Tempting Faith (Indigo Love Spectrum)

by Hubbard, Crystal

  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.

  She had washed her white jeans and underclothes at Zander’s, but she’d borrowed one of his white button-downs. The garment was two times too big for her, so when Zander undressed her from the waist down, the shirt tail fell well past her hips.

  She wore no bra, so when he unbuttoned the shirt, he was met by a sight he never tired of, two globes of dark perfection that immediately started his juices running.