Can't Let Go
A whimper escaped her. She was so hungry for him. “You freaked out,” she accused.
He closed his eyes for one second, two, before focusing on her with fury...and fiery lust. “You surprised me.”
If she continued with this, she would stoke both the lust and the fury? Probably. He might like it, but he might not forgive her, either.
She had a choice. Stay here, and risk ruining their relationship before it ever began, or leave, never knowing what could have been.
No contest. Great risk, great reward. If she walked away, she would always regret not taking a chance.
Seduce...
“Did I also turn you on?” Slowly, giving him time to process her intention, she leaned forward to nip at his lower lip. “Because I turned myself on.”
“Ryanne... Wade.”
He had to force himself to put distance between them, didn’t he? It no longer came quite so naturally. “Yes, cowboy.” Yes.
With a growl, he dove down and devoured her mouth, his hunger a perfect match to her own. Their tongues dueled, creating a hot tangle of desire. Her nipples crested, needy, and the apex of her thighs ached, liquid need pooling there. As her bones melted, passion surged through her, flooding her. Move, she had to move. She arched her hips—contact! Her throbbing core rubbed against the long, thick length of his erection, and a groan spilled from her.
In the midst of the earth-shattering kiss, his aloof veneer shed like a winter coat he no longer needed, because the sun had peeked from behind storm clouds at long last. With a hiss born from raw frustration, he seemed to shed a thousand pounds of anger, sadness and pain. She felt their absence, the temperature of his skin heating, arousal ashing everything else.
“More.” He stepped closer to her, forcing her spine flush against the brick wall while smashing his chest into hers.
Ice cold behind her, searing heat in front of her. The warring temperatures bombarded her with sensation, a tornado of lust ravaging her. Inhibitions were the first casualty.
She and Jude were outside, in a public setting, but so what. And so the heck what if this man disliked her most of the time. He kissed her as if she were his last meal or the air he needed to survive.
As if she alone held the key to his happiness.
“Ryanne.” He kicked her legs apart. The action lacked finesse, and yet it electrified her from head to toe.
Can’t get enough of me...
A cry of abandon split her lips as he ground his shaft between her legs. Currents of passion whisked through her bloodstream. She trembled. She craved.
How desperately she wanted to strip and ride him, to feel him deep inside her, moving, thrusting, pounding. Finally she would experience everything a man had to give—everything this man had to give.
“Jude.” She pulled at the hem of his shirt, her knuckles brushing the blistering skin that covered his rock-hard abs. Her knees threatened to buckle.
She might have gone two and a half years without a kiss, but she couldn’t go two more weeks...two more days...two more minutes without Jude Laurent.
“You taste like strawberries,” he rasped. “You smell like strawberries, too. How is that possible?”
“I’ve lived in this town most of my life. I’m shocked I don’t taste and smell like pineapples. Dummy,” she teased, and nipped at his bottom lip.
He chuckled. A husky, rusty chuckle that was ragged at the edges. It shocked them both. In unison, they stilled. Once again their gazes met, clashed. His pupils were blown, what remained of his irises glittering wildly. His cheeks were flushed, and his nostrils flared every time he inhaled.
So beautiful. I’m not ready for this to end. Ryanne traced a fingertip along the seam of his lips. Such soft lips for such a hard man.
“No.” His eyelids narrowed, and he stepped back, leaving her bereft. A scowl darkened his features.
Was he about to blame her for what just happened? Would he vow never to come near her again?
She braced for whatever vitriol he planned to unleash, determined to roll with the punches. She’d known a kiss would upset him, but had plowed full steam ahead, anyway, because she’d wanted him.
She wanted him still.
But all he did was take another step back and wipe his mouth with his hand. Then horror replaced his scowl and he took another step back, and another. The silence cut deeper than a knife.
“Jude,” she said. “Care enough to talk to me about what you’re feeling.” Please.
“I...won’t. I’m sorry, but I won’t talk about feelings, and I won’t let myself care.” He spun on his heel and stalked off, soon disappearing around the corner.
Ryanne remained in place. Her heartbeat refused to slow, and her bones refused to solidify; they were too hot.
Deep breath in, out. Won’t let myself care.
Harsh words, and yet she took no offense. Part of him did care, or he wouldn’t have to fight it.
Did he feel like he’d betrayed his wife? Maybe. Probably. Constance had died two and a half years ago, and he’d gone two and a half years without kissing or touching another woman.
The poor man hadn’t wanted pleasure. Actually, he’d done everything in his power to ensure he couldn’t, wouldn’t, enjoy his life, she realized. Misery had become a treasured friend.
Been there, hated that.
Whether he knew it or not, Ryanne had helped him take a step in the right direction. His body had new life—she’d felt every inch of it. He’d been long, hard and thick. For me. Only me.
Already addicted... One kiss had been too much, obsessing and possessing her, but hundreds...thousands would never be enough.
Hope joined the festivities. All was not lost. If she could turn Jude on once, surely she could do it again...
CHAPTER SIX
WHAT THE HELL did I do?
Jude burned rubber, hauling ass to the home he shared with Brock. Unfortunately, the thousand-square-foot log cabin in the heart of five wooded acres offered no solace. Nor did the winding creek that split the property into two sections. My half, your half, Brock often joked.
The wealth of pecan, hickory and oak trees surrounding the property offered a private, tranquil escape from the rest of the world, yet Jude only felt turmoil.
Granted, he only ever felt turmoil, period. Especially at the Scratching Post. Or anywhere Ryanne Wade happened to be.
She hadn’t dated a man in two and a half years.
The timing wasn’t lost on Jude, and it threw him for a loop. We waited for...each other?
No. Absolutely not.
Why did she want him? He’d done nothing to lead her on.
Idiot! Of course he had. Constantly he watched her. He stared at her lips, riveted, when she spoke. He sought her out, and cock-blocked anyone who flirted with her.
Damn her. The woman had tied him into knots, and he wasn’t sure how much more he could take. Soon he would break.
Wrong. He’d already broken. That kiss...
To his utter shock, he hadn’t felt a shred of guilt—until the kiss had ended. Now he knew Ryanne’s sweet taste. The feel of her silken skin, and the little mewling sounds she made when pleasured. How was he supposed to resist her?
Easy. If he couldn’t resist the owner of a bar, he wasn’t a man deserving of Constance’s love.
The bartender who’d served his family’s killer hadn’t been charged for serving an obviously drunk man or for allowing that man to drive away. And really, Frat Boy hadn’t received much of a punishment, either. His ten-year split sentence—five years behind bars, five years on probation—was a joke. Soon the murdering asshole would be out on the streets, ready to murder another family.
How was that okay? The most ridiculous crimes sometimes came with a severe life sentence, but kill a mother and two young girls and you’d only have to push the pause button on your life for five too-short years.
Cursing, Jude slammed his fist into the steering wheel again and again. As his knuckles bled and throbbed, his cell phone buzzed, signaling a text had come in.
If Ryanne had messaged him, expecting to talk about what had happened, he would—what? Say something terrible he could never take back.
Angry, uncertain—hopeful?—he checked the screen. The anger and hope drained as the name Carrie Jones flashed. Constance’s mother.
I found a baby book Coni made for the girls, and I think you should have it. When I saw the pictures inside, well, I laughed through my tears, and I think you will, too. Please, Jude, tell me where you’re living so I can send you the book.
With another curse, he tossed the phone on the floorboard and smashed his fists into his burning eyes. After the car wreck, he’d packed up everything he and Constance owned and shipped the boxes to her parents. When he moved to Strawberry Valley, he’d left his own belongings behind to be sold or tossed, and hadn’t told anyone back home. Too raw to handle anyone else’s grief, he’d simply cut all ties.
Through it all, his love for the Joneses had never faded. He’d never known his biological dad, and his mother had washed her hands of him as soon as he could take care of himself, just as she’d done with his sister and three older brothers, each of whom had moved out or run away by Jude’s thirteenth birthday. Russ and Carrie had welcomed him into their family with open arms and, through example, taught him how to be a good father to his own children.
He’d wanted to be a better parent to his girls than his mother had been to him. And unlike his dad, Jude had planned to be there any time his babies needed him. A monster under the bed? Dad to the rescue. Got a hankering to give a makeover—lipstick, hair bows, nail polish, the works? Dad’s your man, or model. Can’t reach the cookie jar on the kitchen counter? Dad will lift you up so you can pretend to fly.
But in the end, Jude hadn’t been a better parent than his own. He hadn’t been there for the girls when they’d needed him most. No, he’d been in bed, recovering from the bomb blast that had taken his leg.
Not your fault, so many had said. But it had been his fault—he had made the decision to join the army. He had fought to join the Ten against Constance’s wishes. He had wallowed in self-pity, refusing to work harder to leave the hospital sooner.
He was so ashamed. And he was ashamed of his desertion of the Joneses. The past few months, Carrie had contacted him at least once a week. Her grief had eased, he supposed, and she’d found the strength to go through her only daughter’s things, and probably assumed he had the strength, too.
Maybe he should fly to Texas...where his relationship with Constance had begun. Where memories lurked in every corner. He shuddered.
Can’t leave Ryanne. Not with Dushku nearby.
But Jude could reach out.
He swiped up his phone, sent his new address to Carrie and ended with, I’m sorry I’ve been out of touch. Thank you for thinking of me.
Send.
What he would do with the baby book when it arrived, he wasn’t sure.
After a moment’s hesitation, he sent a second message. How are you guys?
Her response came quickly. We’re good. As good as can be expected, anyway. We miss you like crazy. We lost Coni and the girls, and feel as if we lost you, too. Come visit us soon?
Rather than reject her offer outright, he opted for radio silence. At least for now.
Next he called a surgeon he’d met while serving, a guy who was now a urologic surgeon for civilians. The first available appointment was a month away—though Jude suspected the good doctor wanted to put him off, thinking time would change his mind. He asked to be notified if an appointment opened up sooner.
When he looked up, he found Brock lazing in a hammock, shaded by a portico they’d built together. His friend appeared relaxed, completely at ease, but Jude knew better, knew the chaos and pain trapped inside his head. Most nights the guy woke up soaked in sweat and screaming. Sometimes he broke down and cried. Other times he hopped on the treadmill and ran until his knees gave out. Jude understood.
During their years of service, they’d killed a lot of men and lost a lot of friends. That kind of loss did things to a man—ruined his ability to live a “normal” life, leaving stain after stain on his soul.
Jude exited the car and closed the distance, his stride long and strong despite the pain in his knee.
“Dude.” Brock rocked back and forth. On every inward swing, Jude saw the fatigue etched into his face. “You look like you could use a good cuddle. What put your panties in such a twist?”
“Everything.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “Nothing.”
With his chin, Brock motioned to the cuts on Jude’s knuckles. “In other words, Ryanne Wade. Go on.”
Jackass. “She’s only part of the problem.” He reached over and tipped the hammock, dumping his friend on the wood planks beneath. A heavy thud shook the entire porch.
Sputtering, Brock jumped to his feet. Once steady, he barked out a laugh. “You suck, my man. Big-time.”
“I know. Sadly it’s one of my better qualities.” He pressed a shoulder against a post and crossed his arms. “What are you doing here, anyway?” The guy spent every night with a new woman.
Brock shifted from one booted foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable with the topic of conversation. “Today is career day at Scottie’s school, and she asked me to dazzle her class with my occupation. What am I supposed to say when the only thing I did was kill people? I’ve only got an hour to come up with something true but also appropriate for innocent ears.”
“Talk about the security firm. Tell the kids you’re basically a superhero, because you stop bad guys from committing crimes. Now, who is Scottie?”
The indomitable Brock Hudson flushed with embarrassment. “Lyndie.”
“Ah. Lyndie Scott. Who is now Scottie. How adorable. Are you guys finally on speaking terms?”
“Barely. She’s afraid of me.”
“You know her father and husband abused her. She needs time to get to know you, to assure herself you’ve got control of your temper.”
“Do I? Have control, I mean.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “I think not knowing me actually works in my favor.”
“You’ve got your faults. Who doesn’t? But you’re a good guy.”
“Please. You’re my friend. You’re required by bro-rules to think the best of me.”
“No, I get to think the best of you because I’m your friend.” Jude patted Brock’s shoulder and made his way to his bedroom.
He could have offered more assurances or even a few platitudes, but to what end? Brock was attracted to Lyndie, but hadn’t changed his MO. He only ever had one-night stands, using and losing women as a distraction from his troubled mind. Lyndie was a permanent part of their group; a one-night stand would never work. Brock would have to face her multiple times a week, every week.
Jude kicked off his shoes, then his jeans, and sat at the end of his bed. He removed his prosthesis and, with a wince, massaged the scarred stump under his knee. Sore muscles ached in protest as well as relief.
He’d been patched up on the field and then flown to Germany, where he spent a week convalescing from surgery. Then he was flown to San Antonio, where he spent three months in recovery. Constance and the girls had come to see him as often as possible, staying in temporary housing. With every visit, his wife had seemed brighter, happier, and once she’d even told him that she would love him no matter what, but deep in his heart, he hadn’t believed her. He was no longer the man she’d married. He was less. He wasn’t as strong or capable as he’d once been. Hell, he had to learn how to walk all over again.
Acid scalded his throat as he wondered how the flawless Ryanne would react to such an ugly sight.
He shook his head. What did her opinion matter? They’d kissed once, and they wouldn’t do so again.
No matter how desperately his body longed to possess hers.
A beep sounded from his phone, distracting him from his thoughts. He checked the screen, his tightening grip nearly cracking the plastic case when he spotted Ryanne’s name. If this was another invitation—
Wade: HELP ME!!! How fast can you get here??? I need you here five minutes ago. Belle is giving birth, and you probably can’t tell, but I’m freaking out!
He sent a hasty reply. I left the list for a reason. Follow it.
Wade: COME OVER RIGHT NOW JUDE LAURENT OR I SWEAR I WILL HUNT YOU DOWN AND—I DON’T KNOW WHAT! BUT IT WILL HURT. IT WILL HURT BAD.
Already on my way.
Wade: Thank you thank you thank you. Sorry not sorry that I threatened you. Still friends?
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