Gena Showalter - Can't Let Go

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...

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