Devil Without a Cause

by Terri Garey

  One night; that’s all they had.

  She hardly heard the clink of his glass as he put it on the table, vaguely felt him take hers and do the same. All her senses were focused on the taste and the feel of his lips, and sensations she’d forgotten existed.

  He shifted, slipping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her closer. The kiss changed, deepening. She was against his chest, and he smelled wonderful; she could barely keep herself from groaning aloud at the scent, the feel of him. Her hand was on his arm, her palm against his bicep, skimming upward over the muscled curve of his shoulder.

  He leaned back into the couch, taking her with him. The hard length between his legs left no doubt of his arousal, and Faith felt an answering throb between her own. One broad hand slid up her ribs to cup her breast, and she made an involuntary noise low in her throat, shocked at how good his palm felt against her nipple, even through her clothes.

  Suddenly, regrets or no regrets, she couldn’t wait to get naked.

  There was a slow tug at her waistband, and she helped him pull her blouse free, never moving too far from his lips. Finn’s fingers—the ones that could make a guitar sing like an angel—deftly undid the buttons, and then smoothed the fabric from her shoulder. His hand was warm on her skin, sliding down her arm, freeing it from her sleeve; firm on her hip, squeezing her thigh and bottom as though learning the terrain. She brushed his cock with her hand, unable to help herself, and felt it throb in response.

  His lips left hers, and then she was drowning in the feel of them on her neck, his breath in the hollow beneath her ear.

  “Oh . . .”

  She was moaning aloud, and didn’t care.

  His fingers were at her waist again, this time unzipping her skirt.

  “Too many clothes,” he murmured, and she couldn’t agree more. She pulled back, intending to help, but he forestalled her by cupping one of her breasts in his hand, squeezing and stroking through the fabric of her bra. She caught her breath, gazing down at him, seeing the evidence of her fingers in the wild state of his hair, his lips, smudged with lipstick from her kisses. Without thinking, she reached out to thumb it away, but as soon as she touched him there, he opened his mouth and caught her thumb in his teeth, giving it a gentle nip.

  His eyes were a vivid shade of green, hungry and intent, and his hand was still on her breast. It was throbbing, she was throbbing, and if he didn’t make love to her soon she was going to incinerate.

  Whatever inhibitions she’d had were long gone.

  One night with the man of her dreams. She had almost five years of pent-up passion to release, and she was going to use every bit of it giving Finn Payne, rock star, a night of mind-blowing ecstasy.

  Hot, she was so hot. Her breast filled Finn’s hand perfectly, driving even more blood between his legs. His jeans had become uncomfortable, but he was in no mood to rush. She felt good on top of him, and he enjoyed looking up at her: strawberry-bruised lips and tousled auburn hair, silky blouse off one shoulder, white bra trimmed with lace.

  Her kiss had caught him off guard—the softness of it, the gentleness. No one had kissed him like that in a long time, as though how he tasted and how he felt were more important than who he was. He’d wanted to savor it, to make it last, and then the heat between them had flared, making him hungry for more.

  “You’re beautiful,” he whispered.

  She turned shy at the compliment, brown eyes slanted at the corners, and he wondered if she had any idea how impossibly sexy she looked. He pulled her down to kiss her again, harder this time, and suddenly lost his desire to take things slow. His hand slipped beneath the lace of her bra, freeing one breast, and with a speed that made her gasp, he lowered his head to lave her nipple with his tongue.

  She moaned, and he held her tighter while he licked and sucked, then let her go slowly with a gentle scrape of the teeth that made her gasp aloud. Her fingers were in his hair, on the back of his neck. She dropped her head, and her breath on his ear made his balls tighten.

  “Up,” he murmured, his cheek against the soft skin of her breast. “To the bed.”

  She surprised him once again by giving his head a gentle kiss before moving to do as he’d asked. It was a gesture of tenderness between lovers—even though they technically weren’t lovers just yet—and it touched him.

  He was used to keeping his lovers at arm’s length. Women wanted him because of who he was, and he wanted women for the release they gave him. Tenderness was not usually part of the equation.

  This girl, however, seemed different, though he wasn’t sure why. It was more than the way she looked; it was something about her.

  She got up, brushing her hand again over the bulge in his jeans. Already aching, his erection made it difficult to stand.

  “Careful,” he warned, as he gained his feet, “these jeans are pretty tight.”

  She looked down, a pleased smile curving her lips. “So they are,” she murmured. “Let me fix that for you.”

  He caught his breath as her hands went to his waist, deftly undoing the top button of his jeans. He gazed down at her as she worked, thoroughly enjoying the view of one rosy breast, still uncovered, the nipple dark pink and damp from his tongue.

  She unzipped his fly partway, then stopped, slipping a hand inside to stroke his groin and belly. Bringing her face up to his for another scorching kiss, she grasped his T-shirt in both hands and raised it over his head.

  Shirtless now, he returned the favor, slipping her blouse, already half off and hanging free, from her shoulder. The only thing between them now was her bra, and he had that unhooked in seconds. Then it was gone, and they were both bare from the waist up. He pulled her against him, skin to skin, kissing her again.

  “Mmmm,” she murmured as her breasts came into contact with his chest, and he agreed completely.

  A tug at her waist and a little wiggle, and her skirt dropped to the floor, pooling at her feet. He could see their reflection in the tall glass windows: him, in unzipped jeans; her, in a wispy pair of panties. While he’d never considered white to be particularly sexy, the way she looked in hers definitely changed his mind.

  Then he felt her fingers on his jeans again, and closed his eyes as she freed his aching cock.

  “No underwear,” she whispered, her lips at the base of his neck. “You are a bad boy, aren’t you?”

  He smiled against her hair, liking how she teased him, then caught his breath as she took him in her hand, stroking and squeezing. Such soft hands, warm and insistent . . . His cock throbbed and swelled, her touch turning him hard as iron.

  Surprised at how much he suddenly wanted to be inside her, he caught her wrist and said hoarsely, “Let’s go in the other room.”

  She let him go, but not before another slow stroke of her hand had wrung a groan of pleasure from his lips.

  Once in the bedroom, he caught her at the foot of the bed and kissed her again, cupping her bottom in his hands. She was soft where he was hard, and seemed to fit him perfectly. Her breath was coming faster now, and she gasped when he pressed their hips together, letting her feel his urgency.

  Her hands were like velvet on his skin, slipping below the waistline of his jeans to stroke and touch. He pulled back, ready to take them off, but she was still kissing him, and he couldn’t seem to stop doing the same. She urged him a step or two backward, toward the bed.

  Her hands moved to his shoulders, and pressed down gently until he fell back on the mattress, landing on his elbows. His jeans were partially unzipped, and he was fully exposed, hard as a rock.

  They were both breathing hard. For a moment she just stood there, taking in the view, as did he.

  She was just as beautiful beneath her clothes as he’d hoped, slender, with womanly curves in all the right places. Her breasts were full but not overblown, the nipples a dark pink.

  As he watched, she slowly removed her panties, keeping her eyes on his face while she did it. He couldn’t tell if the color in her cheeks was shyness
or arousal, but it didn’t matter. The small triangle of curls at the base of her thighs was the same color as the hair on her head, and just as pretty.

  He smiled appreciatively, and she leaned in, running her fingers through the dusting of hair on his chest, trailing them all the way down to his groin. His breath hitched at the brush of her fingers along his cock, and he raised his hips to help her as she tugged down his jeans and drew them off. Her hands traveled smoothly back up his calves, soft against the coarse hair of his legs and thighs. She touched him again, and he groaned as she cupped his balls, tight with need. Closing his eyes at the sensation, he felt her other hand moving over his belly and chest, finding the erect nub of his left nipple. He threw back his head and let her do whatever she wanted—she held him there, by both pleasure centers, squeezing and rubbing, as the evening’s chaos centered itself into one burning, coiling ache that could only be eased by what she had to offer.

  It was slow torture, but he kept his hands to himself, sensing that what she was doing was just as good for her as it was to him. The bed dipped as she came down beside him on one knee, bringing her face to his. “Lie down,” she whispered, breath warm in his ear, and he did, stretching out a hand to cup and caress her breast as he did.

  So soft, so smooth.

  But then she flinched, bringing his eyes open.

  “Ow,” she murmured, though he couldn’t imagine what could’ve hurt her. “Your ring—could you take it off?”

  “I’ll be more careful,” he replied.

  She hesitated, but he was well past the point of any hesitation, and pulled her down for a kiss designed to make them both forget anything except what they were about to do. Her hair brushed his cheek, and her lips moved against his, quickly matching his hunger. Hands around her waist, he rolled, trapping her beneath him. Unable to help himself, he rocked his hips gently against her, once, twice . . . pressing his hardness against her softness in an unmistakable rhythm.

  She broke the kiss, gasping, but he merely transferred his mouth to her breasts, which were inches away, and completely irresistible. His tongue played with her nipples as he sucked, licked, and nipped them both in turn. Her gasps turned to moans, her fingers threading their way through his hair. “Wait,” she groaned after several moments of torture, “please.”

  Though he hated to stop, he forced himself to raise his head from those pink, rosy tips. Running his lips from her collarbone to her ear, he murmured huskily, “Please don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind—I’ve tried to be a gentleman, but now I need more than footsies under the table.”

  “No,” she said, rubbing one slender leg along his bare thigh, “I haven’t changed my mind.” Her breath was hot in his ear, and everywhere she touched him, his skin tingled. “I just want to make this last.”

  And make it last she did, using her mouth to bring him to the brink of madness, and the honeyed warmth between her thighs to pull him in, sheathe him in ecstasy, over and over again. By the time they both fell asleep in the wee hours of the morning, boneless and exhausted, Finn already knew he wasn’t going to be content with just one night with Amy Smith.

  Chapter Nine

  He looked boyish when he slept, younger than thirty-six. His hair was wild from her fingers, and Faith was sure hers was no better. The curtains were open, Atlanta’s nightscape casting a soft glow over the darkened room. She’d been lying there, watching the glitter of skyscrapers over his bare shoulder, for well over an hour. It would be dawn soon, and she couldn’t wait much longer.

  Finn had been the perfect lover; gentle, fiercely passionate. She’d given him everything she had, and he’d given it all back. Her girlhood fantasies had been far exceeded by the reality; his body, lean and fit, his fingertips, hard with guitar calluses, tracing every inch of her skin.

  She wanted to touch him, one more time, but didn’t dare. Why did she have to meet him now, like this? If she’d met him a few months ago, before Nathan got sick, she could’ve just been herself; he seemed to like her.

  And in the morning, no hard feelings and no regrets, he’d said.

  There would be no hard feelings on her part. Ever. But what should have been a magical interlude was forever tainted, because no matter what she did, as soon as he discovered the ring gone, he’d remember her only as the girl who stole something from him. Something valuable, and important. It was probably a priceless antique or something—no one made a deal with the Devil over costume jewelry.

  Lying there in the dark, listening to Finn breathe, Faith never had any doubt that what she did for Nathan was the right thing to do, but for a moment—just for a moment—it was nice to imagine a different scenario. One where she and Finn and Nathan could all three be together, without the shadow of darkness hovering over their heads. He said he liked kids, maybe he could be happy with a normal life . . .

  Dream on, girl, she told herself.

  Yes, Finn Payne was every woman’s dream.

  And now it was time for the dream to be over.

  Slowly, so she didn’t wake him, Faith slipped from the bed and gathered her clothes, finding most of them in the living room. She dressed quietly, then put her shoes by the door and crept barefoot back into the bedroom, where Finn still slept.

  His breathing was slow and deep. She eased into the bathroom, touching the fingers of her left hand to the soap dispenser. Then she came back into the bedroom and waited, gathering her nerve. She already knew what she’d do if he woke up; squeeze his hand, claim a good-bye kiss, and urge him back to sleep, hopefully slipping the ring off in the process.

  And if she got caught . . . well, she didn’t know what she’d do if she got caught.

  Reminding herself that failure was not an option, Faith took one last look at the glitter of Atlanta’s skyline, then one last look at the gorgeous man in the bed. When they were both imprinted on her mind’s eye, she went to him and gently smoothed the warm, soapy tip of a finger across his knuckle.

  He didn’t stir, so she did it again. Then she used her other hand to slowly take hold of the ring. It was chunky, very solid, and slid from Finn’s finger far more easily than she’d imagined it would.

  She had it, clenched within her palm so hard it hurt.

  Backing soundlessly from the bed, Faith turned and fled, not realizing she’d been holding her breath until she reached the front door. Taking only a moment to slip on her shoes, she carefully unlocked the dead bolt, cringing at the slight snick. Hearing nothing from the bedroom, she gave a silent sigh of relief, and opened the door.

  That, of course, was when all hell broke loose.

  The blare of a siren jerked Finn from a sound sleep, and for a moment he had no idea what was going on. Another anonymous hotel room in an anonymous city, one with glittering skyscrapers just outside the window. His head cleared quickly, however, and he rose from the bed; the hotel’s fire alarm was going off. He was naked, and his jeans were on the floor; as he pulled them on he remembered the girl—where was she?

  “Hello?” he called out. Snagging his T-shirt, he pulled it on as he checked the bathroom, which was empty. Grabbing his boots, he headed toward the living room, and found it empty, too. “Hello?” he called again, disappointed to find her gone—he hadn’t gotten her phone number.

  The fire alarm was still blaring, and his cell phone began to ring. He ducked back into the bedroom to answer it, not overly concerned just yet about the possibility of fire—he’d been in a lot of hotel rooms through the years, and through many false alarms. His phone was on the bedside table; it was John, his security guy.

  “You okay, Finn? Larry’s checking with the front desk to see if this is for real, but you should grab your stuff, just in case.” John was slightly out of breath, and Finn knew it was because he was already on his way. His team took their job very seriously, and their room was always next door or just down the hall.

  “Let’s give it a minute,” Finn answered wearily. His mood had taken a downturn, the siren annoying as hell, and he did
n’t relish the idea of charging out the door.

  “Excuse me, miss?” John called out. “Is this a drill?”

  “Who’s that?” Finn asked sharply.

  “It’s the girl from the hotel,” John said into the phone. “Right by the stairs.”

  The sirens stopped.

  Finn greeted the silence with relief, glad he hadn’t missed the girl. “Grab her, would you?” he asked John casually. “I wanted to ask her something.”

  “Sure thing,” John said, and hung up.

  Finn strode to the front door of the suite, which opened as he reached it. There was Amy, her face pale and set, ushered in by John, who’d let himself in with his key.

  “We meet again,” Finn said, giving her an intimate smile.

  She didn’t smile back.

  “There’s no need to rush off,” he said, stepping closer. Her auburn hair was slightly rumpled—he remembered how soft it was, like silk beneath his hands. “How about an early breakfast?”

  “I have to get home,” she answered stiffly, with none of the warmth she’d shown him earlier.

  Finn frowned, wondering what was up. He drew her aside to murmur, “I know what I said about having just one night together, but I had a great time, and I’d love to see you again.”

  She stared at the floor, blankly.

  “I’m going to be in town a couple of days,” he urged. “Let’s get together again before I go. Give me your cell number.”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m sorry—I can’t do that.”

  Finn blinked, caught off guard. He saw the look of amusement Larry shot John, and didn’t appreciate it, but he’d deal with them later.

  “Is something wrong?” he murmured. He thought they’d had a great time together, shared some chemistry.