Tempting Faith (Indigo Love Spectrum) (17 page)

Her body was ready for him. He’d seen to it. His was ready for her, too, judging from the pressure and pain behind his zipper.

Framing her right breast in his hand, he brought his mouth to it, bedeviling it with the same skill he’d shown between her legs. “I won’t hold back,” he mumbled between teasing tugs and kisses. “I don’t think I could, even if I wanted to.”

She nodded, her breathing coming harder.

He raised his head. “Are you sure?”

She answered by way of a kiss that sent fire straight to the ache in his groin. Scooping her into his arms as he got to his feet, he raced downstairs to his bed. Faith spread herself languorously, moaning in contentment. “I could live in this bed,” she purred.

“I’d like the company,” Zander said.

The Savoir bed had been a housewarming gift from Brent. The hand-built, horsehair-stuffed mattress had extra padding, and had been built to specification with Zander’s height, weight and lower-back problems in mind. The bed was one of Zander’s favorite places to spend time when he was alone, and now he couldn’t wait to share it with Faith.

She belonged there.

The flat gray-blue of the stormy sky left the room in cool shadow. Zander pressed a wall switch, and soft golden light warmed the room. Faith nestled deeper into the bed, the heat of Zander’s gaze insulating her from the bleak chill of the storm.

Faith inhaled deeply as Zander slipped off his shirt and stepped out of his jeans.

“Wait,” Faith said abruptly, stopping his progress toward her.

He had appeared topless in
Burn
, and he had been beautiful. Too beautiful.

Zander’s torso looked as if it had been carved from flesh and bone with the skill of a Renaissance master, and Faith suspected that
Burn
’s digital arts team had erased the imperfections she now saw. Burn scars from his years working at Red Irv’s striped his left forearm, and slash marks and jagged, raised scars of unknown origin dotted his torso. His right hand self-consciously went to a thick band of mottled scar tissue under his left collarbone, although he kept his eyes on Faith’s.

He had been walking her home from Red Irv’s the night his father had stormed out of Buzzy’s Tavern after losing a week’s pay betting on Mountaineers baseball. Catching sight of his son, Orrin Brannon had called him aside, demanding money. Accustomed to taking his frustrations out on his boy, Orrin responded to Zander’s empty pockets by striking him with his half-empty beer bottle. The bottle broke against Zander’s collarbone, and the jagged edge ripped through his black T-shirt and the underlying flesh.

Zander had shoved his father hard into Buzzy’s brick front, so hard that Orrin never lifted a hand against him again. But Orrin’s last act of violence had been his worst, leaving Zander with a four-inch gash over his heart. The combination of night and Zander’s black T-shirt had camouflaged the blood flowing freely from the wound, and he had assured Faith that the dampness she saw was splattered beer.

He had seen her safely home before returning to the diner in time to give Red Irv a good scare. If he hadn’t been in such pain, he would’ve enjoyed Red Irv’s look of horror at the way the fluorescent lights and blood loss had turned his complexion bluish-gray. Red Irv, a former butcher, had smelled the blood on Zander before he’d seen it, and he’d locked up the diner to take him to the Raleigh County Medical Center. An eager young physician’s assistant had given Zander a row of neat stitches, a tetanus shot and a prescription for an antibiotic.

He had never told Faith how seriously he had been hurt, but she knew now. All of his secrets were now exposed as she opened her arms and beckoned him into her embrace.

Her lips sought his scars, blessing them. There were so many, and he needed them. They were all that made him look truly mortal, and all the more beautiful. Her attention pacified his emotional scars, and helped him ignore the physical ones, and he wrapped her up in him. His left thumb teased and stroked her right nipple, his mouth found her parted lips while his right middle finger glided into her to work her once more.

Granted freer access to him, Faith slipped a hand between them and took hold of the rigid velvet pressing into her abdomen. Her heart thumped hard and she made a high-pitched grunt of surprise when she loosely wrapped her hand around it.

“How many double-As does this thing take?” she asked.

Zander raised his head, a modest smile between his crimson cheeks. “You’re not…you’ve…I assume you’ve been with—”

“I’m not a virgin, Alex,” she said. “I had a life in the time I thought you were dead.”

He nuzzled her cheek, two fingers stroking the slick, hot flesh between her thighs. Faith closed her eyes and drew a deep breath through her nose, moaning in pleasure as he massaged and gently stretched her, readying her.

“I won’t hurt you,” he assured her. “I promise.”

Faith wasn’t so sure. His length and weight were daunting, and combined with the fact that it had been months since her last relationship, she was even more grateful for the time and skill Zander spent preparing her. He suckled her earlobe, the heel of his palm kneading her sweating pellet; he flicked his tongue over her nipples in turn, his fingers delving deeper, widening her.

With maddening patience, he brought her close to the edge of release and then pulled back, until she was ready to weep.

Zander quickly snatched a condom from the top drawer of his night table. In his eagerness to put it on, he poked his thumb through the lip of it. His hands trembling now, he retrieved another one, carefully slipped it on, then covered Faith with his body.

All of him felt hard and strained against her, from his elbows, which framed her head, to his feet, which had separated hers. There was nothing he could say that she hadn’t already read in his eyes, and with a whispery kiss to her forehead, he raised his hips and angled himself into her.

Faith curled her pelvis upward to meet him, her back and neck arching, her mouth opening in silent protest at his initial, shallow invasion. Her chest and abdomen rose and fell with the deep breaths she took to help acclimate herself to his entry. Zander worked just as hard to stop himself from driving as far into her as he could.

Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead and upper lip, his biceps quivered from the strain of taking their union so slowly. Sympathetic to his discomfort and craving the fulfillment of her own pleasure, Faith locked her legs around his middle and used her feet to urge him forward.

All at once all of him filled her, and for a second she clutched at his arms as if she could push herself from beneath him. A tear trickled from her right eye and Zander kissed it away as he stroked her hair from her face.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, holding completely still but for the kisses he dotted on her face and ears. “I’m so sorry, babe.”

“I’m fine,” she assured him, nodding. “Really.”

Zander pressed the tip of his fingertip to a tear welling in the corner of her left eye. “Then why are you crying?”

Explanations eluded Faith, for all her talent with words. So many wishes, so many prayers had led to this moment. His fullness within her, his weight upon her, his arms around her, his gaze locked with hers, Faith slowly exhaled, and she felt as if he were melting into her, that they had finally, truly and completely reunited.

She took his face in one hand and kissed him, answering him the only way she could. Cradling her head, Zander’s sweat-dampened hair cloaked their faces as he began a slow, steady rhythm meant to erase her discomfort and ready her for the very best he had to give.

Faith began smiling through their kisses when he shifted his hips a bit, just enough to alter the points of slippery friction between them. A low growl of sexual delight crawled from Faith’s throat, and with renewed gusto she moved her hips to greet each thrust of Zander’s.

She opened herself to him completely, her abdomen tightening as she crunched forward to take his backside in her hands. The powerful working of his buttocks gave her an additional thrill as she urged him on, craving a deeper union.

Her touch triggered reactions in Zander that enslaved him to his desire for her. He grabbed her wrists in turn, throwing her arms over her head. He sat back on his heels, tugging her by her hips to keep her with him. With her beauty fully exposed before him, he used his right thumb to expose the candy-pink nub winking at him with each thrust into her. Faith cried out, her torso flexing as her climax gripped her. She clamped hard around Zander, and he could hold himself back no longer.

His fingertips digging into the meat of her hips and buttocks, he held her in place as he drove into her, each pulse of his hips satisfying years of longing yet making him want her all the more.

Like stones dropped into a deep, still pool, Faith’s pleasure seemed to ripple from the point where they were joined, the sensations growing stronger, evolving in nuance and intensity as they radiated outward. She gripped her head and bit her lower lip, convinced that she would die from pleasure as she rode the intoxicating convulsions to their completion.

A light sheen of perspiration covered her face and torso. Her hair was a wild tangle upon his pillows. The jiggle of her breasts put him in the mind of two healthy dollops of chocolate mousse tipped with dark chocolate kisses. But it was the movement of her tongue over the plump of her lower lip that sent him far beyond any carnal bliss he’d ever known. He emptied himself inside her with such force, it momentarily frightened him into thinking that he’d shot off the condom. Frozen in a rictus of sheer pleasure, he couldn’t let go of her or pull away from her to check its status.

Once he could move, he collapsed over her, gently pinning her wrists over her head to give himself the freedom to tenderly kiss her every place his lips could reach. Greedy now, Faith moved her hips in subtle figure eights to passively take more of what he’d spent himself trying to give.

Still holding her wrists, Zander generously contributed to her solo efforts by dedicating his teeth, tongue and lips to her breasts. A tiny snap at her right nipple, a long draw on the left, and Faith was again voicing her pleasure, her noises a complement to the waning music of the storm.

She pulled her wrists from his grasp but only to take one of his hands and to cup his face. “That was cool,” she laughed quietly.

Zander eased out of the bed and went to the window. He opened it a few inches, allowing a rush of cool air to circulate through the room. The breeze raised goosebumps on his arms and chest and stirred the sweet, musky perfume of their lovemaking—which raised another part of Zander’s flesh.

Before he rejoined Faith under the covers, he unfolded the black fleece blanket that he kept at the foot of the bed, spreading it over her before burrowing beneath it to join her. “Will you stay?” he muttered into her knuckles, kissing each of her fingers.

Faith’s giddiness waned. He had always been the more humorless of the two of them, but the gravity of his tone sobered her. There was so much time to make up for, and she didn’t want to waste a second of getting on with it.

“Yes,” she responded simply. “I—”

He caught the rest of her acceptance in a kiss. Smiling into it, Faith again opened herself completely to him, sure in the knowledge that the young man she had loved so dearly had never stopped loving her.

Chapter 9

“The last time I was at Buzzy’s, the only food he was serving was three-year-old beef jerky,” Faith said around a mouthful of her grilled portobello mushroom and mozzarella sandwich. She licked a smear of balsamic marinade from her thumb before setting the sandwich back on her plate. “I didn’t know tavern food could be so good. Is the focaccia made here?”

Zander speared a chunk of his fourteen-ounce ribeye and swiped it through his “dirty” mashed potatoes before popping it into his mouth. He answered Faith with a nod, and wiped his mouth with a big red-and-white gingham napkin as he chewed and swallowed. “The owner’s wife and sons bake all the breads fresh,” he explained. “You never know what’s going to be on the menu.”

“I like this place,” Faith said.

Faith had passed the yellow-painted brickfront businesses that housed He’s Not Here on her way to Zander’s, but she never would have noticed the second-floor establishment if Zander hadn’t brought her to it. The front door of the bar was in back of a laundromat, at the top of two flights of weathered pine stairs that turned out to be far sturdier than they looked. The interior was dark, made more so since it was well past sunset, and it took a while for Faith’s eyes to adjust once Zander ushered her inside.

Most of the smallish, circular tables with their gingham coverings were empty, but it was a Sunday night. Only a few people seemed to recognize Zander, turning and whispering to their companions as they watched Zander lead Faith to a table set apart from the others, very near the low dais that doubled as a stage.

The décor was standard—neon signs for Coors, Anheuser-Busch, Heineken and Rolling Rock; shot glasses, refrigerator magnets, postcards and other items celebrating the tourist appeal of Big Bear Lake and the neighboring mountain ski resorts; a jukebox that was likely more decorative than functional; a long bar with three stations, only one of which was manned. Darkly stained pine rafters high overhead provided a faint scent that mingled with that of spilled beer and the too-familiar aromas of deep-fried and grilled foods.

Faith couldn’t help thinking that one of the reasons Zander liked He’s Not Here was because the smell of the place was so similar to Red Irv’s, although the menu was very different and distinctly Californian with its wide vegetarian selections featuring local produce and its extensive selection of West Coast wines.

Zander had ordered two glasses of the house white, a 2002 Oregon Reserve pinot gris from King’s Estate that Faith did her best not to gulp.

“Good call,” she declared, licking a drop of wine from the lip of her goblet. “There’s an unusual taste. It’s citrusy, but there’s something else I can’t identify.”

“Quince,” Zander said, finishing the last of his steak.

Propping her right elbow on the table, Faith rested her chin in her hand. “The golden apple of Hesperides that Paris was supposed to give to the most beautiful goddess among Hera, Athena and Aphrodite was actually a quince.”

“Paris chose Aphrodite,” Zander said. “Good move.”

“She promised him the most beautiful woman in the world if he chose her.”

“Helen,” Zander said. “Never mind that she was already married to a Greek king. Menelaus.”

“You did a report on
The Iliad
back in high school, didn’t you?” Faith grinned widely, gleefully recalling Zander’s first appearance on stage. “It was for Mr. Crockett’s Western civilization class. You guys did an assembly one morning and acted out part of the Trojan War. You were Hector, and that asshole Leland Birch was Achilles, which didn’t make sense to any of us because Achilles was supposed to be half god and Leland was barely half human.” She snickered, oblivious to Zander’s discomfort. “The whole audience cracked up when Leland was supposed to drag your corpse around the walls of Troy, but he wasn’t strong enough to drag you in that crazy foot-powered chariot you guys made. It was so funny watching his feet spinning while he tried to pull you along in your toga and your motorcycle boots. Oh, my God, that was such a good assembly,” Faith laughed.

“Wanna try the quince tart for dessert?” Zander asked, hoping to quickly quiet and distract her.

“Sure,” she responded, her laughter fading. “Are you in a hurry to leave?”

“Don’t you have to leave early for Los Angeles tomorrow morning?”

“Yes, but I’m having fun, and I want to hear the band. My editor will understand if I’m a little late.”

Zander grinned into his empty plate, pleased that Faith enjoyed the quirky charm of his favorite hangout.

“He’s Not Here,” Faith said, reading the words burned into the exposed beam over the bar. “I love that name. It must be hysterical when a patron’s wife calls and someone answers, ‘He’s not here.’ ”

“I lived here for about a year before I even knew this place existed,” Zander said. “I never would have found it if I hadn’t run into Grover Dylan at the Harley-Davidson outlet in Loma Linda.”

Faith chomped into a thick-cut French fry. “Who’s Grover Dylan?”

“He’s the lead guitarist for the house band. They’re playing tonight.”

Faith turned the napkin dispenser so that the entertainment calendar for the month faced her. “Knuckle Deep?” she giggled, reading the act scheduled to perform.

Zander chuckled. “Yeah. Grover’s a character.”

“So he’s into bikes and you’re a regular at his home bar,” Faith said. “Why, he sounds like an actual friend, Alex.”

His eyes darted around. The two couples nearest them were engaged in lively conversations and enjoying their meals too much to have overheard what Faith had said. Even so, Zander leaned farther over the cozy round table and said, “There’s no Alex here. Okay?”

“Sorry,” Faith said coolly, sitting back in her chair.

This was the first awkward moment between them all weekend, and Zander acted quickly to defuse it. “Wanna meet Grover?”

“Sure,” she snapped. “I’d love to meet your friend,
Zander
.” She grimaced, hating the sound of his new name, his stage name. “
Zander
, I’d like to order another glass of wine, please, Zan—”

“Damn it, Faith,” he broke in sternly.

After a moment of guilty silence, she apologized. “It’s hard for me to get used to that name,” she explained quietly, leaning across the table. “I don’t know you as that person. Everything we gave each other last night and this morning pushed that person even further away from me. I love who you really are. I wish—”

“Hey, man!” Zander said suddenly, slightly standing to greet a tall, slim man with long blond hair. “How ya been, Grover?”

“Not bad, not bad,” Grover replied. In one fluid motion, he grabbed a heavy chair from a nearby table, spun it, and sat backward in it at their table. “How’re things by you, kid?” His arms crossed on the back of the chair, his bright blue eyes slid over Faith, his full lips lazily pulling into a smile that reminded Faith every bit of the Grinch’s as he plotted the theft of Whoville’s Christmas. “Looks pretty good from here.”

Faith resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Grover looked exactly as she expected of the lead singer of a band called Knuckle Deep. He wore the requisite faded blue jeans with threadbare Radiohead T-shirt. His tanned skin and sun-gold locks were evidence of the amount of time he spent in the California sun, which made his eyes appear vibrant, electric. He wasn’t as cinematically handsome as Zander, but Grover was more than pleasing to look at, with his full lips and strong, square jaw and chin. His most attractive qualities were the same elements of mystique and deep-seated vulnerability that had first attracted her to Alex.

With his tablemates sizing up each other, Zander cleared his throat to catch their attention. “Faith Wheeler,” he said, taking her hand, “Grover Dylan.”

Grover slipped Faith’s hand from Zander’s, brought her fingers to his lips and barely pressed a kiss to the back of them. “You look familiar, Faith.”

“I just have one of those faces,” Faith said.

“She’s a
Personality!
reporter,” Zander told Grover. “You’ve probably seen her photo in the magazine with her features.”

“See ya.” Grover stood and started away.

Zander went after him, pulling him back to the table by one arm. “She’s cool, man,” he assured Grover.

“I don’t bite,” Faith assured him.

Liar
, Zander mouthed over Grover’s shoulder.

Once Grover and Zander resettled in their seats, Faith made an effort to learn more about Grover. “Zander tells me that you’re the lead guitarist for Knuckle Deep. How old were you when you first picked up a guitar?”

Grover lazily picked at Faith’s leftover fries, nibbling the crunchy ends. “I was in the second grade, so I guess about seven or eight.”

“How did you come up with the name Knuckle Deep for your band?”

“I think I’ll let Zander fill you in on that one,” Grover chuckled. “Maybe he could show you.”

“What kind of bike do you ride?”

Grover cut a sharp glance at Zander. “Not as big as Zander’s,” he said pointedly.

“We came here on Zander’s bike,” Faith said. “When he opened his garage and I saw that Confederated Hellcat—”

“Confederate,” Grover said.

“Huh?” Faith grunted.

“My bike is a Confederate Hellcat,” Zander said with an indulgent smile.

“It’s the love of his life,” Grover said.

“Is that so?” Faith asked.

“It’s a sexy ride,” Grover said. “And rare. The company barely makes a hundred of them a year. Those Alabama boys gave that bike a three-inch frame, a flipped transmission so your ride doesn’t drag to the left. It’s got the comfort of a luxury cruiser and the handling of a sport bike. It’s wicked stable, too. Lots of things you can do on a Hellcat.”

“Um,” Faith started with a nervous chuckle, “would you fellas excuse me? I’ve got to hit the head.”

Grover quickly hopped into her unoccupied chair once Faith was out of earshot. He made quick work of what might have gone back to Zander’s in a doggy bag.

“Dude, I can get you dinner, if you’re that hungry,” Zander offered.

“She’s different,” Grover said, taking a big bite of Faith’s leftover sandwich.

“Different how?” Zander asked.

“I wouldn’t have thought she was your type.”

“Because she’s black?”

Grover screwed his face into a look of disdain. “No, because she’s a reporter.”

“Yeah, well, that’s something we’ve been working to overcome.”

“I don’t really know what your type is because this is the first time I’ve ever seen you with a woman,” Grover remarked.

“You’ve seen me on television with dates.”

“Yeah, but you weren’t
with
those broads. Not like you’re with this woman.”

Zander scrubbed his hands over his face, finishing by smoothing his hair from his face. “It shows, does it?”

“All over the place,” Grover laughed lightly. Glancing at her empty plate, he said, “She’s a vegetarian.”

“She said she stopped eating meat in college because she couldn’t afford it.”

“She’s sweet.”

“When we were growing up, she was the only person who was ever kind to me.”

This was the most personal admission Zander had ever made to Grover. Zander elaborated no further, and Grover didn’t pursue the subject.

“That’s not what I mean,” Grover grinned mischievously. “Every vegetarian I’ve ever dated has been sweet. Everywhere.”

Zander’s eyes glazed over. He seemed to stare at the amber star twinkling on the lip of his wine glass, but he was seeing Faith as she’d been earlier that morning, smiling and arched in bliss beneath him. He took a deep breath, imagining her taste. Whether it was because she was a vegetarian, Zander couldn’t say, but Faith unquestionably was delicious.

“There’s nothing like a sweet
sweet
woman,” Grover said.

Zander got up. “I’m gonna grab another bottle of wine,” he said, speaking over his shoulder to Grover as he headed for the bar. “Be right back.”

Shaking his head, Grover started nibbling the parsley garnish that had adorned Faith’s plate. “Like I said,” he muttered to himself. “There’s nothing like a sweet woman.”

* * *

Faith jumped, startled at the sudden sight of Zander when she exited the bathroom.

“We need another bottle of wine,” he told her, taking her by the wrist and pulling her out of the short corridor where the doors to the Coyotes and Kittens rooms—men’s and women’s—faced one another.

“Our table is that way,” Faith said, jerking a thumb in the opposite direction as Zander hastily led her past the dining room.

“The wine is down here.”

Zander pulled her into another short corridor that marked the entrance to a steep, narrow staircase. Faith’s throat went dry as they descended into darkness. Despite her firm belief that Zander would never lead her into harm, Faith’s organic fear of cellars reared. Every nightmarish scenario she had ever come across in her reporting career crept from the corners of her mind: secret cellars equipped with S&M equipment that would make the Marquis de Sade cringe; rats skittering along exposed beams, thick dusty cobwebs interfering little with their progress; spiders the size of a toddler’s fist responsible for said webs; and worst of all, the cold, dank clutter of someone else’s moldy, mildewy underground storage area.

At the bottom step, Zander pulled a fine cord that gave life to two rows of low-wattage bulbs hanging from the low ceiling. Faith had a scant moment to take in the neatly ordered giant-sized boxes, cans and bottles of pasta, beans and dressings before she found herself pushed against huge pillows of flour and sugar stacked shoulder high.

The cellar was dry and tidy, and Faith found an odd sense of comfort in the scents of the dried oregano, rosemary, thyme and sage hanging above them in fine mesh bags. She found greater comfort in Zander’s hands as they moved under her shirt and along her skin.

“Do you want me to take off my clothes?” Faith asked, reading the open hunger in his eyes.

“I’ll do it,” Zander said, his mouth at her ear.

Faith took the solid muscles of his upper arms in a hard, almost desperate grip. Whatever he would do to her, she wanted him to do it. Now.