Eyes of Ice (Eyes of Ice Erotica Series) (5 page)

             
He led her across the apartment, behind a brick partition, and through a green door that stood ajar, open like everything else in this apartment. Cecelia observed, distantly, that they were in a bedroom with emerald curtains drawn halfway across another wall of windows. The walls were bookcases, and the bookcases were walls – volumes old and new lined the room. A large bed stood in the center of the room.             

“Let’s sit,”
Andrew said, brushing a stack of books off his bed. They thudded to the floor. This obstacle removed, they sat facing each other on the jade-colored bedspread. Cecelia glanced out the crack in the curtains and saw the familiar tree branches, Chicago’s gray skyline, but all this observation was another distraction, an attempt to subdue her overpowering emotions. She felt his fingers on her jaw, and allowed him to turn her face to his. Her eyes would not meet his sapphire irises, but rested on his full and slightly parted lips, willing them to touch her own.

             
With teasing slowness, Andrew leaned closer. And closer. Each breath was another quarter inch, but after what felt like a year of this, Cecelia couldn’t help it anymore – she met him halfway, her emotions tumbling over each other in her desperation. As she fell into him, she knew that her desire had once more subsumed her fears. Daringly, her eyes squeezed shut, she raised her hands to touch his hair. She was startled to find it as soft and smooth as it looked; the pressure of his lips increased as she ran her fingers through his thick locks, and she felt his neck tense against her wrists. She did not protest when Andrew’s hands fell to her waist, and he lifted her as slightly as if she weighed nothing, setting her down closer to him so that now their torsos met. Their lips never broke contact during this movement; it was several minutes later that he paused, his hands inching up her thighs.

             
“You’re shivering again,” he observed, resting his forehead against hers. “But you can’t be cold any more.”

             
She said nothing and leaned in to make their mouths meet again, but he stopped her by placing a forbidding finger on her lips. Delicately, Cecelia took the finger between her teeth and allowed her tongue to play along its tip. She had no idea where she’d gotten the idea from, but Andrew’s response was unexpectedly pleasing -- a kind of groan of longing escaped from his slackened mouth.

             
“Cecelia, are you frightened?” he asked, removing his finger at last and running it down her quivering arm. She watched as it neared her wrist, then climbed again to her shoulder. Calloused and hot, it tickled against her skin, and against all the adrenaline of the past few moments, she felt as if she was watching the world in slow motion.

             
She nodded in answer to his question, inwardly afraid of how he might respond.
How long will it be before being “a good girl” isn’t cute anymore?
She wondered.

             
“All right. I can try to be slow, Cecelia,” he told her. “I can try to … make it easier for you.”

             
With that, he inclined his head to run his mouth along her neck, his hands continuing to move up her thighs until finally, at last, his thumbs hooked under her panties. With an easy gesture, he pulled the lace down her thighs, over her knees and heels, and dropped the fabric lightly to the floor. With an equal amount of skill and quickness, Andrew hitched Cecelia’s dress over her thighs to reveal her nakedness, and let out a long, slow breath. With the last of the exhalation, he murmured, “I want to taste you,” and moved his hand upward to caress her nakedness.

             
Cecelia moaned. “No one’s … ever …” she managed to get out, embarrassed, but looked up to see him smiling.

             
“Good,” he replied, shutting her mouth with a kiss and continuing to rub her, softly but rhythmically, his fingers slipping up and down her wetness. His fingers were another foreign experience, and Cecelia could scarcely believe the mounting pleasure she felt, the heat that grew upwards from that place to fill her. It was as if he controlled her entire body from that one, repeated touch of his hand; with each upward stroke she tensed, with each downward, she loosened, and began to softly moan into his kisses.

             
Then there was a sharp, stabbing pain as the tip of his finger entered her. Cecelia cried out, confused by the jab of hurt in the midst of unparalleled pleasure. Andrew halted, frozen for a half-second as if to consider, but then kept going as if the pause had not existed, a half-inch of his finger inserted inside her while the rest of his hand continued to please her. The pain faded steadily, creating now a tender counterpoint to the rest of the sensation that once more had Cecelia crying out in delight to the darkness of her closed eyelids.

             
She opened her eyes as she pulled back from a kiss (she had so long been isolated with the new sensations) and saw that Andrew was gazing at her with that hungry expression once more, his lips slightly parted. Placing his other hand on her shoulder, he gradually leaned her into a laying position, and inserted more of his finger as he did so; Cecelia winced, and then gasped, conflicted between pain and excitement. She was sure that half of his finger was inside of her, stretching her tightness with a gradual and measured control. She wasn’t sure if she was ready for this, and now, along with her pulse, her uncertainty reached a feverish high.

             
“Wait,” she said, raising herself up to her elbows. Andrew was now bent over her, kneeling on the bed, and as he obeyed her protest, he allowed their foreheads touch once more. He was breathing heavier, too, she realized. “I … want to do something for you.”

             
Andrew rocked back to his heels, and took her hands in his. Understanding somehow, Cecelia returned to stand on the floor while Andrew sat on the edge of the bed. Her knees were weak as she lowered herself to the floor, half from the withdrawal of pleasure and half from the giddiness of unfamiliarity. Looking down at his slacks, she felt another wave of uncertainty, and knew that she had to say something.
Before I embarrass myself
, she thought. 

              “I’ve never,” she said, and looked up at him, hoping that he would finish the sentence. He didn’t, a small smile on his lips once more. She swallowed.
Just say it.
“I’ve never given anyone a blow job before.” The words felt so uncivilized. Was there a more elegant way to say it? She dropped her head, mind racing and mouth dry, her lower regions still tingling from the events of a moment ago.

             
“It’s all right,” Andrew said, and Cecelia knew that she should have expected this response. “I’ll tell you what I like.”

             
“Okay.”

             
Did he see her fingers tremble as she reached for the button of his slacks? She hoped not, but took a deep breath anyway to steady her nerves. It didn’t help. She still felt like her cheeks were on fire. But to her surprise, her fingers had no trouble undoing the button, and from there, pulling down the zipper. It opened smoothly, quietly, to reveal boxers underneath. She looked up to see that Andrew was watching her, expectantly – patiently, yet still with that great wanting burning behind his now-black eyes. He tilted his head down in the slightest of nods, encouraging her to continue.

             
Breathe. Breathe. Okay. Breathe.

             
Cecelia placed her left hand on his knee to brace herself, and ran her other hand up his leg, over his open zipper, over his boxers … and her heart skipped painfully as she felt the large hardness underneath the thin fabric.

             
Breathe.

             
She reached inside his boxers to hold his member. It was hot and surprisingly solid against her palm, but larger than Cecelia had expected any man’s to be – she mentally gauged it against her forearm and realized that it was only slightly narrower than her wrist, and would reach from there to nearly her elbow. Though she tried to be as sensually slow as he had been with her, it was as if time sped up with her determination. There could be no more of this foreplay – she couldn’t take it, and was certain she could no longer act at cool composure.

             
With that, she swallowed hard and lowered her open mouth onto his penis. Her knees dug into the floor as she felt its tip, salty and smooth, touch her tongue and she parted her lips further to take the entire tip in. A slight gasp escaped Andrew’s lips, and from the corner of her eye she saw his fingers dig into the bedspread.
What now?
Cecelia moved forward to place her hand on the lower shaft of his penis, and took as much of the rest of his member as she could into her mouth. Almost immediately she felt that she had made a mistake – it was too big, tender against her tongue, and hot against the roof of her mouth. Somehow, she had to retreat from this. But just then Andrew  let out another moan and she knew that she must be doing something successfully. His hands moved gently to the back of her head and he began softly guiding her back and forth, so that her lips slipped up and down his rigidity. As a result, one moment, Cecelia felt that her mouth was full of him to the point of gagging, to the next, when he would draw her head back, curiously vacant and empty, begging to be filled once more.

             
“Move your hand away,” he suggested. “You can take more of it in,”

             
And so she did, and felt a greater pressure of his hands on the back of her skull, pressing her face closer to his stomach. Her throat contacted as she felt that smooth tip of his penis enter it, her forehead touching his lower abdomen. “God,” he breathed, as tears of exertion and disbelief sprang to her eyes.

An entire … down my throat … don’t panic ….

Andrew
pulled her head back by her hair and then let her drop forward; it was as if a route had been made, now, for his penis slid down her throat with greater ease. He repeated this movement again and again until at last he drew his hands away and Cecelia could copy the motion on her own, having gained the rough rhythm. He let out another soft moan as she let her tongue wander down the underside of his penis – she felt it actually throb in her mouth. As she continued, his hips began to sway towards her, as if he couldn’t help himself, as if she had complete and total power over him.
Maybe I do
, Cecelia thought numbly as she heard his breathing quicken.

             
“God, Cecelia,” he breathed.

             
Then a door slammed. Cecelia jerked back, and saw two things occur in quick succession. First, she saw Andrew’s eyes – his inhuman eyes. The blueness of his irises engulfed the whites of his eyes, turning their surface into a glittering, sapphire ocean. And his teeth – his teeth were pointed outside of his lips, snow-white against his already pale skin. Seeing Cecelia’s startled expression, and he quickly turned away while simultaneously the second event transpired: a voice started speaking from elsewhere in the apartment, carrying clearly across the loft.

             
“Anders, you in? Is this supposed to be my steak? You know that I like my meat rarer than this.” Devon’s voice, slightly deeper and harsher than Andrew’s, seemed abnormally loud. Still on her knees, her mouth open from her recent activity as much as it was from surprise, Cecelia looked at Andrew for some sort of resolution.

             
“Devon, shut up!” Andrew called, and raised his hands to conceal his face. When he gradually turned back to Cecelia’s full view, Cecelia saw that the darkness of his eyes was receding and that he was trying very hard to catch his breath. As she watched, Andrew blinked several times, and his irises resumed their former shape while maintaining the darkest, navy blue. Still attempting to steady his breathing, Andrew smoothed his hair back into shape with a shaking hand, then zipped and buttoned his pants as almost an absentminded afterthought. Then he moved to stand, and his hand was closing tightly around Cecelia’s wrist, as firm and steady as an iron cuff.

             
“Why?” Devon’s voice came from the open door of the room, and Cecelia, dragged upwards to stand, gaped. Devon, fork poised over the dinner plate, stared back, frozen in place. “What is she doing here?” he asked.

             
“She knows,” was all Andrew said, his voice devoid of emotion.

Devon’s eyes had already narrowed, and blackness was creeping across them
in an eerie progression. “Andrew,” he stated, his voice icy. “What have I told you about playing with your food?”

             
“I already knew!” Cecelia exclaimed. “I swear!”

             
“What?” Devon asked sharply. Before Cecelia had a chance to answer, Devon had dropped the plate carelessly to the floor, and was standing inches away from her. Anger rippled from him in waves, and Cecelia was gripped by an inarticulate panic.
He could break me more easily than he broke that plate; smash me on the floor just as offhandedly.

             
Then a guttural kind of growl emerged from Andrew, and all Cecelia could see was the sensible back of his shirt; she realized that Andrew stood in front of her like a shield, and that she had been spun her easily behind him by the wrist.