Eyes of Ice (Eyes of Ice Erotica Series) (7 page)

             
Cecelia frowned, torn. She already felt sickeningly faithless to herself, yet she was so intrigued by the –
the what?
She demanded of herself.
The man? The monster? Or the romance?
One thing was certain, she knew by her jittery emotions: she could no longer pretend that it was only the story or her supposed journalistic integrity that captivated her. Not when she couldn’t stop thinking about those few moments on Andrew’s bed, of his hand rubbing her and of his soft moans at her touch.

            
 
I’m fine. Are you okay? Devon seemed angry.

             
That should keep him quiet for a while,
Cecelia thought, and stood, slipping out of her dress and grabbing the towel that hung over the back of her chair. A quick look in the nearby mirror confirmed her fears: sleep had smeared her carefully applied mascara down her face, and she looked like something out of a horror movie.
At least Mags isn’t here to witness this.

Her phone buzzed
toward the edge of her desk.

            
 
I’m well. He was angry, but I think I brought him around. May I see you tonight?

             
Cecelia clutched her towel more tightly around her, staring down at the glowing message.
Yes
, her body screamed with an insistent throb to her pulse, but this involuntary response was quickly entangled by insidious, insecure thoughts. At last she replied:

            
 
Why
?
and retreated to the bathroom, cranking the shower to its hottest setting. Nevertheless, her bathing ritual was short. Her trail of wet footprints across the dorm room floor only moments after her abandonment of the room betrayed her eagerness to get to Andrew’s next message.

            
 
I’m not sure I could explain it well over a text.

             
Cecelia let out a groan of frustration, and typed a response with little thought, drops from her forehead slipping onto her phone’s screen as she did so.

            
 
I’m not asking for a sonnet, Andrew. Just some specifics.

The response to this was
expectedly instantaneous; she hadn’t time to set the phone down on her desk before it buzzed again.

            
 
I’d like to go further. I know you do, as well.

             
Again, Cecelia stared. No, it wasn’t a sonnet, but the message’s honesty was somehow just as heart-wrenching.
Okay, but does he have to be so cocky?
Cecelia asked herself exasperatedly. Some small part of her knew that Andrew’s surety wasn’t meant as intentional aggravation; his reply had been an accurate observation. She had indeed wanted him yesterday, and it probably had been perfectly clear by her actions. She fought back a blush.

            
 
What would we be doing
?
she asked.

            
 
What would you like to do?

             
Something inside her quivered with nervousness at that. What should she suggest? And how seriously would he take it? She decided to settle for safety, though she was positive that her message would read lamely.

            
 
I don’t know.

             
This presented the longest gap in their conversation yet, and Cecelia wondered whether Andrew was struggling with the same questions as she. However, as time stretched on, her doubts proliferated overwhelmingly. Perhaps, she worried, her hesitant response made him lose whatever interest he had held for her, as awkward and dull as she was to begin with.
Or maybe
, she fretted
, he wants someone more assertive. Or what if we’re more alike than I think? What if he’s typing and erasing scenarios just like me?
Ten minutes passed, and just when Cecelia was starting to feel nauseated with anxiety, having decided that Andrew was definitely nothing like her:

            
 
Dinner? And then a formal party, after? It’s a clan event. We don’t have to stay long if you’d like to do something else.

Clan event? As in, a clan of vampires? And … something else? And dinner? Did this mean that they would have actual conversations rather than lust-filled encounters?

Okay
,
Ceceliareplied, and hastily
:
Sounds good.

It’s formal. The event.

Cecelia wasn’t sure what to say to that.
Is that meant to be some kind of warning? Hey, Ceecee, noticed you’re as introverted as all get-out, so try and act normal around the super suave clan, okay?
Luckily, a second text saved her from her further self-abusive thoughts.

I only mean that it’s black tie.
I’ll send you something to wear to save you some trouble.

Two hours later, an elegant white box arrived at her door. Mag
s had long since returned from class, and had been drilling Cecelia from the moment she walked through the door, first wheedling and then demanding answers about what she entitled Cecelia’s “Date with Destiny.” In spite of Mags’ valiant and varied attempts, Cecelia had managed to remain firmly vague. She avoided mentioning Devon at all, glossed over most of the details of her and Andrew’s brush with sex, saying only that she had liked Andrew’s apartment, and that dinner had been delicious.

A sudden knock on the door, though,
saved Cecelia from divulging more information. None of Mags’ boisterous friends would have bothered to announce their presence with anything less than an unannounced entrance, and Cecelia had no friends to speak of – so the quick raps had caused such unprecedented confusion that Mags abruptly ceased her interrogation mid-innuendo.

The interruption was a
package, carried by their harassed-looking landlord, who informed them, with an edge of frustration, that such large packages should not be delivered to the apartment complex. After sending the landlord away with exaggerated and flirtation-laced apologies, Mags thrust the box at Cecelia and demanded she open it.

While avoiding Mags’ questions,
Cecelia had been gazing at her news story for the past two hours, and hadn’t added a single word. She was as conflicted as she had ever been, and had twice highlighted the entire paragraph, her finger hovering over the delete button. Her finger was hovering there now, as Mags shook the box invitingly at her.

“
Open it, or I will!” Mags cried finally, dropping the parcel into Cecelia’s lap.

Cecelia flinched, remembering Devon’s threat:
If you don’t kill her, I will
.

             
Oblivious, Mags handed Cecelia a pair of scissors and watched anxiously as Cecelia cut the string binding the box and flipped open the lid to reveal a gorgeous, shimmering blue dress. The neckline sparkled with what Cecelia hoped were small rhinestones and not the precious diamonds they gave every impression of being. Cecelia ran her hand over the silk fabric before her, dumfounded.

             
“Jesus Christ,” Mags exhaled, voicing Cecelia’s exact thoughts. “This must have cost a fortune!” And she tugged the dress out of its wrappings to display its full length. It tumbled liquidly to brush the floor, every inch at luxuriant full-length. Cecelia watched her, motionless.

             
“It’s too much,” she said, and she wasn’t talking about the dress. She was talking about all of it – the fear, the truth of vampires, the hope of her first sexual intercourse. Her stomach lurched dangerously.

             
“Oh, sweetie,” Mags sighed, dropping to her knees before Cecelia in sympathy, and pressing the dress to her own chest, “don’t you worry. I’ll help you get ready, you’ll be beautiful! He won’t be able to resist!”

             
“Resist what?” Cecelia asked, but Mags only laughed in response.

             
As much as she tried to steel herself for Andrew’s appearance at the door at the promised time (eight o’clock, sharp), Cecelia was still taken aback. He was so handsome it wasn’t fair, though today he looked more like he had stepped from the pages of GQ. He wore a jet-black tuxedo, a creamy white handkerchief peeking from his pocket and a smile on his lips.

             
Unable to help herself and unable to speak, Cecelia reached forward and straightened his bow tie, which hadn’t been crooked at all – she had just wanted to touch him. As she released the fabric she realized that its dark shade matched her dress perfectly.

             
“Thank you,” he said. “You look beautiful.” He leaned in for a kiss that barely brushed her lips. Even so, she smelled his smoky, bitter scent and her skin warmed further. She opened his eyes to see that he was offering her his arm. She wordlessly accepted, and they walked to a shining towncar that waited outside the dorm. Mags watched them, gaping. Cecelia knew that she would be answering a lot of questions later, probably ones revolving around Andrew’s attractiveness and obvious sex appeal.

             
“How are you, really?” he inquired as soon as the driver pulled away from the curb. They were sitting at a respectful distance; about, Cecelia thought, the distance you would sit from someone you were just sharing a cab with. She tried not to let the space fill her with any more self-doubt.

             
“Really, I’m fine,” she told him. His eyes searched her face as if they hoped to read some other truth there.

             
“You weren’t frightened? By Devon?” he asked at last, brows drawn together.

             
“No – I was. But you … um, I guess you made me feel safe. So, I don’t know.” To her own ears, her voice sounded thin and pathetic.
How come he’s so well-spoken and I can’t even string a few words together?

             
“And you weren’t frightened by anything else?” he pressed.

             
Instantly, Cecelia had another flashback to his hands on her body, of the rushing heat she had felt fill her, and how that had been counterbalanced by her nervousness surrounding her inexperience.

             
“No,” she lied, looking down at the floor of the cab. It was easier to think – and speak – when she wasn’t looking at him.

             
“Have I made you uncomfortable?”

             
“A little.”

             
“I’m sorry. I wanted you to know,” his fingers were under her chin, lifting her head to meet his eyes. “I had a good time.”

             
A small triumph blossomed in her. “Did you?”

             
“Yes.”

             
She grinned, unable to hold in her joy at her success, and became very conscious of his leg pressed against hers, of his fingers tucking her hair behind her ear. She knew, suddenly, that if she met his eyes now that perhaps they wouldn’t make it to this supposed formal event at all.

             
“Are you frightened of me?” he asked, as the city slipped past their windows.

             
“Not really,” she said, looking at the floor still. Not really a lie, this time. She anticipated that he would ask why not, and so attempted to beat him to the punch. “I don’t think you want to hurt me. I mean, if you were going to, you would have already. Like Devon said, I guess there’s no point, um … playing with your food.”

             
Both of them were smiling now; she chanced to look up, and saw that his white teeth flashed in the relative darkness.

             
“That’s why I’m often alone,” he told her, softly, his smile fading. “I frighten people.” There was something unexpectedly vulnerable in this confession, and all trace of cocky sureness had so vanished from his voice that it was oddly unfamiliar.

             
A thousand questions swirled in Cecelia’s head as she looked at the man sitting next to her. He was confessing this unique experience, of being a vampire, of being a frightening predator of nightmare and horrific legend, and yet he was expressing the most human and touching of emotions, baring a kind of pain that proved he was more of a man than a bloodthirsty beast of myth.

             
“Well,” she said, finding herself unable to ask any of her questions, “Maybe you don’t spend enough time around the right kind of people.”

             
He smiled wryly at that. “Perhaps you’re right.”

             
The car halted smoothly, and he helped her out to stand on the sidewalk. They were at, of course, the most expensive restaurant in Chicago, and naturally upon being told of their reservation, the maitre’d led them to the best table in the house. Cecelia could hardly take in the entire view of the glittering Chicago skyline at nighttime, and silently stared out the window, transfixed, as they sat at the table. She only realized how rude she was being when Andrew said: