Deeper Than Dreams

by Jessica Topper

  “Adrian Graves, what do you have up your sleeve?”

  My lover turned his palms up innocently and his eyebrows followed, but his smirk was anything but.

  Out in the foyer, Abbey was dancing on the shoe-tips of my brother-in-law. Unlike us, Luke looked dressed for the elements in jeans and a windbreaker, his ever-present backpack swinging casually from one shoulder. It no doubt contained one of his professional cameras, and other essentials for whatever adventure he had next on his list. His fiancé was dressed similarly, burly and beautiful, like he had just stepped out of an outdoor outfitters catalog. No surprise, as Kimon and Luke had met on a modeling shoot. Tucked under his muscular arm was a stack of papers, which he now bequeathed to Adrian.

  “Beware of Greeks bearing gifts,” Luke joked. “Thought we’d save you a trip to the newsstand today.”

  “Ah, my press awaits! Thanks, mate.” Adrian eyed the pile with wary anticipation, as if it were a Trojan horse that had been pressed through a paper mill. Capable of surprise attacks.

  “So . . . what brings you guys here?” I asked of the men I considered family. Adrian’s impressive doorman building was hardly a “dropped-by-since-I-was-in-the-neighborhood” kind of place. Sure enough, the signature Lewis blush began to creep across Luke’s cheeks. It was the same one that betrayed my late husband anytime he tried to keep even the most innocent secret from me. And on his brother, it extended up to the tip of his nose. It brought back a memory of watching the Lewis brothers lose spectacularly in a game of poker at a college party once.

  “We’re your fairy godfathers, Tree.” My childhood nickname sounded foreign as it echoed through the hallway of Adrian’s palatial apartment. But like the man who spoke it, not exactly unwelcome. “Here to take Abbey out for the day . . . and evening. Got your bag packed, kid?” Luke held Abbey at arm’s length and twirled her, while she still perched on his shoes like a mini-shadow.

  “Fairy godfathers, you say?” I raised a brow and shot Adrian a look.

  “Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo, girlfriend,” Kimon said in his Greek god baritone, and struck a pose with an imaginary wand in the air. “You know it.”

  I laughed. “Come on, Abb. Let’s go upstairs and get you dressed and packed.”

  As she and I wound our way up, Abbey chattering a mile a minute, I heard Luke ask Adrian in an impressed murmur, “You have an upstairs?”

  “Go brush your teeth, kiddo. I’ll get all your stuff together.” For Abbey, I had at least packed some additional changes of clothes, as accidents with a five-year-old were bound to happen. As I lay a fresh outfit out on the bed, something on her pillow caught my eye. It was a seashell, featherlight in my palm and just about the size of a nickel. I had never seen one so perfect before. And its color didn’t look like anything found in nature, yet to the touch, it felt real. It began with a deep purple at its base, spreading to a bursting blue, and extended to the tips in a sea green, its outermost ridges highlighted in yellow.

  “Abbey, where did you find this?” I asked, when she came trotting back in. She was, after all, staying in the room reserved for Natalie, and there were still many remnants of Adrian’s daughter’s rare visits left in the room. Like the Spice Girls poster, which I was surprised Adrian even let through the front door.

  “Riff gave it to me.”

  Ah. I stroked the shell’s smooth underbelly with my thumb. I now had no doubt it was definitely real. As everything I knew about Riff Rotten was painfully genuine.

  “You mean Adrian’s friend, Rick? When?”

  Abbey shook her jammies off where they clung stubbornly to her foot. “He told me to call him Riff.” She sniffed importantly. “And he gave it to me last night, before the big concert. It’s a moonrise shell,” she added, “and he said they only grow in Hawaii.”

  I gave a soft chuckle, imagining shell farms under cool Kauai water and crops of these beauties. I never thought about shells growing before. But I guessed they grew from the bottom up, increasing with size as they added material to their margins. I contemplated that as I helped Abbey dress.

  “Can I bring it with me today?” my daughter pleaded. “For luck?”

  “It looks like a pretty rare shell, Abb. I think you’d better keep it here, so you don’t lose it. You can pack your new Max though. For luck.”

  Abbey gave a squeeze to the new plush replica of Maxwell MacGillikitty, her favorite cartoon cat, before popping it on top of her clothes in her little backpack and zipping it up.

  “All set?”

  Abbey slung her backpack on and quoted the feline private eye. “I’m prepared to do what ordinary cats won’t do!”

  “All right then,” I laughed. “Be a good girl for the unkies, okay?”

  “Will Chelsea be sad without us?”

  Back downstairs, the tiniest occupant of Adrian’s household was flopped, boneless and purring, in a spotlight of sun shining through the living room window. “The kitty will be fine. I’ll make sure she is fed and cuddled in her bed in the library before we leave tonight, too.”

  The men were conferring in the foyer, and doling out handshakes. Had it really been four months ago that Adrian was willing to walk away from everything we had built at the mere assumption of a guy like Luke in my life?

  He had of course assumed wrong, but only because I had built up walls and the memory of Pete until they loomed larger than the Cloisters tower, gray and severe. Adrian had had nothing to go on, except for the shrine of pictures haunting my house, and Luke was such a replica of his older brother that sometimes it was even hard for me to look him in the eye. Adrian had taken one look and convinced himself I was taking the safe way out, choosing caution over chaos by finding a more familiar specimen.

  But as Pete had reminded me, in my most vivid dream of him, “there are all different kinds of love.” As was evident from the glance Luke and Kimon shared as they stood by the front door, small smiles playing on their handsome mouths. And from the hug Abbey now hurled Adrian’s way, as she prepared to say good-bye to him.

  “You’re not going away again, right?” she asked, her lip curling in worry.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Adrian said, his clear blue eyes and grip on her bony shoulders just as emphatic as his tone. “Not anytime soon.”

  “Except to the ball with Mommy!” Abbey sing-songed, attempting a wink that caused adult laughter to erupt through the hall. I mouthed my thanks to my brother-in-law and future brother-in-law, as Abbey launched into a guessing game of where the trio was headed for the day. “I hope it’s the Cloisters again, where the unicorn lives! And can we go to Cowgirl for lunch, pleeeeease?”

  “I hope that wasn’t too forward of me.” Adrian closed the door and turned to me. “Finding care for Abbey tonight.”

  “Are you kidding? You placed her in the best possible hands.”

  “And what are you doing?”

  There was amusement and desire lacing the lilt in his voice as I loosened the tie on his robe I wore, revealing my camisole and boy shorts. Their conservative, dark plaid pattern was unexpected in lingerie, and paired with black lace trim, made me feel like the epitome of sexy librarian.

  “Now I’m”—I snaked my arms around his slim hips and pulled myself into his personal space—“placing myself in the best possible hands.”

  He laughed softly and slid his fingertips, warm and calloused from guitar strings, along my collarbone. Closing my eyes, I relished his touch as it lingered down my neck. His thumb found my throat’s soft hollow, and a sigh escaped me. The thick terry of the robe slipped down one shoulder, and his lips fell on the skin exposed there.

  For the first time in almost two months, we were truly and finally alone. His travels had taken him to L.A. to reunite with Rick, then back home but surrounded by a myriad of media and music people in preparation for the show. I had shared him with twenty thousand adoring eyes last night, but now
I was ready to be his audience of one. Solo show. Standing room only.

  I threaded my leg between his, inching my thigh closer to his growing interest.

  “Easy, Tiger.” His new go-to phrase echoed back to our first unforgettable kiss, as hazardous as it had been heady. He had, in fact, taken my words and debuted them to music last night. And now he fell back on them as I attempted to nibble away his resolve. “Not so fast.”

  “Mmm, but I want to hear you sing that to me. Now. Naked. In bed.” With each command, I tugged gently at his lips with mine. “God, I’m demanding, aren’t I?”

  “No, not demanding.” His reply fell softly against my mouth. “Deserving.”

  He wove his fingers through my curls, latching on tight to my kiss. One shift in his stance and he had me hitched higher, riding on his muscular thigh and grinding shamelessly against him.

  “Remember how I said today was all about you?” he breathed, reaching for the sash of the robe. He used it as leverage to pull me tighter against him. But in one deft move, he cinched it closed. “Sorry, luv . . .” The intercom bleated for attention on the wall behind him, and I heard the obnoxious follow-up ring of the Batphone in the kitchen. “. . . But I lied.”

  ***

  “Not more company.” I groaned and reluctantly slid my bare feet to the floor. The hardwood was a cold insult after the heat and magnetism that had molded our bodies together. “Ignore it. Send them away.” But too late, Adrian had already taken the call.

  “Yes, I’ve been expecting them. Thank you, Hector.”

  “Yeah, Hector.” I pouted. “Thanks for nothing.”

  Adrian just laughed, and hung up the receiver. “You’ll like this surprise, promise.”

  “Talk is cheap,” I said, hands on hips. I didn’t need any more deliveries: no more roses or surprise kittens or mystery tickets or fairy godparents of any persuasion. I didn’t need anything else. Just him.

  “Then no more talk for a while.” His voice, along with the scruff of his goatee as he dipped to nuzzle where the robe met in a V, was rough. “Not when I’m paying these two by the hour.”

  Adrian gave me no time to process his touch or his words before flinging open the front door. “Hej, Stefan! Sofie!”

  Startling blue eyes met my gaze, under a swoop of white-blond hair. I don’t think I had ever seen such a quintessentially beautiful human before . . . until his female counterpart stepped up and kissed Adrian on both cheeks. “Tjenare, Adrian.”

  Like the Eskimos and their numerous words for “snow,” the Swedish couple Adrian introduced never repeated the same word twice, but they both seemed very happy to meet me.

  “Morsning!” Sofie clasped my hands warmly.

  “Halloj, Katrina.” Stefan pierced me with his eyes and spoke barely above a whisper. “Roligt att ses.”

  “If it’s all right with you, luv, I’ll take Stefan.” Adrian beckoned blithely. “It’s been a while.”

  “Um, shouldn’t we have . . . discussed . . .” I waved my hands between Adrian and the blondness between us. “Are we planning on an open relationship here, because I’m not sure—”

  “Kat!” There was surprise and delight in his laugh. “They’re professional. Licensed. Massage therapists. Masseur”—he nodded as Stefan moved past us with his portable massage table—“and masseuse.” Sofie lugged her table in as well, and the couple began to assemble their tools over by the expanse of windows in the living room. “And yes, they’re brother and sister as well.”

  I sputtered an embarrassed laugh. “You could’ve just said that before the doorbell rang.”

  “Yes, but where’s the fun in that?” Adrian winked. He gave a slow stretch, and rubbed his lower back. “I’m not the young buck I once was. Playing a gig like that last night reminded me . . . ’twas murder on my back. Shoulders. Neck.”

  I wrapped my arms around him and moved my hands along each spot, in consolation. “You were amazing up there last night.”

  “I put on a brave front,” Adrian gave a modest smile. “And I want to be amazing for you tonight, when you’re on my arm. So . . .” He flicked off the lights and tilted his head toward where our makeshift day spa was waiting. “Tjohej nu drar vi igång. Let’s get started, shall we?”

  I grinned, adding yet another dialect to the growing list of languages Adrian spoke. “English, Portuguese, Icelandic, Swedish . . . what’s next, Adrian Graves?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  A small folding screen allowed us to quickly strip down to our most comfortable state together. Stefan and Sofie had positioned the tables in such a way that we were able to hold hands, once we were settled in. Both therapists were experts at discretion, getting us swiftly covered as they began to work us into a more pliant and blissful condition than I even thought was possible.

  I had a sliver’s view of the golden park through the hole in the face cradle, thanks to Adrian’s floor-to-ceiling windows. To my left, my lover sighed as he slowly unwound under Stefan’s bodywork.

  Adrian squeezed my fingers gently as Sofie performed a fluttering effleurage from my tailbone up to the wings of my shoulder blades. I felt absolutely buoyant, perched over the treetops, and Adrian’s touch allowed my mind to sail.

  “And to think you wanted me to send them away.” Adrian’s murmur morphed into a strangled, ecstatic groan. I could only imagine Stefan was putting the “Swede” in Swedish massage. And if his moves were anything like the cycle of rhythmic lifting, squeezing, and releasing Sophie executed, we both were going to be a puddle of melted muscle before the hour was up.

  “Shhh, no talking,” I mumbled, playing my thumb against his palm.

  Sophie touched my shoulder lightly, her accent turning the words “over, please” into a sweet melody. She held the sheet taut as I flipped onto my back.

  “You’re so beautiful, Kat.”

  Adrian’s whisper caught my ears, and I slowly opened my eyes to him. He was already supine, his gaze tilted toward me while Stefan stood above him and worked on his right shoulder and neck. Again, he caught my hand in a caress. I felt a shiver parade up my spine, even while it was pressed against the heated massage table. Sofie had worked her talented fingers into my hair and was massaging every worrisome thought I’d ever had out of my skull.

  “Thank you,” I whispered. It may have been meant for both of them, but it also could’ve been my message out to the universe at that very moment, or to myself, to remember, for all time.

  “Tack,” Sofie whispered, resting her hands on my shoulders to indicate our time was up.

  I parroted her sentiment, not ready or wanting to move just yet. But since she had brought not only serenity but the massage table as well, I slowly relinquished my spot.

  Sofie helped me slip back into my robe as Stefan dismantled the tables and packed up their supplies. Adrian was already back into his sweatshirt and shorts, stretching lean and languid. The scar along his tight abdomen moved with him, and the dagger etched above it appeared to quiver under the effort. A hot arrow of lust and longing surged to the bull’s-eye of my sensitive center, sending vibrations outward. As if my legs weren’t jelly already.

  I hadn’t wanted the massage to end; yet at the same time, I couldn’t wait to get rid of any and all third parties.

  “Tack, tack.” Adrian saw them to the door, their murmured foreign exchange following them.

  “Oh my God,” I breathed, collapsing against him after the door finally closed. “That was truly amazing.”

  He rolled his cheek against my temple, inhaling deeply. “You smell like a field of English lavender.” Fingers found their way into my robe, loosening it, and fell against smooth skin.

  Thank goodness for long couches, I thought, as I pulled him against me and we landed in a tangle of sighing, smoldering kisses.

  The warm oil had heightened the experience and our sen
ses. Sharp citrus and crisp cedar met me as I tugged on the zipper of Adrian’s sweatshirt, my hands sliding over his silky naked chest. It was a scent so different than his usual peppery aroma, yet just as exotic as it clung to his skin and gave his tattoos a vibrant sheen.

  “Kat,” Adrian gulped, and sprang up at my attempt to push his hoodie off his shoulders. “Not here, luv. Poxy oil, it stains. Mind the suede.”

  I groaned, for once hating the supple, return-to-the-womb softness of Adrian’s high-grade leather couch. It was of top quality, but seriously high maintenance.

  If not here, then where?

  “The dining room table could use a little polishing.” I giggled wickedly as he hauled me back up into his arms. Just the thought of Adrian spreading me across the table like the most bountiful feast was enough to make me slicker than the massage oil had.

  The Batphone trilled an interruption once again, and I practically screamed in frustration.

  “Hold that thought.”

  “No, no, no!” I gave chase, through the dining room where the gleaming table for twenty mocked me, and into the kitchen. “Whoever that is, Hector needs to tell them to take a walk around the block,” I advised.

  Adrian bit his lip and raised a brow, like that was the most brilliant idea he’d heard all day. “How about you go up and start a long, hot shower for us? I’m right behind you.”

  “Promise?” I asked, but he already had his ear to the phone and a finger to his lips.

  Since when does a rock star shush a librarian?

  Adrian Graves was definitely up to something.

  ***

  I consoled myself with the hottest shower possible. The multiple massage sprayers picked up where Sofie had left off, palpitating against my shoulders and back, while the huge rainfall shower above washed away most of the oil and a tiny bit of the edge. Although if Adrian didn’t join me soon . . .

  I spied movement on the other side of the block glass that curved around the doorless, luxury shower, and smiled. A flash of tattoos through the steam told me Adrian had kept his promise.