Eyes of Ice (Eyes of Ice Erotica Series) (4 page)

             
“Listen, Mags,” she said, staring at her covers, “Was Devon … strange somehow?”

             
Mags stopped, and slowly set down her shampoo. “He was … just … really good.” She said.

             
“Good?” Cecelia prodded, twisting her hands in her sheets.

             
“Yeah, like, really good at … sex,” Mags laughed with uncharacteristic self-consciousness. “Like no one ever. I mean, you know I haven’t been with that many guys or whatever, but he was … I don’t know.”

             
“Do you think he could have been … different somehow?” Cecelia asked.

             
“I just
told
you that he was different. What are you talking about?” Mags asked exasperatedly. She had carried on with her routine while she spoke, selecting her outfit for the day. From the corner of her eye, Cecelia saw that she had mercifully wrapped a towel around herself, so Cecelia turned to talk to her with lessening embarrassment.

             
“Well, I mean, the rumors,” Cecelia attempted. “You’ve heard them … I mean, what I was trying to write about ….” She trailed off, losing confidence.

             
“Oh,
Cecelia
,” Mags exclaimed, slamming a drawer shut in frustration and confirming Cecelia’s doubts. “Not this again! You and your rumors about weird werewolf, vampire, witch, magic nonsense!”

             
“I’m sorry,” Cecelia replied, and really was. Mags had been in such a good mood, it had really felt like their friendship had been returning to some of its former glory. “I’m sorry,” she repeated.

             
Mags sighed, tossing her head. She appeared to be in such a pleasant state, though, that Cecelia’s apology did seem to placate her. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sorry.” She giggled, again, another uncharacteristic affectation. “I mean he was really good at sex, Ceecee. That’s all. If Andrew’s anything like him, your first time would be….” She sighed again, but this sigh was dissimilar to the previous hiss of frustration. She had sighed
dreamily.
Cecelia only barely managed to keep her jaw from dropping. What had Devon done to her roommate, and
how
had he done it? Her shock was eclipsed only by a sudden sense of dread at Mags’ words.

             
“Yeah,” she said. “My first time....”

             
“Don’t be nervous,” Mags advised seriously. “Don’t be nervous, it’ll ruin everything. Just have a good time. Think on your feet. Or off them. I don’t know.” She giggled again, and Cecelia, her stomach flip-flopping with stress, thought that it was good just the same to hear her friend being so lighthearted. Mags had always been the fun-loving one, but never in such a sustained way. And never so early in the morning. “Do you know what you’re going to wear?” Mags asked.

             
Cecelia shook her head, glad it was a yes or no question. She was so overwhelmed by the thought of a night of romantic intention that she wasn’t sure she could form sentences, anyway.

             
My first time.
The thought kept crashing around her head and was now making her stomach lurch.
With
Andrew. Her mind was doing its best to outwit her body’s desires, and without Andrew’s presence to enjoyably muddle her thoughts, her mind was on its way to victory.

             
“Don’t worry about it! You can wear my clothes!” Mags said generously.

             
“Oh, good,” Cecelia responded belatedly, as Mags hummed her way merrily into the bathroom. Mags dropped her towel carelessly as she stepped from the carpeted floor to the tiles, and Cecelia jerked her head to stare at the wall again, shocked as ever by her longtime friends’ brazen nudity.

             
Now I guess there’s nothing to stop me….

             
Fear and anticipation twisted inside of her, fear of the unknown and anticipation that it would come from the handsome stranger she had only just met. The handsome stranger whom she would soon know on the deepest level. Unable to help it, she shivered again.

             
A very confused taxi driver arrived at her door at five fifty, telling her that he had his cab waiting outside. Someone, it seemed, had paid him an excessive amount of money to go to the trouble of fetching Cecelia from inside her dormitory and delivering her to Andrew’s address. Thus, Cecelia arrived at six o’clock at the door of Andrew’s apartment, alone and overwhelmed.

             
As she pressed the buzzer, she shifted uncomfortably in her outfit. She wasn’t sure she’d ever worn heels two days in a row, but here she was, wearing Mags’ second best pair of strappy heels and one of Mags’ smaller dresses; a navy blue sleeveless thing, helped to hang loosely by the fact that a slit up its seam charted to her lower thigh.  She scrutinized herself in the glass panes of the door, critically picking apart her appearance until she was sure that, yes, she was the most unattractive thing in the world. Suddenly, though, she was saved the pain of further exposure when the door swung open.  Cecelia jumped. She had been expecting the door to be buzzed open like all the other doors in this closed-off city, but there Andrew stood.

             
Any concern she’d had about overdressing slipped away, because her date looked like he had been cut from the pages of the expensive section of an Ambercrombie & Fitch catalog. Andrew’s black hair was combed more neatly than the night before, though a lock still fell, unbidden, over his forehead, and his eyes sparkled arrestingly as he took in her appearance with a welcoming grin.
Is his suit … tailored?
Cecelia distractedly wondered, as her tension mounted. It certainly appeared to be, for the dark material followed his slimly muscular form perfectly as he leaned against the door. When Andrew’s grin broadened, Cecelia realized she was staring.

             
Great. Embarrassed already.
She cleared her throat.

             
“I brought wine,” she said lamely, holding out the bottle of red wine. It hadn’t felt so heavy at first, but after just a few moments of standing on Andrew’s doorstep, it was now placing a near unbearable strain on her wrist.

             
“Thank you,” Andrew responded, taking  the bottle seconds before Cecelia was sure it would slip from her tired grasp. “Come in.”

             
Cecelia saw, as she entered the large hallway of Andrew’s expensive apartment building, that a stained dishcloth was draped over Andrew’s shoulder. “Um,” she said, her eyes indicating the accoutrement. Anything to stop him staring at her like he wanted to eat her.

             
“Oh,” he said, quickly whisking it off his shoulder and guiding her up a flight of stairs. An elevator was waiting at the far end of the hall and Cecelia looked at it longingly before beginning a wobbly ascent behind Andrew’s voice: “I’m cooking. Sorry, but I really should get back to it now.” He appeared torn between racing even further ahead to get back to the kitchen and playing the good host, so his movements before her on the stairs were somewhat erratic. He paused every fifth stair or so in order for Cecelia to catch up, but Cecelia began to recognize that this was done with a little impatience on his part.

             
When they finally reached the summit and Cecelia had lost count of the flights, she wordlessly followed Andrew into the most luxurious Chicago apartment she had ever seen. Entering to stand on the polished wood floor, some of her discomfort was eased by the elegantly open architecture and the juxtaposition of homey, antique furniture. Walking to the window, Cecelia saw that they were just high enough to look over the tree-lined street below, and that the last leaves on the oak trees brushed the large windows. Gazing down at the pedestrians below, Cecelia had the curious feeling that none of the people there could see her at all. She was experiencing a bird’s eye view.

             
“This is beautiful,” she said, and turned to see Andrew busy in a kitchen at the far end of the apartment, his back to her as he busily prepared something on a stovetop.

             
“Thank you,” he said, glancing over his shoulder, as if this were a compliment he received all the time. Then he, too, turned, a cast-iron skillet in his hand. “Please, have a seat. Open the wine, if you like.” He nodded toward a long glass table upon which a half-dozen candles glowed, surrounding a vase of yellow roses.

             
It was surprising, Cecelia mused, trying to divert her attention from the unworldliness of it all. This difference between Andrew’s appearance and the décor of his apartment was truly an unexpected contrast.
He dresses … dark
, she thought.
This apartment is anything but. Maybe it’s Devon’s influence.
She opened the wine and was pleased with herself for not spilling a single drop as she poured it into the two waiting glasses.

             
“Are you not ….” She began, as Andrew approached the table with a single plate.

             
“No,” he said sheepishly. “I do this. I cook for others, but seldom for myself.” He shook his head to further emphasize his embarrassment at an odd habit, and then moved around the table easily to pull out a chair for her. He again tilted his head to indicate that she should sit before a skillfully plated steak surrounded by fingerling potatoes. Cecelia didn’t move.

             
“You’re not going to eat anything? You’re just going to sit there while I awkwardly try to eat and make conversation?” she demanded.

             
“Well, what would you like to do instead?” he asked.

             
Am I blushing? I never blush.
But, yes, she felt the warm glow spreading over her cheeks.

             
Cecelia sat. Smiling still, Andrew took a seat opposite her and sipped his wine. Silence washed over the room, as Cecelia cut into the steak, wincing as her knife squeaked over the plate. Its noise, with normal conversation would have likely gone unnoticed – but in the eerie quiet of the room, it was painful to her ears. She could feel Andrew’s eyes watching her every movement, and that made her all the more nervous.
I have to say something
, she thought, but her mind was confused by memories of the previous night, her skin tingling from the memory of his hands upon it.

             
“So,” she started. Andrew raised his eyebrows, patient. “Do you meet a lot of girls at that club?”

             
Andrew set down his wine glass. It clinked softly into place on the glass table. “No. Well, meet – yes. Take on long walks through Chicago and then invite to dinner – never.”

             
Cecelia looked up suspiciously, but his face was the picture of honesty.

             
“Oh.” Was all she could reply. Much like last night, his candor caught her off guard. She bit into her first piece of steak, and stifled a noise of surprise. It melted away on her tongue, buttery and savory, a far cry from any of the home-cooked meals she’d eaten her entire life. “This is really good.”

             
“Thank you.” Again, the compliment was taken like it was routine. He continued to watch as she ate. “And do you?”

             
“Do I…?” Cecelia took a sip of wine. She felt dizzy almost immediately. She never drank, and always felt unprepared when doing so. Her tongue felt thick with the heaviness of the wine and the richness of the meat.

             
“Meet ‘a lot of’ men at that club.”

             
“No,” she said. “Never, actually. I told you, I’m ….”

             
“A good girl,” he finished.

             
“Yeah.”

             
Silence again. Not awkward silence, as Cecelia had feared, but weighty silence, profound with the knowledge that something significant beyond chitchat was bound to surface.

             
“Cecelia,” Andrew began. He was silent until Cecelia looked up to meet his eyes, which had mystifyingly darkened again. “What would you like to do?”

             
Her breath caught in her throat; it was as if his words had gone straight through her. “I liked … kissing.” she said at last, setting down her knife and fork. The steak, which she’d previously thought the most consuming thing in the world, now was the last thing on her mind.

             
“You are a good girl,” he said softly. “But if I was to kiss you, Cecelia, I would want … more.”

             
Her resolve stiffened all at once, and her hands tensed into fists.
What are you doing?
her mind demanded, but would not stop the words from reaching her lips – lips that had once again become daring with that inner seed of empowerment: “Kiss me, then.”

             
“Let’s start with something simple,” he suggested, and Cecelia dumbly nodded. He took her hand and stood, guiding her up and away from the table. “Come with me?”