aith had never been more embarrassed in her life. When she got home, she dashed into the house and locked all the doors, as if that would do any good. She had no clear memory of the drive home, but she could recall in excruciating detail every step she had made through the courthouse, with her face flaming and her thighs sticking together, and every curious look had made her want to cringe. She hadn’t, though; she had walked out with her chin in the air and an "I dare you to say anything" look on her face. The bluff must have worked, because no one had stopped her.

She had jumped off the counter as soon as Gray released her, and locked herself in one of the stalls. Uncontrollable giggles shook her as she tried to tidy herself. The arrival of her panties, tossed over the top of the stall, sent her into absolute whoops. "Would you shut up?" she heard Gray mutter fiercely, and she all but collapsed in hysterics. He said something else, but she didn’t understand him, and a moment later the door squeaked as he left. It swung open immediately, and a pair of navy pumps took up residence in the stall next to Faith. The owner of the pumps was also the owner of the shrill voice, and she was extremely indignant.

"I ought to tell the sheriff," she said huffily, loud enough that Faith could hear her over the sound of her own giggles.

"Carryin’ on in the ladies’ rest room! No telling who might have walked in, maybe a mother with her little kids, and just imagine children seein’ something like that. It’s sinful and disgusting, the way people don’t have no shame anymore – "

The tirade was delivered to the accompaniment of a steady stream of urine splashing into the toilet bowl. Evidently part of the lady’s wrath was due to the fact that she had been in desperate need of a bathroom. Trying to control her giggles, Faith took advantage of the woman’s preoccupation and dashed out of the stall. Once in the hallway, she tried to assume a normal air, and walked quickly to her car. Gray hadn’t been anywhere in sight, but then she hadn’t exactly looked for him. Probably he’d ducked into the men’s room.

Faith sank down in a kitchen chair and covered her face with her hands, groaning with mortification. What was wrong with her, that she couldn’t manage to say no to him even in a public place? The courthouse rest room! Even Renee had used more discretion than that.

The telephone rang, but she didn’t move to answer it. The machine in the office picked up, and she heard Gray’s deep voice, but was too far away to understand what he was saying. He hung up, and a few minutes later the phone rang again. This time, however, Faith recognized Margot’s voice. She knew she should pick up, but she didn’t. She simply couldn’t carry on a normal conversation; her nerves were still jangling, and she was physically shaking from the aftereffects of an adrenaline rush. She didn’t understand how risk junkies got addicted, because the crash was making her sick.

When she thought her knees would support her, she got up and headed for the bathroom. What she needed right now, more than anything, was a shower.

Gray shook his head in disbelief at himself as he drove to Faith’s house. He was sure she was there, even though she hadn’t answered the phone. He couldn’t believe what they’d done, or the force of the attraction that had made it irresistible. He hadn’t done anything that stupid even as a teenager, and God knows he’d been wild as a buck.

He snorted with suppressed laughter. That damned old biddy! Faith had jumped up and hidden in a stall, laughing like a maniac, and he’d been left there with one hand on the door to keep it shut, and his pants down around his knees. Quickly he’d shifted position, moving to stand with his back against the door while he pulled up his pants. Faith’s panties had been lying on the floor, so he’d scooped them up and tossed them over the stall, and she’d shrieked all the louder despite his order to be quiet. The old bitch outside wasn’t going away; she kept beating on the door, getting louder and louder. Between her and Faith, he was almost deafened.

Finally he told Faith he’d meet her out front, but he wasn’t certain she’d heard him, the way she was whooping hysterically. There was nothing to do but brazen it out. After glancing down to make certain everything was zipped and fastened, he opened the door and stepped out, glaring down at a plump, red-faced woman who was all but squirming with indignation. She sputtered furiously at him, but Gray cut her off". "The men’s room was full," he snapped. "What did you expect me to do, piss in the hallway?" Then he stalked into the men’s room, which was right next door, and leaned against the wall until his shoulders stopped shaking with silent laughter, because the old biddy had snapped right back, "Then what did you piss in, the sink?"

Oh, Jesus. He began laughing helplessly again. He knew the old biddy, at least by sight. She worked in the tax assessor’s office. The tale that he’d been fooling around with some hussy in the women’s rest room would be all over the courthouse by lunch, and all over the town by tomorrow morning.

His grin faded. Faith would be mortified.

She probably was anyway. She hadn’t waited for him out front, but had probably driven home with all possible speed, and barricaded herself in the house. His little Puritan would be sick with embarrassment.

He sighed with relief when he saw her car in the driveway. He pulled in, but didn’t stop behind her car. Instead he steered his car around to the backyard, and circled behind the open tool shed where she kept her lawn mower. Honeysuckle vines grew over the shed and part of the way up a steel cable bracing a power pole, forming a nice screen to hide the car. He nosed the Jaguar forward until the hood was just touching the honeysuckle, then got out, checking in both directions. The road wasn’t visible in either direction, so that meant the car wasn’t visible from the road. He felt like an idiot, but he hoped Faith appreciated the concern for her reputation.

He went to the kitchen door and rapped on it, waiting impatiently. She didn’t open it, and he knocked again. "Faith, open the door."

Faith halted on the other side of the door, her hand hovering at the curtain. She had just been about to twitch it aside and see who was pounding on her kitchen door. She had almost jumped out of her skin at the sounds of a car pulling into her driveway and behind the house. She was relieved that it was Gray, but of all the people she didn’t think she could face right now, he headed the list.

"Go away," she said.

The doorknob rattled. "Faith." Her name was spoken softly, calmly. "Open the door, baby."

"Why?"

"We have things to talk over."

Undoubtedly, but she didn’t want to do it. She wanted to be a coward about the whole thing, and hide until she was over the embarrassment. "Maybe tomorrow," she hedged.

"Now." There it was, that gentle, inflexible note that said her door would be kicked open within the next ten seconds if she didn’t open it herself. Helpless and resentful, she unlocked the door.

He stepped inside and immediately turned the lock again, his gaze never leaving her. She had just gotten out of the shower, and hadn’t had time to dress before she heard the car pulling in. She had grabbed her thin robe from the back of the bathroom door, and put it on. There was nothing seductive about the robe; it was plain, white cotton, belted at the waist. But she was acutely aware that, beneath it, she was damp and bare. She clutched the lapels together over her breasts. "What do you want to talk about?"

An incredibly gentle smile spread over his face as he looked down at her. "Later," he said, and swept her up in his arms.

Two hours later, they lay sweaty and exhausted amid the tangled sheets on her bed. The noon sun forced its way through the closed slats of the blinds, throwing thin lines of white across the floor. A gentle breeze from the ceiling fan wafted across her bare flesh, raising tiny goose bumps. Her body was so acutely sensitive that she imagined she could feel each fine, downy hair lifting at the slight chill. Her heart was beating in slow, heavy thumps, her veins and arteries pulsing with each beat. Gray lay sprawled on his back, his eyes closed and his chest heaving, while she was curled against his side with her head pillowed on his shoulder.

It was a long time before she felt as if she could move. Her limbs were heavy and limp, utterly boneless. In those two hours he had taken her three times, with as much ferocity as if the time in the courthouse hadn’t happened. And as demanding and immediate as his hunger had been, her response had matched it. She had clung to him, her nails digging into his back, her hips lifting eagerly to meet each thrust, and it seemed as if her fire had only fed his own. She didn’t know how^many times she had reached satisfaction; this last time had felt like one long swell that crested, then refused to subside, so that she had been awash in sensation, drunk with pleasure.

As his breathing slowed, Gray stirred beside her and tried to lift his head, only to let it fall back with a groan. "Oh, God. I can’t move."

"Then don’t," she muttered, opening her eyes a slit.

A couple of minutes later, he tried again. With a great deal of effort he raised his head and slowly surveyed the tangle of their nude bodies lying amid the wreckage of the bed. His gaze settled on his penis, lying soft on his thighs. "You damn fool," he barked. "This time, stay down!"

The whimsy startled her, and she began giggling helplessly. She buried her face against his shoulder, her entire body shaking.

Gray let his head drop back to the pillow, and cuddled her closer. "Easy for you to laugh," he grumbled. "The damn thing’s trying to kill me. It never has had much stopping sense, but this is ridiculous. It must think I’m still sixteen."

"It can’t think," she pointed out, her giggles increasing.

"You’re telling me. You can reason with something that thinks." Her giggles escalated even more, and he tickled her in revenge. "Stop laughing," he ordered, though a smile teased his mouth. "Do you know what it’s like to have a prominent body part that won’t listen to either common sense or orders?"

"Well, no, but I know what it’s like to be in the vicinity of one."

He chuckled and lazily rubbed his hand across his chest. "Do you know why men name their cocks?"

"No, why?" she asked, trying to stifle her laughter.

"So most of the major decisions in their lives won’t be made by a total stranger."

They shook with laughter, and Faith grabbed a corner of the sheet to dry her eyes. She had never seen this playful, bawdy side of Gray before, and she was charmed down to her toes.

He heaved himself up on his elbow, holding her head cradled in the crook of his arm as he smiled down at her. "It’s all your fault, anyway," he told her, smoothing a tangle of dark red hair away from her face. His hand continued in a slow stroke down her throat, over the delicate sweep of her collarbone, to close over her breast.

"Mine?" she asked indignantly.

"Sure." Gently he cupped her breast, lifting it. He lightly rasped the pad of his thumb over the puffy pink swell of her nipple, and watched in fascination as it immediately puckered and turned red. "Your nipples are like raspberries," he marveled, and leaned down to take that particular raspberry into his mouth, circling it with his tongjie, rolling it back and forth.

Faith quivered in his arms, alarmed by the immediate swell of desire. She didn’t think she could stand it again. "I can’t," she moaned, but he noticed that her other nipple had also puckered.

He drew back and admired his work, the red nipple glistening wetly. "That’s good," he said absently, "because I sure as hell can’t." Faith’s breasts were pale, with the sheen of satin, and her skin so translucent and fine that the blue tracery of veins seemed just under the surface. They were firm and full and upright, and he couldn’t keep his hands off of them. Hell, he couldn’t keep his hands off of her, period. "Just think how pretty these will be, when they’re full of milk."

She slapped his shoulder. "I told you, I’m not pregnant!"

"You don’t know that," he teased.

"Yes, I do know that."

"Your timing could be off."

"My timing is never off"

"This once it could be."

She glared at him, then returned to what he’d said before. "How is it my fault?"

"It must be," he said reasonably. "Every time you’re near, I get hard."

"I’m not doing anything. It has to be your fault."

"You’re breathing. Evidently that’s enough." He collapsed back on the bed and pulled her so she was lying half on him. His free hand smoothed over her slender back, and down to stroke the round curves of her bottom. "Part of it’s the way you smell, like honey and cinnamon, all sweet and spicy at the same time."

Her head lifted and she stared at him, startled. "I’ve always loved the way you smell," she confessed. "Even when I was a little kid. I thought you were the best smell in the world, but I’ve never been able to exactly describe it."

"So you’ve had a crush on me since you were little?" he asked, pleased.

To hide her expression, she tucked her head back into its resting place in the hollow of his shoulder, and inhaled the delicious male scent she had just mentioned. "No," she said softly. "It wasn’t a crush."

He grunted and settled himself more comfortably, pulling her thigh up to ride across his hips. She felt his penis twitch warningly against the soft inside of her leg, then subside. "I used to worry about you," he murmured, his voice becoming sleepy. "Running around alone in the woods the way you did."

She was silent a moment. "How often did you see me?"

"A couple of times."

"I saw you," she said, gathering her courage.

"In the woods?"

"At the summerhouse. With Lindsey Partain. I watched through the window."

His eyes shot open. "Why, you little sneak!" he said, and swatted her bottom, hard. "I guess you got an eyeful."

"I sure did," she agreed, rubbing her bottom indignantly. She retaliated by twisting her fingers in his chest hair and pulling.

He yelped and rubbed his chest. "Ouch!"

"Revenge is sweet," she said. "And prompt."

"I’ll remember that," he said ruefully, squinting down at his chest. "Damn, there’s a bald patch there."

"There is not."

She rubbed her cheek against him, her eyes closing as she luxuriated in the feel of him, so warm and solid and vital. She had been in paradise from the moment he carried her to bed. Lying here like this with him, so relaxed, all hostility gone and desire thoroughly sated, was more than she had ever dared hope for in her life. None of their problems were solved and the hostility would undoubtedly return, but for right now, this moment, she was happy.

So happy, in fact, that there was only a little hurt mixed in with the curiosity when she said, "You made love to Lindsey in French."

His eyes had closed drowsily, but they popped open again. "What?"

"I heard you. You made love to her in French. Lots of love words and compliments."

Gray was too experienced not to notice how she felt about that, and immediately discerned the reason. He gave her a disbelieving look, then put his head back on the pillow and shouted with laughter. Faith’s lower lip trembled and she tried to turn away, but his arms tightened and he held her right where she was.

"Oh, Jesus," he said, wheezing with the effort it took to control himself. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "You little innocent. I’m fluent in French, but it isn’t my first language." It was plain by the mortified expression in those green eyes that she didn’t understand, so he explained. "Baby, if I can still think clearly enough to speak French, then I’m not totally involved in what I’m doing. It may sound pretty, but it doesn’t mean anything. Men are different from women; the more excited we are, the more like cavemen we sound. I could barely speak English with you, much less French. As I remember, my vocabulary deteriorated to a few short, explicit words, ‘fuck’ being the most prominent."

To his amazement, she blushed, and he smiled at this further evidence of her charming prudery. "Go to sleep," he said gently. "Lindsey didn’t even rate a replay."

God only knew why she found that reassuring, but she did. She went to sleep as easily as a child, exhausted by the events of the morning, and woke to make love again. He was more leisurely this time, and, with a positively wicked gleam in his dark eyes, whispered French love words to her. Then he had to grab her hands to protect his chest hairs, roaring with laughter at her indignation. That was how they passed the afternoon, sleeping, making love, and murmuring drowsily to each other afterward. If the lovemaking was wildly exciting, it was in the pillow talk that a deeper kind of intimacy was forged, a quiet sharing of secrets and thoughts, a linking together of their pasts.

"Tell me about the foster home you were in," he said once, and was relieved when she smiled.

"The Greshams. They gave me the first real home I’d ever known. I still keep in touch with them."

"How did you wind up in a foster home?"

"Pa took off not long after… after that night," she said, faltering a little. "Russ, my oldest brother, wasn’t far behind him. Nicky tried to earn enough to feed us, I’ll say that for him, but he was relieved when the social services people found us. We were in Beaumont at the time. Jodie was put in one foster home, and Scottie and I in another. It wasn’t easy to find someone who would take Scottie, too, but the Greshams agreed if I would take care of him. As if I would leave him behind," she said softly.

"What happened to him?"

"He died the next January. At least he was happy, the last six months of his life. After we moved in, the Greshams were wonderful to him. They bought him toys, played with him. He had so much fun at Christmas, but he faded fast after that. I sat up with him," she said in a quiet voice, her eyes liquid with tears as she stared down the years. "I held his hand while he died." She brushed her hand across her eyes. "I used to wonder if Guy was his father."

He’d never thought of that. He stared at her, disturbed both by the idea that his father might have sired other children, and by the horrifying thought that he might have thrown his little brother out into the dirt.

Faith groped for his hand. "I don’t think he was," she said, compelled to comfort him. "Your father wouldn’t have left one of his children to live the way we did. If Scottie had been his, he’d have taken care of him. There’s no telling who Scottie’s daddy was; I doubt it was Pa."

Gray blinked, his own eyes shiny with tears. "Yes," he said hoarsely. "He’d have taken care of him."

Later, he asked, "What happened to the rest of your family?"

"I don’t know. I think Jodie’s living around Jackson, but I haven’t seen her since she turned eighteen. I don’t have any idea what happened to Pa and the boys." She carefully didn’t mention Renee.

So her family, such as it was, had been shattered by his actions. He held her tight, as if he could shield her from the pain of the past.

"I hated Dad, for a while," he admitted. "God, when I found out he’d left – he was our rock, not Mother. It hurt so much, I couldn’t stand it."

Faith bit her lip, thinking of what she had to tell him, and soon.

"Monica tried to kill herself," he said abruptly. "She cut her wrists right after I told her Dad was gone. She almost bled to death before I could get her to a hospital. When I came to the shack that night, I’d just left the hospital in Baton Rouge."

He was trying to explain his rage, she realized, why he’d done what he had. She kissed his shoulder, forgiveness in the gesture. Actually, she had forgiven him long ago, understanding the pain and sense of betrayal he must have been feeling.

He stared up at the ceiling fan. "Mother withdrew completely. She stopped talking, even stopped feeding herself. She didn’t come out of her room for two years. She’s the most self-centered person I’ve ever known," he said with brutal honesty, "but I don’t ever want to see her that way again."

And that was why he was so adamant that neither Monica nor his mother be upset by anything Faith said or did. She had experienced some of his overprotectiveness herself. In some ways, he was like a feudal lord in Prescott, his influence touching almost every aspect of parish life, and like a feudal lord, he took his responsibilities seriously.

He rolled on top of her, entering her with a gentle insistence that nevertheless made her catch her breath, for she was sore from all the other times. He braced himself on his elbows and cradled her head in his hands. "That night is a link between us," he whispered. "Ugly as it was, we share the memories. And it wasn’t all ugly. I wanted you that night, Faith." He began moving slowly inside her, his eyes darkening with the slow build of passion. "You were only fourteen, but I wanted you. And when I saw you again, in the motel, it was as if the twelve years apart didn’t exist, because I still wanted you."

Then he began to smile. "Do you want me to say it in French?" he asked.

When she woke the next time, she lay quietly and watched him sleeping. His black lashes were dark smudges on his cheekbones, and black beard stubbled his lower jaw. His lips were softly parted as he slept, his powerful body relaxed. The beauty of him shook her. With his long hair tousled around his shoulders, he looked like a pirate taking his rest in a lady’s bed after a long day of ship-boardings and sword fights. The tiny diamond in his left ear didn’t do anything to detract from the image.

She was too sore to possibly make love again, she thought, but still his body drew her. He was wonderfully made, all long bones and hard muscle. One arm dangled off the side of the bed, but his other hand lay relaxed on his chest. He had big hands, his fingers lean and well shaped, but his little finger was as thick as her thumb. She thought of those hands on her body and shivered with delight.

She leaned over him, delicately inhaling the warm scent of his skin, rising off him on waves of heat. This was Gray. The realization stunned her anew. He was actually here. She could touch him, kiss him, do all the things she had spent most of her life only dreaming about.

His flesh drew her like a lodestone, making her breath come a little faster, and her skin flush. There were no restraints on her natural sensuality now, and the freedom to touch him, and be touched by him, was intoxicating. She laid her hand on his thigh, feeling hard muscle under the roughness of hair, then slipped her fingertips, in a dreamy, sensual sampling, down to where the flesh was smooth and hairless, trailing her fingertips across it. His scrotum hung low, his testicles like two small eggs in their soft sac. She turned her hand and cupped it, feeling it cool and heavy in her palm. He stirred restlessly, his legs falling apart, but he didn’t wake. He was a wonderfully male animal, and, for the moment at least, totally hers.

She leaned over him even closer, letting the tips of her breasts drag through the crisp, curly hair on his chest, and sucked in a quick breath at the sharp tingle of sensation that drew her nipples erect.

His eyelids fluttered and opened. "Ummm," he said, a low hum of pleasure, and automatically reached up to circle her with his arms.

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 Sinead 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 Rouiliard 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 snaking 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, soothing the ache. Then he reached for the oil.

He began at her shoulders, his powerful fingers digging deep into her muscles. She automatically tightened in resistance, then relaxed as the strength and tension seemed to flow out of her. The heated oil made his hands slide over her skin, leaving it slick and fragrant. He worked down each arm, even massaging her hands, and between her fingers. And everywhere his hands went, they left behind loosened tendons, limp muscles, and total contentment. Faith purred her pleasure as he returned to her back, starting at her waist and moving his hands upward in long, powerful sweeps that compressed her rib cage and made her groan aloud with each stroke. He relentlessly searched out every stiff muscle, and kneaded it until it was pliant beneath his hands.

Her legs were next. He kneaded her hamstring muscles, her calves, her Achilles tendons, the bottoms of her feet. He rotated her ankles back and forth, pressing his thumbs hard into her arches, and a startlingly sexual pleasure made her toes curl.

"Oh!" she said involuntarily.

"Like that, do you?" he asked, his voice soft and muted in the growing darkness of the room. He did it again, and she moaned in response.

He moved back up her legs, spreading them apart and massaging the stretched, sore tendons on the upper insides of her thighs. Her moan this time was of pain, and she gripped the sides of the table. He murmured reassuringly, moving his attention to her buttocks. She relaxed again, closing her eyes. She was feeling pleasantly warm now, and not just from the oil; his stroking hands were having another effect entirely. Desire was curling lazily, heating her blood, totally without urgency.

"On your back, now," he said, and helped her to roll over. He looked with interest at her peaked nipples, and smiled. His big, oil-slick hands covered her breasts, gentle there, smoothing the oil into nipples sore from vigorous sucking and the rasp of his stubbled face. "Your skin’s as delicate as a baby’s," he observed. "I’ll need to shave twice a day." Faith didn’t reply, too caught up in what he was doing. By the time he was finished with her stomach and thighs, she was in an agony of anticipation, her body arching under his hands. The room was almost completely dark now, the lavender shadows of twilight giving way to the night. He paused to turn on the light over the sink, isolating them in a small glow.

The sore muscles on the insides of her thighs received more attention, and this time he didn’t relent until her groans had turned to purrs. His oily fingers slipped higher then, gently stroking and probing, and she shook with delight.

"Gray." Her voice was smoky, drugged with desire. She reached out for him. "Please."

"No, baby, you’re too sore for another round," he whispered. "I’ll take care of you."

He dragged her to the end of the table, sheet and all, the fabric slipping easily over the smooth surface. "What –?" Faith began, then fell back with a moan as he draped her thighs over his shoulders. Gently he opened the swollen folds between her legs, and she felt his warm breath wash over her. She barely had time to catch her breath before his tongue delved into her painfully sensitive flesh with a lightning bolt of sheer sensation that made her cry out. He was very tender, and very thorough, reducing her to quivering, screaming ecstasy within minutes.

Afterward, he carried her into the bathroom. She stood sleepily in the shower with him, her arms around his waist and her head on his chest. A lot of the soreness was gone, but now her muscles felt like mush.

When the hot water began to go, he lifted his cheek from the top of her head. "Food," he murmured.

Reluctantly she released him and let him turn off the water. She sleeked her wet hair back from her face, and looked up at him with diamonds of water clinging to her lashes. He seemed so ruthless and strong, but he was very human, with desires and fears and quirks, and she loved him all the more deeply for those qualities. Just for a while, though, she would have wished he were more impervious, because she couldn’t put off much longer telling him about his father.

The least she could do was feed him first.

He wolfed down two ham and tomato sandwiches, then took his time on the third while she polished off one. Afterward, they remade the bed with fresh sheets, and he flopped down with a sigh of exhaustion. The sprawl of his arms and legs took up most of the room, but she crawled into one of the niches and burrowed her damp head into its accustomed place on his shoulder. She put her arms around him, holding him tight as if she could shield him from the pain. "I have to tell you something," she said quietly.