Henrietta was sixty-three and one of the best teachers Lyndie knew. Lyndie student taught for her, but had also been a student in her class however many years ago. With a silver beehive teased and sprayed to the max, a shoulder-pad fetish, and a collection of oversized dresses that ended at her ankles, revealing scuffed black pumps, Henrietta personified the term "old granny."
"What's wrong?" Lyndie asked.
Wringing her weathered hands, Henrietta said, "There's no easy way to say this, so I'm just going to blurt it out, okay? There are rumors circulating that your new husband likes to...well, hit women. Especially his mother. I just wanted to make sure--"
"The rumors are wrong," Lyndie rushed to interject. Ryanne and Dorothea had already warned her of Miranda's attempt to poison Strawberry Valley against Brock. How dare the witch continue to spread such bold-faced lies? "Miranda Hudson is willing to do or say anything to convince me to divorce Brock. As long as we're married, Brock inherits his father's fortune and Miranda gets very little. So, to be quite blunt about the matter, I would like to beat her."
"Well, I declare. Why, she sounds meaner than a wet panther."
"Please help me remind the town of Brock's innocence."
"Oh, I will, honey. You can count on me." Henrietta pressed a hand against her heart. "I'm so glad my worries about you were unfounded. After what happened with James..."
Very few people knew the truth about Lyndie's past, but Henrietta was one of them.
Most times, James had used Lyndie as a punching bag from the neck down to avoid causing cuts and bruises she couldn't hide with clothing. But one terrible night, she'd failed to have his dinner ready on time after he'd told her and told her he would be working through lunch and coming home early and he would be starved. He'd "lost control."
It had always struck her as funny how a little slip of a girl could cause him to lose control, and yet he'd somehow managed to exude unending patience with men who were bigger and stronger.
A few days after the beating, Lyndie had driven to Strawberry Valley to grocery shop, per James's orders. Since they'd lived in Blueberry Hill, he hadn't wanted to risk one of his friends seeing her black eye and asking questions. He also hadn't wanted her to stay home, because he'd had a craving for meatloaf and mashed potatoes and, wonderfully generous man that he was, he'd been willing to give her a chance to make up for her failure.
Lyndie had run in to Henrietta that day. Upon seeing her, her former kindergarten teacher had gasped and demanded to know what had happened. Lyndie had almost run from the store. Would have run if she hadn't found herself rooted in place, her feet as heavy as boulders.
In the silence, Henrietta started crying. Lyndie started sobbing. The pain too much. The stress too much. Life too much. Never had she felt so defeated.
"Oh, my sweet girl," Henrietta had said while drawing Lyndie against her; gentle, so gentle. "I'll be praying for you."
She'd said nothing else, and Lyndie had said nothing, period. They'd walked away from each other. Lyndie had finished her shopping, because there was no way she could return home without the necessary ingredients for meatloaf and mashed potatoes.
Later she found out Henrietta had done more than pray. She'd gone to Sherriff Lintz in Strawberry Valley to report what she'd seen and ask local PD to look into James's actions. Which he'd done...getting Lyndie into more trouble.
In the present, Lyndie's body went rigid. Her nails cut into her palms. Her chest felt too tight, her heartbeat too weak, even fluttery, making her think of a broken butterfly wing.
So many years of her life, wasted.
To get a degree, she'd had to do most of her classes online, in secret, and finish after James died. She'd used money he hadn't known about, money her mother had left in a trust for her--money her mother had saved, hoping to leave her father one day. By using Ryanne's address and phone number, Lyndie ensured no paperwork could be traced back to her and that no one from the school could contact her directly.
One of her only rebellions.
James had expected her to stay home, looking her best while she cooked his meals, cleaned the entire house from top to bottom, and fell into bed whenever he desired. If ever he'd found out about her secret life as a student, he would have forced her to drop out. After beating her, of course. He'd liked keeping her helpless, dependent on him for everything.
"I'm sorry for opening old wounds, dear." Henrietta tucked a lock of hair behind Lyndie's ear. "I've seen your new husband around town. He's quite something, isn't he?"
Lyndie latched onto the subject change with both hands and a rope. "He sure is," she replied with no small amount of pride.
Pride? Uh-oh. Was she growing attached to him already?
"Well, I better go." Feigning nonchalance, she wiggled her brows. "We've got a hot date tonight."
"Have fun."
Oh, I will. Tonight was the night. Tonight she and Brock would have sex for the first time. Ovulating or not--probably not--she didn't care. It was time. She trusted him to stay with her, to want her afterward. He'd said he would, and she believed him.
The ten-minute drive home proved uneventful, and yet her body acted as if she'd nearly crashed a dozen times. Racing heart, trembling limbs, churning stomach.
No sign of Brock's sedan. Fighting disappointment, she made her way inside the house, expecting to see animals but no husband. Instead, she found her husband but no animals and came to an abrupt stop.
Her husband stood in the center of the living room, shirtless, pecs and abdomen on spectacular display. The only thing he wore? A faded pair of jeans. She moaned, already hopelessly aroused.
Red rose petals formed a trail behind him, wrapping around the hallway. A beautiful floral scent mingled with the savory aroma of...tacos? Her second favorite meal. The first? Soup of any kind.
"What's going on?" she asked, breathless.
"Isn't it obvious? I'm romancing the hell out of you."
She snorted but also melted. "And where are our critters?"
"Playing in their pen. I finished it early this afternoon."
And he'd spent the rest of the afternoon planning and executing this date, she would bet. Considering she was a sure thing, he must have done it just to make her happy.
She gulped. When he motioned to the roses, she noticed a slight tremble. She started to pant. He was the only man alive who could make her pant. And yet, despite the intensity of her reactions to him, she always retained her feminine power. He wants me as much as I want him.
"What changed your mind?" he asked.
She didn't have to wonder about his meaning. "I trust you fully," she admitted. "You've never tried to control me or the situation. Never pushed. You simply waited and kept your word."
He jolted, swallowed hard. Voice hoarse, he said, "Follow the path. And for the sake of my sanity, follow instructions."
A sexual game? Oh, la la. This would be her first.
Grinning, she followed the petals, as ordered, pausing only to rise to her tiptoes and press a soft kiss into his lips. "For the record? Consider me romanced."
He made a strangled sound in the back of his throat as he set her away from him. His pupils were enormous, almost completely overshadowing his irises. "Go," he rasped. "Before I forget my plan and carry you straight to the couch."
"You want the couch, you get the couch."
Another strangled sound as he reached for her. Just before contact, he scowled and dropped his arms to his sides. "Couch later. Path now."
Oh, very well. But dang it! She hated leaving him and now dragged her feet, every inch away from him a special kind of agony. The trail ended in...her bathroom. She jolted, shocked to the bone. He'd drawn a bath for her, more rose petals floating along the surface of the steaming water.
Tears burned her eyes as she stripped and anchored her mass of hair on the crown of her head. Why did he want to make her happy? Why go to so much trouble for her?
Did it matter? Trembling, she sank into the fragran
t liquid. Hot water lapped at her, soothing muscles she hadn't known were sore.
A timer rested on the shelf beside the tub, a note propped up beside it. Press me.
She obeyed, and twenty minutes began ticking away. Before closing her eyes to relax, or at least attempt to relax, she looked around and found a towel folded on the vanity chair, with its own note--Use me. A robe hung on the door peg--Wear me.
This was, hands down, the sweetest thing anyone had done for her...ever. Rather than relaxing, however, she found herself watching the timer, eager to find out what other things Brock had planned. Tick tick tick. Tick tick.
Ding.
Finally! After drying off, she donned the robe and nothing else. The silk felt decadent against her water-warmed skin.
When she emerged from the bathroom, she discovered Brock waiting for her in the bedroom. His gaze roved over her and sizzled. "I hope you're hungry."
"Ravenous," she croaked. But not for food.
The merciless man escorted her to the kitchen, and once again she jolted with shock and awe. He'd set the table with fine china. And he hadn't made tacos but taco soup, combining her top two favorites.
"I know you love soup, so I paid a local girl to make it." He sounded unsure and adorable and oh, wow, she really liked this man. Might even lo--
Nope. No way, no how. She liked him. Liked, liked, liked. Nothing more, nothing less.
"How did you know?" she asked.
"Once, after hours at the Scratching Post," he said, grinning, "I watched you eat alphabet soup in order. A. B. C. D."
He'd been that aware of her?
Lyndie did a mental scan on the condition of her heart and flinched. Ouch! There were cracks in her resolve. Brock Hudson had begun to chip away at her resistance. First with his willingness to wait to have sex, then with his welcoming of the animals, then with his desire to build those animals a shelter even though he had little free time. Heck, with his everything.
Affection had snuck its way inside her, challenging her independence. She'd have to get rid of it, and soon, then fortify those cracks. But not tonight. Tonight she would consider her time with Brock an exception, or exemption, or maybe even a vacation. People had fun on vacations; they didn't worry about the future.
On vacation, you could go wild, do crazy things, and enjoy your time away from the daily grind. Then, when the vacation ended, you went home and returned to normal.
Although, was relying on another person for a semi-permanent or even permanent basis really so bad? Brock didn't seem to think so. And if the scales remained balanced, a perfect give-and-take between them, she wouldn't be relying on him, not really--they would be relying on each other.
But what could she give to him?
Ponder later. Enjoy now. "Brock, darling," she said, and smiled up at him. "I'm a sure thing tonight and we both know it, yet you still went to a whole heck of a lot of trouble for me. I'm utterly blown away. Thank you."
"Scottie, sweetheart, you're as far from a sure thing as a guy can get, but don't worry. I like you anyway. More than that, I'd go to any lengths to put that smile on your face. And I like darling. Darling beats hugsy by a landslide."
This man...oh, this man. He'd put his desire for her on Technicolor display. How could she do any less?
No inhibitions. No taboos. All pleasure. With Brock, she could take what she wanted--because he wanted it too.
"I want you." She toyed with the tie cinched around her waist, teasing him with what could be. "I want you bad."
He rubbed a hand over his slackened jaw; he was trembling. "How bad?" he croaked. "Show me."
She dropped her robe, shivering as cool air kissed her skin and a sizzling gaze devoured her curves. Knees threatening to give out, she perched on the edge of the table, on the opposite end of the food, and spread her legs.
Holding his gaze, she whispered, "Very, very bad."
Chapter Fifteen
Brock drank in the feast of carnal delights splayed before him. One he'd earned for--what had Lyndie said? Not trying to control her.
I will never try to control her.
He reveled in the exquisite beauty of her face, her cheeks flushed by arousal, her eyes heavy lidded, her cheeks pink, and her mouth parted and pouty. Her breasts were plump with the sexiest little cotton candy crests. Her stomach was as flat as always, and her alabaster legs stretched for miles.
Better to wrap around my waist...or shoulders.
Between her thighs, a small patch of strawberry-blond curls shielded paradise.
Almost in a trance, Brock closed the distance and rested his palms on her knees. Such soft, warm skin. She sucked in a breath as if he'd burned her. Perhaps he had. Need sizzled inside him.
Since Lyndie had agreed to marry him, he hadn't thought of any other woman--hadn't wanted one. Actually, he hadn't wanted another woman since well before his marriage. For months he'd closed his eyes and pretended any woman in his arms was Lyndie. A disservice to the woman, and himself, and even Lyndie. Now he had the real deal.
Going to savor every moment.
Brock kicked his leg backward, hooked his foot around the leg of a chair, and slid the entire piece of furniture closer. He sat, the apex of Lyndie's thighs suddenly at eye level. A low growl reverberated in his chest as he placed one of her feet on an arm of the chair, then the other.
"Down," he commanded, then remembered her control issues. "Please."
With a moan, she stretched back, lifting her breasts as she reached overhead to clasp the outer edge of the table. A position of vulnerability, but also enormous power. Right now, she owned him.
As her knees fell farther apart, revealing beauty beyond imagining, lust delivered a hard one-two punch to his solar plexus. She was wet. Because of Brock. Even though he had yet to touch her.
He loved oral sex, both giving and receiving, but he rarely performed the intimate act on a one-night stand. And he never let a one-night stand perform the intimate act on him if he wasn't going to reciprocate. If you wouldn't give, you shouldn't take.
Strangers were just that--strangers--and the innate intimacy of oral sex made promises he'd had no intention of keeping. But he knew Lyndie. He admired and adored her.
Brock licked and nibbled the inside of her thigh. Her shivers spurred him on. He nuzzled the sensitive skin with the prickle of his beard stubble. As goose bumps spread, he imagined the passion fever did as well, heating her from head to toe.
When he reached the object of his fascination, the heady scent of her femininity drove him wild. Control frayed. He liiiicked. Yes! One taste, and he died and went to heaven.
Her hips jolted, and she gasped, then moaned. "Please," she pleaded. "Again!"
Her sweetness seduced him, consumed his thoughts and his senses. He had to have more.
Brock licked and sucked, then speared her with his tongue. As she writhed, still begging for more, he focused on her luscious little bundle of nerves and thrust a finger deep, deep inside her. She cried out and began to pant. A string of incoherent words left her. Gibberish he interpreted as: I've never felt this good. You amaze me, Brock. I can't get enough of you.
Her fingers combed through his hair before her nails cut into his scalp, as if she thought to hold him captive. The sharp sting thrilled him. The stronger her desire, the wilder her reaction, the more uninhibited she became. The more uninhibited she became, the more his control frayed. A beautiful, wild, savage, wondrous, welcome, frightening, glorious cycle.
He thrust a second finger into her depths and made scissoring motions. Just--like--that. The muscles in her abdomen quivered, her inner walls clamping down. She screamed his name, an orgasm ripping through her, the taste of her suddenly sweeter.
Moving his hands under her ass, he lifted her hips. Oh, yes. Much better access to the goods. He was greedy, taking every drop, every ripple and shiver, as his due, until her body sagged atop the table.
Panting, Brock jumped to his feet. Never in all his life had his shaft throbbed
so forcefully. The tip extended well past the waist of his jeans and was already moist. He ripped at his belt, button, and zipper, desperate for relief. The denim gaped open, but the lack of pressure only made matters worse. Pressure built.
With a curse, he kicked off the jeans, scooped Lyndie into his arms, and carried her into the master bedroom. He tossed her on the king-size bed.
As she bounced, she said, "I'd never had that...always wanted it...thank you."
"Your ex never--"
"No." Her red waves spilled over the pillows while a gold comforter framed her alabaster skin.
Such beauty. Such bounty.
All mine.
"James said-- Well, it doesn't matter." She wetted her lips. "He's gone, and you're amazing."
The man had been an idiot. To have all of Lyndie's sweetness at his disposal and never partake...
"I'll taste you every day. Morning, noon, and night. Whenever you want it, I'll want to give it--because I always want you, any way I can get you." He gripped the base of his shaft. "This is what you do to me."
Eyes wild with desire despite her orgasm, she commanded, "Give it to me. I've earned it."
"Yes, beauty, you have." Desire drove him to the mattress. He crawled up Lyndie's body, his hands outside her legs...beside her waist...
She raised her arms to grip the headboard, once again lifting her breasts in offering. Her nipples puckered for him, making his mouth water. She was a seductress without equal, an enchantress born to tempt him.
He leaned down to lave one luscious crest, then the other. Beneath him, she writhed.
"You want more of me?" he asked.
"Mmm. I want all of you."
Her words echoed inside his head. Must have echoed inside hers as well. She froze, not even daring to breathe.
Did she not like the intensity of her desire for him? Or did she fear his reaction to her words? "I'll give you all." Every inch. "But in return, I'll take everything." With pleasure.
As tension drained from her, Brock cupped those beautiful breasts, kneading the tender flesh. She began to writhe once again.
"The things you do to me," she said between panting breaths.
If she knew half the things he wanted to do...