Can't Let Go. Gena Showalter
Then he took two steps back. Oh, heck no. He wasn’t leaving her, not now. She fisted his shirt and tugged him forward, and the impromptu action caused him to stumble.
She opened her mouth to tell him she was sorry, but suddenly found herself plastered against his chest, speaking a talent beyond her. Their gazes clashed. His eyes sizzled with molten awareness. Again he stopped breathing. And this time, so did she...
“I should go,” he rasped, even as he braced his palms flat on the brick, caging her in. A predator who’d just captured prey.
This prey wanted to be devoured.
Her pulse points hammered and throbbed as his body heat enveloped her. Scorching waves of agony and ecstasy swept over her, destroying her but also making her into a new woman.
Jude’s woman.
This man had suffered for years. He deserved pleasure. While Ryanne couldn’t replace his beloved wife, and didn’t want to, she could help him forget the past, if only for a little while.
Shouldn’t she at least try?
“Don’t freak out, okay?” Her whisper caressed the air. She cupped his face and, not giving either of them a chance to think, pulled him down while lifting on her tiptoes. Her lips pressed against his scar, once, twice. The softness...the sweetness of him...
More.
He stiffened and wrenched from her hold, but again, he didn’t storm off. He glared at her, panting now. She was panting, too, the scent of him teasing her nose. Spiced rum with oranges and a subtle floral note; it wasn’t feminine but strangely—deliciously—masculine.
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...