Night Moves : Dream Man/After the Night Read online

  She nuzzled her face against his throat and slid all the way onto him, her entire body squirming sinuously as she rubbed herself over him, feline in her enjoyment. “You feel so good,” she whispered, nipping his earlobe, then licking it. “All three of the H factors.”

  “What are the H factors?” he asked. “Or do I want to know?”

  “Hot, hard, and hairy.”

  He chuckled, and stretched languidly beneath her. It was a startling sensation, like being on a lumpy raft tossed about by the ocean. She hung on to his shoulders to keep from falling off.

  His hair brushed her fingers, and when he had settled, she thrust her hand into the black mass of it. It was thick and silky, with just a hint of curl. Most women would have killed to have hair like that. “Why do you wear your hair long?” she asked, picking up another strand and pulling it around to tickle his nose with the end of it. “And why the earring? That’s pretty dashing for a man who sits on several corporate boards.”

  He obligingly made a face, then began to laugh. “Promise not to tell?”

  “Promise—unless you say someone scared you with a picture of Sinéad O’Connor; I’d have to tell that.”

  His white teeth flashed as he gave her a faintly embarrassed grin. “It’s almost as bad. I’m afraid of hair clippers.”

  She was so astonished that she slipped off his chest. “Hair clippers?” she echoed. This six foot four, over-two-hundred-pound pirate was afraid of hair clippers?

  “I don’t like the noise,” he explained, turning onto his side and curling one arm under his head. His eyes were smiling. “Gives me the willies. I can remember when I was four or five years old, howling my head off as Dad tried to hold me still for old Herbert Dumas to give me a haircut. Evidently holding me down made Dad feel like a traitor, so he started trying to bribe me to be good, but I just couldn’t do it. I’d hear that first bzzz and nearly jump out of my skin. By the time I was ten, we had negotiated our way to scissor cuts. The older I get, the further apart the hair trims are. As for the earring—” He laughed out loud. “It’s sort of camouflage. Wearing the earring makes it look as if my hair is long on purpose. A style, rather than a phobia.”

  “Who trims your hair?” she asked, too fascinated to laugh. She was still trying to deal with the image of a grown man avoiding barbershops the way some people avoided the dentist.

  “Sometimes I do. Sometimes I’ll get it trimmed when I’m in New Orleans. There’s a salon there with a standing rule not to turn on any hair clippers while I’m there. Why? Do you want to take over the job?” He laid his hand on the side of her neck, his thumb brushing her earlobe. He was smiling, but she sensed he was serious.

  “You’d trust me to cut your hair?”

  “Of course. Wouldn’t you trust me to cut yours?”

  Her reply was swift. “Not in this lifetime. But I’d let you shave my legs.”

  “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,