Lovers and Strangers (15 page)

"Jack?" Faith's soft Southern voice, nervous and sweet, floated to him. "Jack, is that you?"

He waited until she came into view at the end of the hall to answer her. "You were supposed to be gone," he said tonelessly.

But his knuckles were white on the doorknob as he stood there, staring at her, and Faith took heart from the look in his eyes. She'd done a lot of thinking, sitting there in his apartment, waiting for him to come back.

A smart woman knows what she wants and goes after it.
She knew what she wanted, all right, even if she'd almost let herself be talked out of going after it. That was about to change, though—because of what Carl Mueller had said about the lady in the mirror.
Either you're gonna have your greatest wish come true or the worst thing you can think of is gonna happen.

Faith still didn't know what she'd seen in the mirror, whether it was a ghost or an optical illusion, but that didn't matter because she believed the legend.

Her greatest wish was to be loved by the man standing in the doorway, staring at her as if
she
were a ghost. Her greatest fear was that she'd have to go through the rest of her life without him. She'd never forgive herself if she didn't at least
try.

"I know you expected me to be gone," she said softly. "And I'll still go, if you want me to. After I've had my say."

Jack nodded and came down the hall to stand in front of her. "All right. Say what you have to say."

Faith took a quick, deep breath. "All my life, other people have been making my decisions for me," she said, staring into the inky depths of his eyes. "I've been told that just because I was born female, I'm weak and helpless and don't know my own mind. That I can't be trusted to do the right thing or to know what's best for me. Well, I'm not weak and I'm not helpless. Not anymore. I make my own decisions now. And if they're the wrong decisions, well, they're still my decisions. I refuse to let anyone try to tell me what I want or need," she said fiercely. "And I don't want to be protected from myself. If you don't want to make love with me because it's wrong for you, then that's your decision and you're entitled to it. But if you're holding back because you think it's wrong for me, then you're trying to make my decisions for me, and I won't have it. Do you hear me? I won't have it."

"I hear you," he said. "Loud and clear."

"Then make your decision, Jack," she said, her eyes implacable and serene. "I've already made mine."

Jack stared into her eyes for an endless moment, torn between what he wanted with every fiber of his being and what he felt was the right thing to do. Faith stared back at him, silent, waiting, making no effort to influence his decision in any way.

He'd been wrong about the smell of her, he thought. The scent of innocence wasn't reserved for babies. Sweetness wasn't the exclusive province of sugary treats. And the special warmth she exuded most definitely had a tempting fragrance all its own. He wished she was older and more experienced, more seasoned by life and all its vagaries. He could take what she offered then, without self-recrimination or the guilt that was tearing at him. But she
was
innocent, dammit, no matter what she said to the contrary, and he had stopped being innocent a lifetime ago, here in this very apartment. What had happened since then, what he had seen and done in the intervening years had only added to the blackness in his soul.

A woman like Faith should have someone who could bring her sweetness and light as well as passion, he thought. She should have someone who came to the act of love with a heart as pure and unblemished as her own. She didn't need him. Hell, she'd have been better off if she'd never met him.

But she wanted him. He could see it in those gold-flecked hazel eyes as clearly as if she'd said the words. She wanted him. And it was her decision; she'd said so. She was an adult, well past the age of consent.

So why should he feel so damned guilty about giving her what she wanted?

"I'm sorry," she said, thinking she saw his answer in his eyes. She dropped her gaze from his and stepped back. "I won't bother you again." She started to brush by him toward the door.

He knew he should let her leave, just let her walk out of his life. It would be the best thing for both of them. But he couldn't make himself do it. "Faith." He put out a hand as if to touch her, but didn't quite. "Wait."

She glanced at his hand, hovering there in midair, and then lifted her gaze to his.

He stuffed his fingers in his pocket. "I'm not an easy man," he said gruffly, as if in explanation.

"I know."

"I won't be an easy lover. Nor, in all likelihood, a gentle one."

"I know." She nodded as if in agreement. "I haven't asked you for gentleness."

But she had, he thought. Simply by being who and what she was, she had asked. "I'll probably hurt you in a dozen different ways. I won't mean to, but I will."

She smiled, then, a very soft, very gentle smile, rife with instinctive feminine wisdom. "And I might hurt you."

Jack hadn't thought of that before but he knew, as soon as she said it, that it was true. She might very well break what was left of his heart.

"Are you sure this is what you want, Angel?" he asked, his voice low and aching as he offered her one last chance to walk away from him, unscathed. "Are you very sure?"

Faith reached out and took his hand. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

Jack felt something inside him let go, something he hadn't even been aware was wound too tight. "Then come here." He opened his arms, holding his breath until she stepped into them, then closing them around her like a man clutching a life preserver to his chest. "I'll try to make it good for you," he promised, speaking the whispered words into the softness of her hair. "I'll try to be gentle."

"I know." She raised her head to look up at him. Her eyes were shining. Her arms were wrapped as tightly around him as his were around her. "Kiss me now, Jack."

Jack groaned and bent his head, taking her mouth with all the finesse and gentleness at his command, hoping there would be enough of both for him to fulfill his whispered vow.

But Faith was having none of it. She came up on tiptoe, pressing her mouth firmly against his, silently asking for more. He lifted his hands to her head, holding it still, and gave it to her.

For all her eagerness, she kissed like a young girl, her mouth closed and chaste, almost fragile. He nibbled at her lips with his, using his tongue to delicately trace the seam between them until she opened to him. He reined himself in for as long as he could, touching his tongue to the sensitive insides of her lips, running it across the ridge of her teeth, darting deeper for quick, furtive tastes of her honeyed warmth. And then she moaned, softly, and opened her mouth wider, inviting him in.

With a low groan, Jack abandoned gentleness in favor of need. His need. Her need. The kiss became carnal, deep, devouring, endless. He backed her up against the wall and leaned into her, letting her feel the weight and strength of his desire while he continued to ravage her willing mouth. His hands explored the contours of her body, skimming almost frantically over the curves of her waist and hips and the outer swell of her breasts. He used his lips and teeth and tongue with experience and skill, nibbling, sucking, nipping, thrusting, silently teaching her what she needed to know to kiss him back in the same way. She was an apt pupil, taking what she learned and returning it with all the passion that had been dammed up inside her for far too long.

They stood against the wall, pressed tightly together, straining toward each other, kissing wildly for what seemed like hours but might have been only seconds until, finally, kissing wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.

Jack tangled one hand in her hair, pulling her head back. The other slid down her spine, curving over the seat of her jeans to lift her closer. "I want you," he growled against her mouth.

"Yes."

"Right here." He pressed his hips into hers. Ground them into her. "Right now."

She arched into him, the gesture an unconditional invitation for him to take what he wanted. "Yes."

Oh, God, when had a woman ever been so giving? So open? So willing to grant a man what he needed without questions or demands of her own? She put up no defenses, used no strategies. She simply offered herself, unprotected and vulnerable, his for the taking. It humbled him as nothing in his life ever had, strengthening his waning resolve to treat her with the gentleness she hadn't asked for and didn't think she needed.

If ever a woman needed gentleness...
deserved
gentleness, he thought, it was this woman. This angel of sweetness and light. This delicate, trusting being who had chosen him to share herself with. Looking down at her, gazing into her upturned face, Jack swore a solemn oath to shower her with all the gentleness he had in him, however much or little it might be.

He untangled his fingers from her hair, moving them to brush tenderly at the wispy tendrils that clung to her temples. Her skin was hot, flushed from his rough attentions. Her eyes were heavy-lidded and slumberous, the gold flecks in the hazel irises darkened now to amber. Her lips were moist and red, puffy from the force of his kisses. He bent his head in mute apology, delicately brushing his mouth across her ravaged lips and the soft flushed skin of her cheeks. She caught her breath on a tremulous sigh as he closed her eyes with his lips, and another shaft of guilt shot through him. He should have done that first; made her sigh with delight before he made her moan with desire.

Bending down, he slipped his arm under her knees and lifted her. "Hush," he said, when she started to protest. Faith pressed her face into his neck and lay acquiescent in his arms, while he carried her to his bedroom.

The room was dim, lit only by the slatted bars of light coming in through the wooden shutters, and almost monklike in its austerity. There was a bed covered with a severely tailored quilted black bedspread, a single nightstand with a reading lamp and an ashtray, an unadorned wooden dresser against one wall and a battered trunk—a military footlocker—against another, all sitting on the bare hardwood floor. Like the living room, there were no pictures or mementos, no plants or other touches of warmth. The bed hadn't been slept in, nor even turned down.

Jack laid his burden gently on the bedspread. Bending over her, he began to remove her clothes. Faith tried to sit up, to participate or help but he pressed her back down and continued with what he was doing. She felt a faint stab of uneasiness when he pulled her T-shirt off over her head. And a greater one when he unsnapped her borrowed jeans and peeled them down her legs. She'd never been completely naked in front of a man before and she steeled herself for the removal of her plain white panties and bra but he left her those scraps of modesty and lowered himself to lie beside her.

She turned to him, lifting her arms to draw him to her but he pressed her shoulders to the bed, preventing her from embracing him. Faith lay quietly, her eyes wide and wondering as she stared up at him, waiting for what he would do next, trying to anticipate what he would want her to do in turn.

He began by kissing her, softly, gently. Butterfly kisses, baby kisses, delicate, feathery, barely there kisses that brushed against her forehead and temples, trailed across her cheeks and the soft underside of her jaw, lingered on the sensitive skin of her throat and shoulders. She tried to lift her arms again to encircle his neck and draw him down to her, to kiss him in return, but he pushed her hands back down to the bed.

"This first time is for you," he said, and started at her forehead again. "Just close your eyes, Angel, and enjoy." He brushed his lips over her temple. "Just enjoy."

Faith sighed and did as he asked, feeling as if she were floating, just drifting along in a soft, warm sea of exquisite sensation. A delicious warmth spread to every part of her body. Her eyes became heavy and her limbs became weighted down with languor, making it impossible to move or open her eyes. She felt like a rare, exotic treasure as his lips delicately caressed her face and neck. Like a sweet to be savored. Like a beloved woman meant to be cherished and adored.

It was so different from what she had expected it to be. There was no fumbling or furtive rush to hurry through it as quickly as possible. He exhibited no embarrassment. She felt no shame. There was no guilt.

And then his mouth moved lower, caressing the slope of her breasts, and some of her delicious languor vanished, replaced with a growing impatience for more. She moved restlessly on the bed, her back arching slightly, instinctively inviting a more intimate caress. She stilled as soon as she realized what she'd done, expecting a reprimand. Instead, she heard a low murmur of approval and the dampness of his tongue, moving along the edge of her bra. He outlined the modest décolletage as he slid his hand under her to release the hook-and-eye fastening.

Faith drew in a quick, shuddering breath and held very, very still, her eyes closed while he slowly drew the garment away from her body. She felt the cloth lift away from her breasts, exposing them, felt the straps sliding down her arms and then off over her hands. For a moment, maybe two, there was no sound, no movement. Did he like what he saw? Or didn't he? Was he horrified? Enthralled? Disgusted? Amused?

Unable to bear it another minute, Faith opened her eyes. And saw him staring down at her as if she were the first, the only woman he had ever seen.