Night Moves: Dream Man/After the Night (43 page)

“It’s a deal!” was his reply, just as swift, as he grabbed for her.

•  •  •

It was almost twilight the next time he stirred awake, and groaned as he rubbed his hand over his face. “I’m starving,” he announced in a rumbling voice. “Damn, I need to call home and let someone know where I am.”

Faith rolled onto her back, cautiously stretching. Though she had spent most of the day in bed, she was as tired as if she had been up all night. Being in bed with Gray Rouillard was not restful. It was a lot of fun, it was wonderfully exciting, but restful, it wasn’t.

Now that he had mentioned it, she realized how hungry she was. The idea of lunch hadn’t occurred to either of them, and breakfast had been many hours ago. Food was just what she needed.

He sat up on the side of the bed, giving her a wonderful view of his buttocks. She reached out and stroked them as he picked up the phone, and he tossed a quick grin over his shoulder. “Feel free,” he invited, punching in his own number.

His back was just as marvelous as his front, she thought dreamily. Thick with muscle, bisected by the deep groove of his spine, tapering from those wide shoulders down to a taut waist.

“Hi,” he said into the phone. “Tell Delfina I won’t be home for dinner.”

Faith heard the indistinct murmur of a voice, evidently asking where he was, because he calmly replied, “I’m at Faith’s house.”

The voice was still indistinct, but considerably more agitated. She watched his back muscles tense and immediately felt uncomfortable, as if she was eavesdropping. She had to get away, she thought distractedly. She couldn’t bear to listen to him make an excuse for his presence here. She sat up and swung her legs off the bed, wincing at the unexpected stiffness of her back and legs.

“Monie,” Gray said patiently, and sighed. “We have to talk. I’ll be home in the morning—no, not before. In the morning. If anything important comes up, call me here.”

Slowly Faith stood up, straightening with difficulty. Every muscle in her body seemed to be protesting. Her legs were ridiculously weak, her thigh muscles trembling. She desperately wanted to leave the room, but nothing was cooperating. She took one hobbling step, wincing with pain, then another.

“I said, we’ll talk tomorrow.” His voice was firm. He looked over his shoulder at Faith, started to glance away, then his attention focused on her like a laser beam. “ ’Bye,” he said absently to Monica, hanging up and cutting her off in midprotest. Then he was on his feet, coming around the end of the bed to where Faith wobbled.

“Poor baby,” he crooned. “Muscles sore?”

She scowled at him.

“I know just the thing,” he promised, stripping the top sheet from the bed and shaking it out.

“So do I. A hot shower.”

“Later.” He wrapped the sheet around her and picked her up. “Just be quiet and enjoy.”

“Enjoy what?”

“Being quiet, what else?” he replied maddeningly, and she couldn’t even hit him, because her arms were wrapped up in the sheet.

She found out soon enough. He carried her into the
kitchen and carefully laid her on the table, unwrapping the sheet to spread it out beneath her. “I had some great ideas about this table the first time I saw it,” he said, with more than a little satisfaction.

Startled, she said, “What are you doing?” She had been naked in his arms for hours, but somehow, lying naked on top of her kitchen table made her feel unbearably exposed, as if she were a human sacrifice lying on a stone altar.

“Massage,” he said. “Stay there.” He left the room, leaving her lying there. The hard surface was uncomfortable, but the promise of a massage kept her in place. He returned to the kitchen with a bottle of baby oil and a washcloth in his hands. “On your stomach,” he ordered. He turned on the hot water in the sink and let it run until steam began to rise, then filled a bowl and dropped the bottle of oil into it.

Stiffly she obeyed. He hadn’t turned on any lights and the kitchen was deeply shadowed, twilight only a few moments away. The air conditioning was on, and though she had been perfectly comfortable in the bedroom, the cold of the table seeped through the sheet and chilled her. She shivered, wishing he would hurry.

“Close your eyes and relax,” he said quietly. “Go to sleep if you want.”

Her sore muscles were adjusting to the hardness of the table, allowing her to relax fractionally. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the sounds of what he was doing. She could hear water splashing, and sighed in anticipation of feeling that warm oil being rubbed into her skin.

His voice was low and soothing, little more than a murmur. “I’m going to wash you, so you’ll be more comfortable,” he said, just before she felt a wet, very warm washcloth between her legs. The heat felt wonderful on her sore, swollen flesh. He was incredibly gentle, but just as thorough as he cleaned away the evidence of his lovemaking. He took the cloth away, and she heard water running again. “It’s going to be cold this time,” he warned, and the cold pad of the washcloth was pressed between her legs. He repeated the compress several times, soothing the ache. Then he reached for the oil.

He began at her shoulders, his powerful fingers digging deep into her muscles. She automatically tightened in resistance, then relaxed as the strength and tension seemed to flow out of her. The heated oil made his hands slide over her skin, leaving it slick and fragrant. He worked down each arm, even massaging her hands, and between her fingers. And everywhere his hands went, they left behind loosened tendons, limp muscles, and total contentment. Faith purred her pleasure as he returned to her back, starting at her waist and moving his hands upward in long, powerful sweeps that compressed her rib cage and made her groan aloud with each stroke. He relentlessly searched out every stiff muscle, and kneaded it until it was pliant beneath his hands.

Her legs were next. He kneaded her hamstring muscles, her calves, her Achilles tendons, the bottoms of her feet. He rotated her ankles back and forth, pressing his thumbs hard into her arches, and a startlingly sexual pleasure made her toes curl.

“Oh!” she said involuntarily.

“Like that, do you?” he asked, his voice soft and muted in the growing darkness of the room. He did it again, and she moaned in response.

He moved back up her legs, spreading them apart and massaging the stretched, sore tendons on the upper insides of her thighs. Her moan this time was of pain, and she gripped the sides of the table. He murmured reassuringly, moving his attention to her buttocks. She relaxed again, closing her eyes. She was feeling pleasantly warm now, and not just from the oil; his stroking hands were having another effect entirely. Desire was curling lazily, heating her blood, totally without urgency.

“On your back, now,” he said, and helped her to roll over. He looked with interest at her peaked nipples, and smiled.

His big, oil-slick hands covered her breasts, gentle there, smoothing the oil into nipples sore from vigorous sucking and the rasp of his stubbled face. “Your skin’s as delicate as a baby’s,” he observed. “I’ll need to shave twice a day.”

Faith didn’t reply, too caught up in what he was doing.

By the time he was finished with her stomach and thighs, she was in an agony of anticipation, her body arching under
his hands. The room was almost completely dark now, the lavender shadows of twilight giving way to the night. He paused to turn on the light over the sink, isolating them in a small glow.

The sore muscles on the insides of her thighs received more attention, and this time he didn’t relent until her groans had turned to purrs. His oily fingers slipped higher then, gently stroking and probing, and she shook with delight.

“Gray.” Her voice was smoky, drugged with desire. She reached out for him. “Please.”

“No, baby, you’re too sore for another round,” he whispered. “I’ll take care of you.”

He dragged her to the end of the table, sheet and all, the fabric slipping easily over the smooth surface. “What—?” Faith began, then fell back with a moan as he draped her thighs over his shoulders. Gently he opened the swollen folds between her legs, and she felt his warm breath wash over her. She barely had time to catch her breath before his tongue delved into her painfully sensitive flesh with a lightning bolt of sheer sensation that made her cry out. He was very tender, and very thorough, reducing her to quivering, screaming ecstasy within minutes.

Afterward, he carried her into the bathroom. She stood sleepily in the shower with him, her arms around his waist and her head on his chest. A lot of the soreness was gone, but now her muscles felt like mush.

When the hot water began to go, he lifted his cheek from the top of her head. “Food,” he murmured.

Reluctantly she released him and let him turn off the water. She sleeked her wet hair back from her face, and looked up at him with diamonds of water clinging to her lashes. He seemed so ruthless and strong, but he was very human, with desires and fears and quirks, and she loved him all the more deeply for those qualities. Just for a while, though, she would have wished he were more impervious, because she couldn’t put off much longer telling him about his father.

The least she could do was feed him first.

He wolfed down two ham and tomato sandwiches, then
took his time on the third while she polished off one. Afterward, they remade the bed with fresh sheets, and he flopped down with a sigh of exhaustion. The sprawl of his arms and legs took up most of the room, but she crawled into one of the niches and burrowed her damp head into its accustomed place on his shoulder. She put her arms around him, holding him tight as if she could shield him from the pain.

“I have to tell you something,” she said quietly.

Nineteen

M
onica cried for a long time after Gray hung up, her arms folded on top of his desk and her head resting on them. Hot, salty tears dripped onto the polished surface and she rubbed them away with her sleeve, not wanting to mar the finish of his desk. She had never felt more lost and confused, even when Daddy had left.

Nothing was working out right. She hadn’t managed to tell Alex she wouldn’t let him screw her anymore; when he had come down from Mama’s room the other night and stood in the doorway, staring at her, her heart had stopped. She had tried to get the words out, but her throat had been too dry, and then he had been bending over her and it was too late. She squirmed with shame every time she thought about it. How
could
she have let him touch her? She was going to marry Michael. She felt dirty, felt as if she were dirtying
him
by going into his arms after having been with Alex. And she still hadn’t told Gray that Michael had asked her to marry him, much less telling Mama that she was even dating him. She had been so careful to keep her life under control after the stupid stunt with her wrists, but now it all seemed to be spiraling away again.

Gray was with Faith Devlin. Another man she loved and depended on had been seduced away by one of those
whores. How could he do that, Gray, of all people? Monica rocked back and forth, hugging herself and moaning with pain as tears streamed down her cheeks. He was spending the night with her, uncaring of what people might say, of the gossip that would eventually reach Mama no matter how hard they tried to keep it from her. Family hadn’t mattered to Daddy when he was in bed with Renee Devlin, and now it looked as if Gray was following in his footsteps with Renee’s daughter. Just give them sex, and they didn’t care who they hurt.

Monica sobbed until her eyes were sore and almost swollen together, until her chest ached with the effort of breathing. Then, finally, a sort of terrible calm came over her.

She opened Gray’s desk drawer and stared at the revolver he kept there. The Devlin bitch hadn’t paid any attention to the warnings Monica had given her, so it was time to stop being subtle. In her furious hurt, it didn’t matter that Gray was with Faith; it might do him good to be shaken up, she thought, reaching for the pistol. This time,
she
was ridding the parish of a Devlin.

•  •  •

“What is it?” Gray asked, stretching to turn off the lamp. In the sudden darkness, he cradled Faith against him. “You sound serious.”