Can't Get Enough (The Original Heartbreakers Book 6) Page 8

James had introduced her body to passion, so of course she had to be in love with him. Granted, he’d saved her from her father’s wrath beforehand, so she’d already been blinded by hero worship.

  And what if she became pregnant, huh? Might be difficult not to fall for her baby daddy.

  Know your faults and weaknesses, plan for every possibility.

  If she fell in love with Brock…

  Oh, the humiliation. The utter foolishness. He’d be done with her soon enough.

  I’m not the brightest bulb in the lamp, but I’m smarter than that. Surely. She would guard her heart.

  If ever Lyndie made a conscious decision to pursue a relationship rather than nurture her independence while satisfying her lusts—this is a possibly now?—Brock Hudson would never qualify as a potential candidate. She’d go for someone turned on by monogamy, who didn’t threaten her peace of mind, or hope to invade all aspects of her life. So. If she did fall for Brock, despite all her precautions, well, so what? Her feelings wouldn’t matter.

  Something James had taught her: feelings were inconsequential, fleeting, and changeable. Besides, Brock would meet her long-denied sexual needs—hopefully—and, like a type of camel, Lyndie would store the memories in a mind-hump and survive another carnal drought if she failed to find a proper candidate for her lusts.

  Never again would her happiness depend on a man. Not even a good one like Brock.

  On my own or bust…but sometimes with a little help. Argh! Now she was hearing his voice in her head. But help didn’t have to come from a man, or partner. Look at Ryanne and Dorothea. They helped her in a hundred different ways every day.

  “Don’t worry about me.” Lyndie hugged her friends, one after the other. “I’m going to be okay. Promise.”

  Tears welled in Ryanne’s eyes, no doubt courtesy of her raging pregnancy hormones. “Hey! We’re supposed to comfort you, not the other way around.”

  “You have.” Truly.

  Knock, knock.

  Startled, Lyndie jolted. “Yes?”

  “You ready, ladies?” Daniel called. “We made the mistake of teasing Brock, telling him you skipped town, and now he’s desperate to see you.”

  Her stomach knotted all over again. Goodbye comfort. Goodbye confidence. Almost too late to back out.

  Stop! Just stop! No more flip-flopping.

  Trembling, she hooked the cats to their leashes, passed one handle to Ryanne and the other to Dorothea. Cameow and Mega were not happy to be leashed while there were perfectly good pieces of lint to chase through the air, and they bucked liked wild broncos. They wore harnesses rather than collars, thank goodness, saving them both from choking.

  “Just like toddlers,” Dorothea said and tsked.

  Lyndie squared her shoulders. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

  Chapter Seven

  The moment the sanctuary doors opened, Lyndie came into view and Brock lost his breath. He didn’t have a gown fetish. He had a Lyndie fetish. She was a strawberry-blond goddess. A dream come true. An angel. A seductress. Temptation made flesh.

  Every muscle in his body tensed with desire. Tonight he would explore every inch of her…

  Her head was high, revealing the length of her elegant neck, but her eyes were downcast. Why? Whatever the reason, she still managed to enrapture him. No woman, in this world or any other, had ever been more beautiful.

  Awareness sizzled inside him, setting a bone-deep sense of possession on fire. In minutes, she will be mine, all mine.

  He’d halfway expected to wake up and feel the same toxic deluge of emotion he used to experience before a mission, when he had to keep his endgame on his mind and reject all other thoughts. What he hadn’t expected, even at his most calm? To wake up delighted. Eager.

  Needing a moment to gain control of his anticipation, Brock looked away. His gaze landed on Jude. His friend might be dressed in a suit, but even still, he managed to look like a surfer with shaggy sandy-colored hair, sun-drenched skin, and leanly muscled frame. Not surprising.

  For two and a half years, misery had been Jude’s constant companion. At the moment, he watched his new wife with absolute adoration, radiating all kinds of happiness.

  And there was Daniel, just as entranced with Dorothea.

  Both of his friends suffered with some form of PTSD, but look at them now. Hopeful, with bright futures ahead.

  Envy pricked Brock. For a month or so, he could pretend his future was just as bright…

  His gaze returned to Lyndie, as if drawn by an invisible force.

  As a photographer bustled about snapping pictures, Brock’s wife-to-be glided ever-closer. Her cats led the way while Ryanne and Dorothea flanked her sides. Lyndie had no mother or father or siblings; Brock would be her only family.

  Family. The word continued to echo in his mind. He would be her family…until the divorce. He would be her friend…until the baby came.

  Total wrong thought. The blood rushed from his head, leaving him swaying.

  As Lyndie passed row after row of people, murmurs of awe rose.

  Though he and Lyndie had issued only a handful of personal invitations, expecting only their closest friends to attend such a last-minute event, half the town had shown up. He should have guessed they’d draw a crowd; word spread fast in Strawberry Valley.

  Among the throng? Pearl Harris, owner of the Secret Garden and Lyndie’s cousin who, according to gossip, was “single and ready to mingle.” Both women had strawberry-blond hair and alabaster skin, though Pearl had a wealth of freckles and Lyndie didn’t.

  Or did she? Were her freckles hidden?

  There was Beck and Harlow Ockley. Jase and Brook Lynn Hollister. Lincoln and Jessie Kay West. Dane and Kenna Michaelson and their little girl, Norrie. All business owners who’d hired LPH Protection to oversee their security. Well, except for Norrie. Brock liked and respected them all, despite their quirks—or maybe because of them. Brook Lynn and Kenna were the leading authorities on an upcoming zombie apocalypse that was “certain” to happen.

  He spotted Edna Mills and her grown daughter, Caroline. There were also patrons from the Scratching Post. A teacher from Lyndie’s school, Henrietta Campbell. Behind her was Cooter Bowright and a bunch of older men Brock couldn’t name. In back was the town vet, Brett Vandercamp, and his assistant, a formerly homeless man known as Loner.

  Ryanne’s mother, Selma Martinez-Wade-Lewis-Scott-Hernandez-Montgomery, had shown up only a few seconds before Lyndie appeared. Most of the men in town claimed Selma had the ability to “pop the top off your biscuits with only a wink and a smile” and the woman had tried to prove it in a hot pink spandex dress that barely covered her pantyline.

  The only people Brock had denied entrance? Miranda and Braydon Hudson, as well as Rick Lambert, Lyndie’s stalker.

  His mother had continued to call him throughout the week, but as usual, he’d sent her straight to voice mail.

  This morning a text had come in from Braydon. Just so you know, Mother is on a rampage—and on her way to your little town. She plans to stop the wedding. If not before, she’ll try to take action after, but I don’t yet know how.

  Maybe truth, maybe lie. Fine. Probably truth. But come on. Braydon had never before reached out to him and had certainly never attempted to aid him. Whatever motivated his younger brother, Brock didn’t care. He’d already taken precautions and stationed former soldiers around the church.

  “Marriage is a blessing,” the pastor announced, breaking into his thoughts. “But doubly blessed is the couple who comes together with the love of their families and friends. Who has the honor of presenting this woman to be joined with this man?”

  “We do,” Ryanne said. “Her sisters by choice. The loves of her past and present.”

  “And the Golden Girls of her future,” Dorothea added.

  Some members of the crowd chuckled. Others grinned and slapped their knee.

  “That’s my daughter-in-law, y’all,” Virgil Porter called, beaming at Dorot
hea. “Sweeter than a wild strawberry plucked straight from the vine.”

  Brock reached out, embarrassed by the tremors in his hand. Finally Lyndie’s gaze snapped up, meeting his. Her amber eyes were wide, glassed with fear, her chest rising and falling in quick succession as she did a mighty good impersonation of hyperventilating.

  The urge to close the distance, wrap her in his arms, and tell her everything would be okay bombarded him. But he remained in place, waiting. Finally Lyndie took his hand and settled in at his side.

  A pang cut through his chest as he watched the color drain from her cheeks, leaving her waxen. Pale as a ghost, she looked ready to faint at any moment.

  She needed reassurance, and she needed it now.

  “Dearly beloved,” the pastor began.

  “One second, sir. We need a moment to ourselves.” Brock led Lyndie toward a small sound room off to the side. If she’d realized he wasn’t good enough for her, or decided artificial “incineration” would be easier…

  Every muscle in his body tensed, and this time it had nothing to do with desire.

  Pearl called, “Any argument you guys are gonna have, you can have in front of us. We’ll help you settle it!”

  Murmurs of agreement arose.

  No, thanks. Brock shut the door with a loud click, sealing the room. The scent of wildflowers and roses instantly enveloped him, and he breathed deeply, savoring.

  Ready to slay dragons, he faced his fiancée. However, the first words to leave his mouth? “You have the most beautiful eyes.” The absolute, unvarnished truth and much better than Please don’t leave me.

  “Thank you,” she muttered. “My mother gave them to me. Um, why are we here, exactly?”

  “And your dress,” he said, continuing as if she hadn’t spoken. “My fetish is pleased.”

  “You make the fetish sound like a separate entity,” she replied with a half-smile.

  There. Now he felt comfortable enough to tackle her issues. “Are you having doubts?” Even the thought of rejection sent panic spiraling through him, but sheer grit helped him maintain a neutral expression.

  A wild gleam sparked in that golden gaze. “Are you?”

  “No. Now tell the truth. Are you having doubts?”

  “Yes. No. Maybe? I’m just… I’m freaking out. Why aren’t you? Unless this is you in freak-out mode. Oh, my gosh. Is it? Do you have a fever? How many fingers am I holding up?” She extended her index finger directly in front of his face.

  He rolled his eyes. “I’m in my right mind, doctor. You forget, I spent years as an Army Ranger. I’ve faced firing squads.” With his hands on her shoulders, he forced her to peer up at him. “We’re not trying for forever here. Just a month. Think of all the orgasms we’re going to have. Think of the little baby you’ll hold in your arms.” Manipulation? He sucked worse than he’d thought.

  She’d thank him later. Maybe.

  Everything about her softened, a small smile curving the corners of her rosebud mouth. “Maybe a little boy with pale green eyes, dark hair, and a wicked grin guaranteed to melt the heart of every woman he encounters. You’re right. I can do this.”

  Melt the heart of every woman he encountered? That was how Lyndie saw him? Brock’s heart melted. “You can. You’re not alone. I’m right there with you.”

  Straight white teeth nibbled on her bottom lip—soon, his teeth would replace them. “You’re right,” she repeated. “This is one thing I don’t have to do on my own.”

  Propelled by a cool tide of relief—and urgency—he led her back into the sanctuary before she could change her mind.

  “—and that’s how I wrapped Jude around my finger,” Ryanne was saying. When she noticed the return of the bride and groom, she gave Lyndie a thumbs-up and raced back to Dorothea’s side.

  A round of applause erupted, and twin pink circles painted Lyndie’s cheeks.

  “Pastor,” Brock said with a nod. He met Lyndie’s stare, a bolt of lust hitting him like lightning, stealing his breath all over again. We’re doing this. It’s happening.

  “Dearly beloved,” the pastor began a second time. “We are gathered here today to celebrate the union of Brock Hudson and Lyndie Scott.”

  Throughout the ceremony, Brock spoke when prompted. During the exchange of rings, he slipped a five-carat diamond on Lyndie’s delicate finger, his blood on fire with need as he waited to hear the six most important words in his entire life…

  “You may now kiss the bride.”

  Those. Circumstances might have forced his hand, and he might not be built for happily forever after, but he was going to enjoy every moment of wedded bliss while he could.

  Brock lowered his head, and to his delight, Lyndie lifted to her tiptoes. Their lips met in a soft press—their first kiss. He had to swallow a moan. As sweet as she is beautiful.

  He should end this, now, before he passed the point of no return. In church! He should not deepen his possession of her mouth in front of all these people. Later tonight he could taste and explore—

  Screw that. He’d waited long enough.

  She wrapped her arms around him, holding him close rather than pushing him away. Clinging to him. A silent plea for more.

  My wife wants me, she gets me.

  He claimed her mouth with greater force, devouring her with lips, tongue, and teeth. With a hand at her nape, he tugged her body flush against his.

  Later, he would lift her skirt and rip open his zipper. They would be male to female. Heat to heat. She would wind her legs around him, ready—soaked—and he would thrust deep.

  “Dang, y’all. That’s enough. You’re about to set the building on fire.”

  Ryanne’s voice penetrated the thick haze of arousal permeating every inch of him. Comprehension dawned. With a growl, he lifted his head, abruptly ending the kiss.

  He was panting. Lyndie was panting, her lips red and slightly swollen, her amber eyes glazed with desire. Exquisite.

  She touched a fingertip to her mouth and traced the center seam, as if she missed Brock’s possession.

  Growing drunk on her all over again, he framed her face with his hands and dusted his thumbs over her cheeks. Cheeks now pink with color and white-hot. Want her. Want her now.

  Cheers registered, and he frowned. What the—

  “Ladies and gentleman,” the pastor said. “I present Mr. and Mrs. Hudson.”

  Lyndie shook her head, frowned, and announced, “I’m keeping my last name.” She turned to Brock, her eyes wide. “I forgot to tell you because I didn’t think of it until just now.”

  Cheers turned to murmurs of disapproval.

  “We got ourselves a gosh-dern hyphen situation?” Virgil demanded, as if a hyphen was on par with cancer.

  “No hyphen,” Lyndie said, refusing to back down. “I’ll remain Lyndie Scott.”

  While Virgil appeared crushed, Brock battled disappointment. An emotion he had no right to feel. Wasn’t like he and Lyndie were in this thing forever. Keeping her last name wasn’t a big deal. But he’d wanted to claim her in every way possible. Even this one.

  With his mouth at her ear, he whispered, “After the sizzling kiss we just shared, I’ll just have to seek solace in your bed. Let’s go home, Scottie.”

  Chapter Eight

  Hop into bed with Brock? Yes, please. One kiss had rocked her ever-loving world. Mind boggled. Body desperate.

  Lyndie remembered thinking that sex between them didn’t have to be good as long as she got a baby out of the deal. Now she suspected the sex would be better than good, and she ached for more.

  As Brock led her down the aisle, he smiled and nodded at their guests, his last words playing through her mind. Let’s go home, Scottie.

  Thirty seconds into their fake marriage, and he thought he could change their plans and call the shots? Not just no, but heck no.

  She twisted the too-heavy ring on her finger as she smiled up at him with saccharine sweetness and even batted her lashes. “We’re going to the reception, husba
nd, and that’s that. We are not disappointing our guests.”

  He pouted down at her, and she almost—almost—laughed. Fact was, he wanted her as desperately as she wanted him, and the knowledge added fuel to the fire already blazing in her veins. What mattered most? Ensuring their marriage began the way it would end. With Lyndie in charge of Lyndie.

  Besides, he needed to know she wasn’t going to put him first, wasn’t going to actively try to nurture their connection, wasn’t going do everything in her power to keep him happy in order to save herself a world of hurt.

  Oh, what beautiful freedom!

  “I’m going to drop a truth bomb,” she said as soon as they cleared the double doors in back. She stepped in front of him, stopping him before they reached the exit to the parking lot. “Your request came off like a demand. I won’t be ordered around. Ever.”

  Understanding lit his pale green irises. “My mistake. One I won’t make again. I’m sorry.”

  An apology. Unexpected, and welcome. “Look,” she said, and sighed. “Over the centuries, women have set the bar super low for men. If a guy picks up after himself, or makes himself a sandwich so his significant other doesn’t have to make it for him, we women are blown away. And that’s not the way a relationship should work. Basic human kindness should be the norm.”

  “You’re right. Family looks out for each other. The kind of family I want, anyway.”

  She gulped. “We aren’t family, Brock.”

  “We are. Legally. At least for a little while.” Motions as fluid as water, he backed her up against the wall, his big body seeming to engulf hers.

  He smelled like pumpkin and spices again—a mix of cloves, allspice, and cinnamon—and her mouth watered. Nerves still ultrasensitive after their kiss buzzed when he placed his hands at her temples, caging her in. Her heart thudded with longing, no hint of fear.

  Lids hooded, he rasped, “Will you pretty please with a cherry on top let me take you home, strip you naked, kiss every inch of your body, and make you come once…twice…why don’t we go for a baker’s dozen?”