flatter.

  2) Cheat with so much as a look.

  3) Steal even when desperate.

  4) Harm others in any way.

  5) Make excuses for bad behavior.

  He shalt:

  6) Compliment when merited.

  7) Help when needed.

  8) Treat others with kindness, always.

  9) Consult you when making big decisions.

  10) Do his best, not just what's good enough.

  Well, no wonder Ryanne had so often demanded Jude give her compliments. The list must have been in the back of her mind the entire time.

  You brought me back to life.

  She shivered now as she'd shivered then. Sexier words had never been spoken.

  Her friends didn't know it, but a few years ago she'd added an eleventh commitment. He shalt want me for more than sex. Plenty of boys had asked her out pre-romance ban, but only a rare few hadn't tried to get into her pants at moment one, because of course she'd had to be as easy as her mother.

  Somehow, she'd convinced herself to settle for sex, only sex, from Jude.

  Worth it?

  "I'm not dating Jude." She wouldn't mention the orgasms he'd just given her. Dorothea and Lyndie would demand a complete retelling, and there would be no hiding the remnants of her emotional vulnerability. "He's working for me, and I'm kind, caring and magnanimous."

  "And super humble," Dorothea said with a laugh.

  "Such a giver." A sly gleam in her eyes, Lyndie waved a hand in her direction. "And a receiver of hickeys."

  What! She had a hickey? Ryanne resisted the urge to cover her neck. "You're lying. I do not have a poor girl's tramp stamp on my neck."

  The sly gleam got slyer. "I know. I was seeing if you knew."

  Rat! "Lyndie, dear, would you be a lamb and tell us all about your feelings for Brock? Inquiring minds want to know."

  Twin pink circles colored Lyndie's cheeks. "Okay. Enough conversation. We're here to work, so let's get to it."

  Do not laugh. "You sure?"

  In a rare show of spirit, Lyndie flipped her off. "What do you think?"

  Ryanne snorted and carried the box her friend had brought into the bathroom--where she promptly panicked. Had she left any sexual reminders out in the open?