Eyes of Ice (Eyes of Ice Erotica Series) (10 page)

After more hungry kisses, one hand at the nape of her neck and the other straying to her waist, Andrew’s hips began to move slowly against her. His motion shifted them backwards and forwards on the bedspread, so that Cecelia was fully aware of the power of even his slightest movements. Cecelia realized dazedly that she could feel Andrew’s hardness through his dress pants, pressing against her through what now seemed like thin layers of her dress’s fabric. Maybe it was not a thing she had completely come to know, but it did not feel unfamiliar to her – rather, it felt like a mere extension of his impossibly solid body.

Daringly,
Cecelia dropped her hands to the small of his back, and felt the movement there as his thrusts continued. Andrew drew himself up slightly, as if the air had somehow thickened, slowing him.

“Arch your back,” he ordered.

Cecelia did so, and Andrew easily reached beneath her to unhook her bra. Like her heels, its lacy form was gone in an instant, dropped over the side of the bed and out of reach, and Cecelia barely had time to feel self-conscious. Andrew drew himself up a little further and ran his hand down her collarbone, across her clavicle, to encompass her breast in the palm of his warm hand. His motions there were as rhythmic as all his others, but just as tantalizing – he traced the outline of her nipple with a touch so light that Cecelia wanted to scream with longing, and then his palm was against it once more, kneading softly as he ran his tongue down her neck.

She made a sound that sounded to her ears remarkably like a whimper. All this teasing, as much as it was buying time between her and the actual act which terrified her, was going to kill her – she was sure of it. She stared at the blurring bedroom ceiling as Andrew’s mouth kissed and traced its way to her bellybutton, suppressing shivers of pleasure. As she whimpered again, she could swear that she felt Andrew smile against her skin.

“This dress,” she heard his voice from near her navel, “It has to go.”

Panic. A cold burst of panic shot through Cecelia, chilling her to the bone and banishing most of the blistering lust she had felt milliseconds before.

“That’s not fair,” she heard herself say, and dared to rise up on the bedspread. This time, Andrew did not push her back, but sat upward to allow her to move close to a sitting position, her legs still splayed to either side of him.

“No?” he asked, and expertly flipped their positions, dropping his hands to her hips and twisting on the bed, levering her to sit atop his lower stomach. As if she weighed nothing, he pushed her down lower, and Cecelia felt his hardness beneath her buttocks.

“No,” she replied, and tugged at his tie. To her relief, it loosened with little resistance, and she tugged it over his head. Andrew placed his hands behind his head, his face the picture of mocking patience as Cecelia unbuttoned his dress shirt. Where his jacket had gone, she didn’t know – out of sight and mostly out of mind, like her high heels and bra. Reaching the last of the buttons, untucking his shirt from his slacks, Cecelia opened it and ran her hands up his muscled chest. It was the first time she had seen this much of his skin, too, but there was nothing of embarrassment in his features.
And why should there be?
Cecelia demanded of herself. A six-pack ridged his lower stomach, and his smooth chest flexed naturally with each deep breath that he took. As Cecelia watched, she saw his back arch and his muscles become more defined beneath his pale skin, then felt the movement in his hips as he pressed his member against her more firmly.

“Is this fair, now?” he asked, and Cecelia realized that she had been sitting dumbly, doing nothing but gape at his body.

Wordlessly, Cecelia raised herself to her knees and backed down, clumsily struggling with his belt. Andrew’s strong hands unclasped it effortlessly, and Cecelia undid the last button of his. She took the zipper in between her teeth and pulled it down, her nose skimming the top of his boxers. A shiver of delight with herself coursed through her as, unable to help himself, Andrew’s fingers tangled in her hair.

Like before, but with less worry toward skill, she lowered his boxers and clasped his member in her hand. It was as stiff and demanding as the rest of him, and she took it in her mouth. This time, she imagined it inside of her and took it all of the way down her throat almost at once
, gratified to hear his sharp intake of breath.

“I need to fuck you,” he breathed, hot against her lips. “I can’t wait any longer, Cecelia.”

She shivered, drawing back to her knees. But the time for fear was gone. The glittering in his black eyes told her that much.

In a fluid motion he had reversed their positions again, laying her flat on the bed and raising her hips to meet his. She felt his member, hard against her
thigh, and locked her eyes with his as he leveled his body over hers. His eyes
were
black – night black, coal black, raven black, velvety as the darkness that surrounded them, and his expression, from his parted lips to his drawn eyebrows, was hungry.

“No more waiting,” he breathed to her, and eased himself inside her waiting wetness.

It was a sharp and drawn-out pain, one that caught in her throat in an intake of breath. Cecelia thought she could feel every inch of him slowly and gradually slide into her, while his wanting eyes held her own. First the tip of him, throbbing and spearing, and then inch after inch of his hardness in excruciation until he was buried in her and they were pressed together, touching at the hip. He kissed her searchingly, tongue slipping into her mouth and one hand firm at the back of her neck as he possessed her, so that she could not gasp, could not make a single sound of pain or pleasure.

I am full of him
, was her single cognizant thought before it truly began.

For then he began driving into her with a nearly animalistic intensity and ferocity, and though she tried Cecelia could not hope to match the rapidity of his thrusts.
Nor could she believe the intensity of the pleasure.
And I thought having his hands on me was bliss
, she dazedly managed, and cried out as he drove deep into her.

Opening her eyes, she thought she saw his teeth flash in a feral smile. His motions slowed teasingly, and now his movements were sensual, aggravatingly minute.

“Ohh,” she whimpered, unable to help herself. “Andrew…” her voice emerged as a begging supplication.
More.

He made that sound again, the one like a
n animal’s snarl and a human’s moan, and slammed his member back into her with a force that jarred her vision and jerked them farther across the bed. Desperate for solidity, Cecelia’s hands flew to his rippling chest, then slid to his back. She knew her nails dug into his shoulderblades as he slammed into her again, and again, and again, but if anything, the sensation of her clutching hands seemed to arouse him more. His breath was ragged but cool against her ear, and Cecelia, between gasps of pleasure knew that she could not hope to match his strength or prowess, so she turned her head to draw him into a kiss.

This was not a kiss of the tender, romantic kind of earlier in the evening. The ferocity of Andrew’s kiss muffled her cry of his name again, and he drew down, still inside her, to kiss her neck, her shoulder. Freeing her from underneath the pressure of him, he leaned back to sit on his heels, lifting her at the waist at the same time. Upright, Cecelia thought that the merciless rhythm of his thrusts might cease.

“Oh, ohh … please …” she whispered, made senseless by the frenzy and excitement. Andrew’s lips had closed around her nipple and he maneuvered her up and down atop him with a simple jerking of his hips, his tongue tickling the very tip of her right nipple. An uncomfortable pressure had begun to build around her navel, stronger than she had ever felt before, and Cecelia at once became aware of the hugeness of his member at her very core, could swear that she felt it spasm and throb within her.

It was too much. The world blurred around her in a paroxysm of joy and agony, a wave began at the point where she and Andrew met, pulsing, and rolled over her to stiffen her entire body atop him. She screamed his name at the ceiling in release, twisting and writhing against his constraining hands.

Abruptly, before the noise had fully left her lips, Andrew had driven her into the sheets again in what would be his final, wild push against her maidenhead, and let out an inhuman roar of his own.

A few more softening movements
of skin on hot skin, and Cecelia knew it was over. She felt as if her world was dissolving in some sort of cushioning glow, and became aware of the glistening sweat that coated her, of the warmth of Andrew’s body against her own. He remained above her, resting on his elbows and apparently attempting to catch his breath while she tried to steady hers. Looking into his eyes, Cecelia saw them shift from blackest of blacks to a calmer, oceanic sapphire, but there was something vulnerable playing about their whitening edges. Though he smiled down at her in a kind of affirmational triumph, Cecelia wondered if she glimpsed a weakness to that one-sided display.

“Are you all right?” she asked. She found her throat unexpectedly raw, her voice a hoarse whisper. From gasping and screaming, she realized.

“Aren’t you?” he returned, smirking.

He was still inside her, the full length of him, and even now Cecelia felt a tingle of excitement at her navel, coupled with a sensation of sheer disbelief.
Did we really just do what … I think we did?

“Yeah,” she whispered.

“Good,” he murmured, and gently drew out of her to roll to his side. A soreness filled her as soon as he withdrew, an aching that, as well, aroused Cecelia.

“Tell me something about you,” Andrew said, turning to her. Nestled in the crook of his arm, Cecelia wondered if she could even put two words together. Her entire
body smarted with exertion, and it must be around three in the morning. But there were no clocks in Andrew’s room.
Makes sense
, Cecelia thought.
Why care about time passing if you can live forever?

“Why?” she asked sleepily.

“There’s more to you than this,” Andrew said, fingers making lazy spirals on her back. “Anyone can see that. It would be unfair to pretend otherwise.”

Cecelia opened her eyes. “Will you tell me something about you?” she bargained.

A silence went on for several minutes, and Cecelia’s eyes started to drift closed with tiredness, but finally Andrew answered: “All right.”

“What do you want to know
, then?” she asked, her voice heavy with sleepiness. As painfully shy as she was, and as much as her emotions had been dulled by the exertions of the past hour, Cecelia had never been good at talking about herself. Every question felt like a personal one to her conscientious mindset, and any truly personal questions had always made her even more uncomfortable than the most innocent. Especially these days.

“Tell me about why you’re here. In this city, at your school.”
It was half a question, and half a command. Andrew’s fingers drifted down her back and along her thighs.

“Oh,” Cecelia said. A question she didn’t even like thinking about. Taking a deep breath, she dove in. “Well, it’s a really good school for journalism, isn’t it? One of the top ones in the nation. Um, and I was on the newspaper in high school and I loved it. So I applied here, with Mags. I mean, there’s no special reason that Mags is here….”

“Except for you,” Andrew suggested, his hands still.

“I guess,” Cecelia acknowledged, tears pricking the corners of her eyes.
Stop that,
she ordered. “That’s it. Except, my parents wanted me to go to school nearby. They’ve always been protective, even though … even though I’m a good girl.”

That brought a smile to Andrew’s lips, even now, and Cecelia continued, wanting to get the
rest of the story out before she had an emotional breakdown. “Anyway, I’m here even though they don’t want me to be. I haven’t talked to them since the start of the term. I kind of just picked up and left without telling them.”

She could remember it like it was yesterday, though the start of the semester itself felt like so long ago. The late-night call to Mags, who had been planning on staying in California if Cecelia did, the frenzied packing of bags, then slipping out of her suburban house at six a.m. The
fists of terror that had pummeled her as she loaded her two suitcases into Mags’ pickup in the rapidly lightening morning, the surety that at any second her parents would burst from their front door, dash out beyond their white picket fence, and order her back inside. But they hadn’t. The house had sat as quiet and placid as it always had, as it had for the past eighteen years of Cecelia’s memory.

Mags had been laughing crazily as they drove away. Making  trouble, going out on
dangerous limbs – that was second nature to Mags, and since she had never dropped below a B-plus grade point average, her parents were tolerant. Cecelia had known even then that Mags’ parents would forgive her late-night departure, for they would forgive their daughter anything. Nevertheless, Cecelia could not make herself laugh, or join in singing to the radio as Mags raucously did. All of the terror would not leave her heart, not even when they boarded the plane bound for Chicago at eight a.m. (
My parents are waking up now
, she remembered thinking) and not when their plane landed in Chicago that afternoon.