Devil Without a Cause (6 page)

Chapter Seven

F
inn emerged from the bedroom to find she’d set the table. She stood by the window, staring out as though mesmerized, and he wondered what she saw.

To him it was just another faceless big city, but to her it was obviously home.

“Do you like living here?” he asked, and she jumped.

He wanted her to relax, for purely selfish reasons that he had no trouble acknowledging. He hadn’t been on a date—a real date—in so long he couldn’t even remember what one was like. She’d gotten so flustered when he’d come out in the towel; women who blushed were pretty rare in his world. At any rate, he didn’t want to be
on
anymore tonight. No performing, no posturing, no bullshit. He just wanted to be himself, to be Finn, and see how she responded to that.

“I love Atlanta,” she said, turning back to the view. “Except for the traffic. It’s beautiful when the dogwood and azalea are in bloom, and the winters aren’t too bad. I’ve lived here all my life.” She gave a self-conscious laugh. “Sounds pretty boring, doesn’t it?”

He shook his head. “I was an Air Force brat—I always thought it would be cool to stay in one place.”

There was a silence, in which he could feel her looking at him.

“I thought you grew up in L.A.,” she offered, as if everyone knew where he’d grown up, just because of who he was.

He shot her a wry grin. “That’s the official story, I guess.” He turned from the window, moving toward the table. “I grew up all over.” He pulled out a chair and held it for her, smiling. “I hope you don’t believe
everything
you read about me.”

“You mean you
don’t
own a private island in the Bermuda Triangle where you throw wild parties with celebrities and starlets and models?” She cocked her head, obviously only half teasing.

He gave a short laugh. “Of course not,” he replied, as if the very idea was ludicrous. He waited until she’d settled in the chair to add, “It’s in the British Virgin Islands.”

There, he’d made her laugh. She smelled good, something light and uplifting that made him want to breathe in deep.

Instead he settled himself in the chair opposite her, looking forward to the meal. “I’m hungry,” he said, “how about you?”

“Starved,” she answered.

And so for the next half hour, they talked and they ate; him doing most of the eating and her doing most of the talking, mainly because he kept asking her questions. She toyed with her green beans while he decimated his fillet, and pretty soon he knew quite a bit about Amy Smith.

Twenty-seven, degree in business from Georgia State. Grew up in Atlanta with parents she thought were great, lots of friends, liked to go out but took work very seriously.

“Sounds like a nice life,” he said.

She laughed at that, spearing a bean or two. “It’s had its ups and downs, but yes”—she nodded thoughtfully—“my life definitely has its bright spots.”

“Anyone special?”

Her eyes flew to his face.

“Boyfriend, maybe?” Finn shrugged, playing it casual. “As long as he doesn’t show up pounding on the door, I’m okay with it.” As he said it, he was surprised to realize he
didn’t
mean it, and wondered why—he barely knew this girl.

“No boyfriend,” she said, putting down her fork to pick up her glass. “I have a four-year-old son.”

She barely looked old enough to be anyone’s mother, but news of a child didn’t faze him; after tonight he’d never see her again.

“Divorced?”

She shook her head. “Never married. He didn’t want what I wanted, so we went our separate ways.”

Finn nodded as though he understood, but he didn’t. What kind of man walked away from his own child, his own flesh and blood, knowing no other man could ever quite fill those shoes?

“What about you?” she asked.

“No kids,” he said, shaking his head. “But I wouldn’t mind having them one day.”
Except he never would, because he’d probably be a lousy father. Always working, always touring . . .

The overhead light played on her hair, gleaming shades of red and mahogany that reminded him of the wood he used in his workshop. It was his sanctuary between tours, where music and chaos were replaced with the sound and fury of saws, drills, and hammers.

He hadn’t lied about the British Virgin Islands—he did have a house there, and it was as close to home as anyplace else he’d been in the last twenty years. It was private, and it was quiet, and he could usually rest there, for a while, until the muse of Chaos roused herself and consumed his mind and body with the need for another song, another CD, another tour.

Another triumph.

“You didn’t eat much,” he observed quietly.

She looked up. “I don’t usually eat red meat,” she admitted, “but I thought you might like it.”

“Surely you’re not still nervous,” he teased. “Ever since I put my clothes on I’ve been a perfect gentleman.”

“You have.” She smiled, shooting him a glance beneath her lashes. “But you don’t have to be, you know.”

Despite the open invitation, she was blushing again; no hiding it with skin that fair.

“Good,” he replied, “because I’ve been dying to play footsies with you under the table.”

He liked the way she laughed.

“You’re quite the tease, aren’t you? The last guy I dated had no sense of humor—” Then she stopped laughing, as though she’d said too much. “I mean, not that this is a
date
, exactly . . .” She trailed off.

He raised his eyebrows. “Isn’t it?”

She looked uncomfortable. “You’re being sweet,” she said. “We both know I shamelessly pushed my way in here.”

“I’m glad you did,” he answered smoothly. He reached across the table for her hand and took it. His hand dwarfed hers. “Let’s be honest with each other, shall we?”

Her brown eyes widened.

“For all your bravado, you don’t seem like the kind of girl who talks her way into celebrity hotel rooms on a regular basis, so you need to understand something. We can have a great time together tonight, but afterward . . . afterward you’ll probably never hear from me again.”

He leaned in, smoothing his thumb over her knuckles. “You need to be okay with that. One night, that’s all we’ve got.”

“One night,” she repeated, biting her lip.

“And in the morning, no hard feelings and no regrets?”

“No regrets,” she murmured.

“Do me a favor,” he said, his eyes drawn to those sweet pink lips. “Let’s pretend I’m not Finn Payne; I’m just some guy who saw you in a crowded elevator and invited you to dinner, and you’re not Amy . . .” He hesitated.

“Smith,” she provided, a heartbeat later.

“You’re not Amy Smith; you’re just a beautiful woman about to have a night of wild delight with a total stranger. Sort of like role playing, except we get to play ourselves.” He stared into her chocolate brown eyes, wondering if she could possibly be as gorgeous naked as he was beginning to imagine.

She swallowed, squeezing his hand. The tip of her tongue came out to moisten her bottom lip, and his groin tightened.

“Wild delight,” she murmured huskily, “sounds good.”

“Doesn’t it?”

There was something different about her; boldness mixed with vulnerability, shamelessness mixed with shame.

Face of an angel, body made for sin
, whispered an amused voice, faintly, in the back of his mind.

Go away
, he ordered it, tightening his hand over the girl’s.
I don’t need or want any chaos tonight.

Chapter Eight

S
he could feel the ring beneath her thumb as he gripped her hand. He stood up, drawing her with him. “Come with me.”

She did as he asked, choosing to focus on
him
, not her problems. It wasn’t hard—she was very conscious of how very male his fingers felt, the sculpted strength of his wrist and forearm, the firm bulge of his biceps. He led her to the couch overlooking the Atlanta skyline and settled her where she had the best view, but she barely noticed, her attention taken by something infinitely more interesting, directly in her line of sight.

Finn gave her a knowing smile, not troubling to hide his erection. Then he moved away, toward the bar. “Wait right there,” he said. “Enjoy the view.”

She swallowed hard, enjoying the view very much.

Finn poured them both another splash of scotch and came back to the couch, taking a seat next to her. His knee was touching her thigh. “To no regrets,” he said, clinking his glass with hers. They both drank, and the burn of the scotch as it worked its way down steadied her.

So much so that when he lowered his glass, she leaned in and kissed him. Gently, slowly, as though they had all the time in the world. Moving her lips over his, breathing his breath and letting him breathe hers, the merest brush of their tongues, mingled with the tang of scotch and the first stirrings of desire.

One night; that’s all they had.

She hardly heard the clink of his glass as he put it on the table, vaguely felt him take hers and do the same. All her senses were focused on the taste and the feel of his lips, and sensations she’d forgotten existed.

He shifted, slipping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her closer. The kiss changed, deepening. She was against his chest, and he smelled wonderful; she could barely keep herself from groaning aloud at the scent, the feel of him. Her hand was on his arm, her palm against his bicep, skimming upward over the muscled curve of his shoulder.

He leaned back into the couch, taking her with him. The hard length between his legs left no doubt of his arousal, and Faith felt an answering throb between her own. One broad hand slid up her ribs to cup her breast, and she made an involuntary noise low in her throat, shocked at how good his palm felt against her nipple, even through her clothes.

Suddenly, regrets or no regrets, she couldn’t wait to get naked.

There was a slow tug at her waistband, and she helped him pull her blouse free, never moving too far from his lips. Finn’s fingers—the ones that could make a guitar sing like an angel—deftly undid the buttons, and then smoothed the fabric from her shoulder. His hand was warm on her skin, sliding down her arm, freeing it from her sleeve; firm on her hip, squeezing her thigh and bottom as though learning the terrain. She brushed his cock with her hand, unable to help herself, and felt it throb in response.

His lips left hers, and then she was drowning in the feel of them on her neck, his breath in the hollow beneath her ear.

“Oh . . .”

She was moaning aloud, and didn’t care.

His fingers were at her waist again, this time unzipping her skirt.

“Too many clothes,” he murmured, and she couldn’t agree more. She pulled back, intending to help, but he forestalled her by cupping one of her breasts in his hand, squeezing and stroking through the fabric of her bra. She caught her breath, gazing down at him, seeing the evidence of her fingers in the wild state of his hair, his lips, smudged with lipstick from her kisses. Without thinking, she reached out to thumb it away, but as soon as she touched him there, he opened his mouth and caught her thumb in his teeth, giving it a gentle nip.

His eyes were a vivid shade of green, hungry and intent, and his hand was still on her breast. It was throbbing, she was throbbing, and if he didn’t make love to her soon she was going to incinerate.

Whatever inhibitions she’d had were long gone.

One night with the man of her dreams. She had almost five years of pent-up passion to release, and she was going to use every bit of it giving Finn Payne, rock star, a night of mind-blowing ecstasy.

H
ot, she was so hot. Her breast filled Finn’s hand perfectly, driving even more blood between his legs. His jeans had become uncomfortable, but he was in no mood to rush. She felt good on top of him, and he enjoyed looking up at her: strawberry-bruised lips and tousled auburn hair, silky blouse off one shoulder, white bra trimmed with lace.

Her kiss had caught him off guard—the softness of it, the gentleness. No one had kissed him like that in a long time, as though how he tasted and how he felt were more important than who he
was
. He’d wanted to savor it, to make it last, and then the heat between them had flared, making him hungry for more.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered.

She turned shy at the compliment, brown eyes slanted at the corners, and he wondered if she had any idea how impossibly sexy she looked. He pulled her down to kiss her again, harder this time, and suddenly lost his desire to take things slow. His hand slipped beneath the lace of her bra, freeing one breast, and with a speed that made her gasp, he lowered his head to lave her nipple with his tongue.

She moaned, and he held her tighter while he licked and sucked, then let her go slowly with a gentle scrape of the teeth that made her gasp aloud. Her fingers were in his hair, on the back of his neck. She dropped her head, and her breath on his ear made his balls tighten.

“Up,” he murmured, his cheek against the soft skin of her breast. “To the bed.”

She surprised him once again by giving his head a gentle kiss before moving to do as he’d asked. It was a gesture of tenderness between lovers—even though they technically weren’t lovers just yet—and it touched him.

He was used to keeping his lovers at arm’s length. Women wanted him because of who he was, and he wanted women for the release they gave him. Tenderness was not usually part of the equation.

This girl, however, seemed different, though he wasn’t sure why. It was more than the way she looked; it was something about
her
.

She got up, brushing her hand again over the bulge in his jeans. Already aching, his erection made it difficult to stand.

“Careful,” he warned, as he gained his feet, “these jeans are pretty tight.”

She looked down, a pleased smile curving her lips. “So they are,” she murmured. “Let me fix that for you.”

He caught his breath as her hands went to his waist, deftly undoing the top button of his jeans. He gazed down at her as she worked, thoroughly enjoying the view of one rosy breast, still uncovered, the nipple dark pink and damp from his tongue.

She unzipped his fly partway, then stopped, slipping a hand inside to stroke his groin and belly. Bringing her face up to his for another scorching kiss, she grasped his T-shirt in both hands and raised it over his head.

Shirtless now, he returned the favor, slipping her blouse, already half off and hanging free, from her shoulder. The only thing between them now was her bra, and he had that unhooked in seconds. Then it was gone, and they were both bare from the waist up. He pulled her against him, skin to skin, kissing her again.

“Mmmm,” she murmured as her breasts came into contact with his chest, and he agreed completely.

A tug at her waist and a little wiggle, and her skirt dropped to the floor, pooling at her feet. He could see their reflection in the tall glass windows: him, in unzipped jeans; her, in a wispy pair of panties. While he’d never considered white to be particularly sexy, the way she looked in hers definitely changed his mind.

Then he felt her fingers on his jeans again, and closed his eyes as she freed his aching cock.

“No underwear,” she whispered, her lips at the base of his neck. “You
are
a bad boy, aren’t you?”

He smiled against her hair, liking how she teased him, then caught his breath as she took him in her hand, stroking and squeezing. Such soft hands, warm and insistent . . . His cock throbbed and swelled, her touch turning him hard as iron.

Surprised at how much he suddenly wanted to be inside her, he caught her wrist and said hoarsely, “Let’s go in the other room.”

She let him go, but not before another slow stroke of her hand had wrung a groan of pleasure from his lips.

Once in the bedroom, he caught her at the foot of the bed and kissed her again, cupping her bottom in his hands. She was soft where he was hard, and seemed to fit him perfectly. Her breath was coming faster now, and she gasped when he pressed their hips together, letting her feel his urgency.

Her hands were like velvet on his skin, slipping below the waistline of his jeans to stroke and touch. He pulled back, ready to take them off, but she was still kissing him, and he couldn’t seem to stop doing the same. She urged him a step or two backward, toward the bed.

Her hands moved to his shoulders, and pressed down gently until he fell back on the mattress, landing on his elbows. His jeans were partially unzipped, and he was fully exposed, hard as a rock.

They were both breathing hard. For a moment she just stood there, taking in the view, as did he.

She was just as beautiful beneath her clothes as he’d hoped, slender, with womanly curves in all the right places. Her breasts were full but not overblown, the nipples a dark pink.

As he watched, she slowly removed her panties, keeping her eyes on his face while she did it. He couldn’t tell if the color in her cheeks was shyness or arousal, but it didn’t matter. The small triangle of curls at the base of her thighs was the same color as the hair on her head, and just as pretty.

He smiled appreciatively, and she leaned in, running her fingers through the dusting of hair on his chest, trailing them all the way down to his groin. His breath hitched at the brush of her fingers along his cock, and he raised his hips to help her as she tugged down his jeans and drew them off. Her hands traveled smoothly back up his calves, soft against the coarse hair of his legs and thighs. She touched him again, and he groaned as she cupped his balls, tight with need. Closing his eyes at the sensation, he felt her other hand moving over his belly and chest, finding the erect nub of his left nipple. He threw back his head and let her do whatever she wanted—she held him there, by both pleasure centers, squeezing and rubbing, as the evening’s chaos centered itself into one burning, coiling ache that could only be eased by what she had to offer.

It was slow torture, but he kept his hands to himself, sensing that what she was doing was just as good for her as it was to him. The bed dipped as she came down beside him on one knee, bringing her face to his. “Lie down,” she whispered, breath warm in his ear, and he did, stretching out a hand to cup and caress her breast as he did.

So soft, so smooth.

But then she flinched, bringing his eyes open.

“Ow,” she murmured, though he couldn’t imagine what could’ve hurt her. “Your ring—could you take it off?”

“I’ll be more careful,” he replied.

She hesitated, but he was well past the point of any hesitation, and pulled her down for a kiss designed to make them both forget anything except what they were about to do. Her hair brushed his cheek, and her lips moved against his, quickly matching his hunger. Hands around her waist, he rolled, trapping her beneath him. Unable to help himself, he rocked his hips gently against her, once, twice . . . pressing his hardness against her softness in an unmistakable rhythm.

She broke the kiss, gasping, but he merely transferred his mouth to her breasts, which were inches away, and completely irresistible. His tongue played with her nipples as he sucked, licked, and nipped them both in turn. Her gasps turned to moans, her fingers threading their way through his hair. “Wait,” she groaned after several moments of torture, “please.”

Though he hated to stop, he forced himself to raise his head from those pink, rosy tips. Running his lips from her collarbone to her ear, he murmured huskily, “Please don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind—I’ve tried to be a gentleman, but now I need more than footsies under the table.”

“No,” she said, rubbing one slender leg along his bare thigh, “I haven’t changed my mind.” Her breath was hot in his ear, and everywhere she touched him, his skin tingled. “I just want to make this last.”

And make it last she did, using her mouth to bring him to the brink of madness, and the honeyed warmth between her thighs to pull him in, sheathe him in ecstasy, over and over again. By the time they both fell asleep in the wee hours of the morning, boneless and exhausted, Finn already knew he wasn’t going to be content with just one night with Amy Smith.