Deeper Than Dreams (3 page)

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 senses. 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.

“You still smell like flowers,” he said, gathering my wet curls in his fist like a bouquet. I gasped as his hardness met the hot, wet yield of my skin. “Told you I was right behind you.” With a trembling sigh, he was in me; he was of me.

Reaching his free hand to strategically adjust the front sprayers, Adrian made me forget all about interruptions and Batphones. The pulsating water beat my body into submission, delighting spots he wasn't able to reach with his fingers, because they were busy elsewhere.

“I missed you so much.” My head fell back against his shoulder, and he captured my mouth with his. Rivulets of water coursed between us, damming where our bodies locked before cascading over my curves with each of his slow, measured thrusts.

“When I saw you from the stage,” he panted, “down in the pit last night, God, all I could think about was getting you alone. To touch you, feel you, be inside you.”

“Well, you put on a brave front up there.” I teased him with my tone and each pivot of my hips, but remembering the intensity of his playing stirred something primal in me. I wanted to be taken, in every way, by the guitar god who had stolen the stage, and my heart.

I whimpered and braced my forearms on the glass tiles in front of me as his teeth grazed my earlobe. I was on the edge of shattering but Adrian contained me. He kept me whole and moving with him, his hand splaying across my belly, fingers spreading skin made sensitive by his quickening thrusts. Until, with a shout and a scream, we lost ourselves. Lost control, lost track of where his body ended and mine began. He snarled and sighed as I quaked, tightening against him as he heated me from the inside.

“Holy amazing.”

“We're pretty good at that, aren't we?” Adrian kissed a path down my back.

“Yes, but we suck at water conservation,” I pointed out, passing the soap.

“We'll forgo a shower for a few days then, to assuage our guilt.” He laughed. “So. More amazing than that massage?”

“Massage? What massage?” I reached for my towel and let Adrian take center stage under the rain shower.

“By the way, your brother and his new girlfriend are downstairs.”

I froze, mid-twist in my towel turban. “What?”

Adrian poked his head around the corner of the block glass barricade. “Kevin.” Shampoo suds dripped from his silver hoop earring and into his long sideburn. “And Liz. I told them to make themselves at home.”

“While we were up here, making love?” I stammered. “I thought you were going to tell whoever it was to take a hike!”

“No, that was
your
idea. Brits are way more hospitable.”

He hopped back under the hot spray, and I had half a mind to flush the toilet and ruin his good time. Instead, I pushed a rogue curl back under my turban, threw on my yoga pants, a T-shirt of Adrian's, and the most welcoming smile I could muster.

I'd show him hospitable.

***

“Oh my God, you guys! What are you doing here? Hi!”

Liz was lying on what had almost been the scene of Adrian's and my crime of passion. She had a magazine in hand, and the cat perched on her chest.

“I'm pretending I live here.” She whispered, perhaps so as not to disturb Chelsea. Or lest my brother think she was bat-shit crazy. “Yep. This is my couch,” she continued hoarsely, petting the gray suede, “and that's my park view.”

I laughed. “Where's Kev?”

“I'm huddled in the corner with my hands over my ears, rocking myself and singing ‘Happy Birthday' to drown out what I'm pretty sure I just heard,” came a holler from the kitchen.

“Oh, gimme a break. The walls are thicker than that,” I protested, but blushed all the same. “Back me up here, Red.”

“I, the lady of the house, heard nothing.” Liz perused her magazine like it was the most interesting thing on earth. “Maybe a little singing in the shower . . .”

“Whatever. I'm a grown woman. No need to justify anything. Especially not to you,” I addressed my brother, “he who just did the walk of shame into this living room, wearing the same clothes as yesterday.”

“I came to get your car keys, you bimbo. Since you stranded me here in town.”

“Nice try, lamebrain.” Liz threw the magazine at his head. “You weren't complaining about being stranded in my bed last night.”

“Wow, three page spread! Killer,” Kevin said. “Has Digger seen this yet?” He waved the magazine in my face.

“Has Digger seen what?” Adrian asked, slowly descending the spiral stairs. His hair was wet and slicked back, and he was slowly buttoning the sleeves of his black Western-style shirt. A flat brown paper bag was tucked under one arm.

I gauged my brother's reaction. Considering it had been less than twenty-four hours since learning his sister was dating one of his favorite musicians, I thought he was doing fairly well, keeping his cool.

“
Manhattan Muse
's write-up of the show last night.” Kevin's hands, so self-assured in the kitchen, wavered slightly as he proffered up the magazine for all to see.

Manhattan Muse
prided itself on the broad conglomeration of culture it presented to the masses on a weekly basis, picking up where
Time Out New York
and
Village Voice
left off. It could've either thumbed its hipster nose at the eighties doom metal band's resurgence, or dropped to its knobby knees in worship. But a three-page spread and a headline proclaiming THE BEAST IS BACK: ROTTEN GRAVES RESURRECTS THE CORPSE TO SOLD OUT GARDEN sounded pretty promising.

“Ace,” Adrian commented, casting a glance at all the sources Kimon had brought that now covered the coffee table. The remnants of his
Clockwork Orange
eye had washed off in the shower, leaving just the material in front of him as hard evidence that the show hadn't been just some rock-and-roll fantasy we'd all imagined.

“I'll take a read-through after we eat. I'm famished. Can't imagine why.” He aimed a wink my way. “When's lunch, Chef?” he asked Kev.

“Is that why you're here?” I wheeled around to face my brother, and then threw a glance at Liz. “And you?”

She was on her feet now, clicking a flat iron over her head like a belly dancer with castanets. “Makeover time, Tree.”

Jeez, it seemed Adrian had enlisted everyone I knew. Was I that much of a charity case?

“So, do you have it?” Kevin wanted to know.

Adrian deposited the bag into my brother's waiting palm. “One mint condition copy of
Spoils of War
, on blue vinyl.”

“Wait. You're bribing my brother with Corroded Corpse swag so he'll cook for us?”

“Very rare Corroded Corpse swag,” Kev corrected, sliding the odd-sized record out of its sleeve to inspect it.

“Don't you trust me?” Adrian asked, amused.

“I trust no one,” Kev reported ominously. “Limited edition, custom-shaped seven-inch single. For every one genuine copy, there are at least twenty bootlegged fakes.” The serial numbers etched into the vinyl seemed to satisfy him, because he smiled broadly. “Lunch will be served in ten minutes.” He trotted back to the kitchen, treasure in hand.

“I thought he already had that one,” I whispered to Adrian. He'd done a quick inventory of my brother's metal memorabilia over the summer, convincing me to add a separate rider to my homeowner's insurance to cover it.

“No. He has the green,” Adrian murmured. “Can't wait to see what I can get him to do to earn the red vinyl. Only fifteen pressed, and I know the whereabouts of exactly three.”

Liz had me settle into the big leather chair in the corner, next to the end table where she had several hair appliances heating up. With all girls in the family, the Dooley household had been seriously into hair growing up; no shape, style, or
tint had gone untried. Liz had done my hair on the first day of junior high, before prom, and for my wedding. It was only fitting, I supposed, that she work her magic now.

“I hope I'm not taking away from any time you and Kevin had planned to spend together today,” I said, once Liz silenced the roar of the hair dryer. “Without going into gory details, how's it going?”