Longest Night (11 page)

After nearly seven years of solitude, it was intoxicating to feel so desired.

This time, when she rose up on her knees, he didn't try to stop her. He looked down, watching hungrily as she lowered herself, taking the head of his cock into her body. “God, look at you,” he whispered, dragging his gaze up to her face.

She ached with need, and she pushed too hard, too fast. Something must have shown on her face, because he caught at her hips to stop her, but she said, “No, Ian.”

Whatever he wanted to say was lost in his groan as she finally settled all the way. She struggled to breathe against the tide of pleasure rising up inside her again, sooner than she'd expected. It had been so long—
so
damned
long
—since she'd felt anything like this.

“Oh, fuck. Cecily,” he grated out, pulling her against him for a kiss as he tensed his abdomen. The sweep of his tongue and shift of his cock lit off sparks behind her eyes. Into their kiss, he said, “Not going to last.”

“That's fine,” she murmured, flexing her thighs. Seven years out of practice, but she was strong and Ian thought she was sexy, and God, she
wanted
this.

She moved, raising up on her knees with a delicious slide of friction and heat, and he let his head fall back against the headboard. His pulse beat strongly under his jaw. She ducked to nip at his throat as she rocked her hips back down and up again, setting up a slow, steady rhythm that had Ian breathless.

His hands locked around her hips, fingers digging in, and he thrust up into her as best he could. “Cecily. God, Cecily,” he mumbled into her hair.

Her muscles burned with the effort, but she didn't let that stop her. Hands braced on Ian's shoulders, she moved faster, harder, letting him guide her rhythm until they were both gasping for breath.

With a shout, he thrust up into her and pulled her down to meet him, and she felt the hard pulse of his orgasm. The sensation was enough to push her over the edge, body clenching tight around his cock.

“God,” he whispered as he moved his hands to Cecily's back. He pulled her against him with a lazy, sated kiss to her cheek.

I
did
this
, she thought and let herself simply be held. But the chill in the room intruded all too quickly, and she pulled uncomfortably away. Ian gave her a quick, puzzled look but got out of bed. “I'm going to wash up,” he said. He turned and leaned down on the bed to kiss her. His long, blond hair tickled her face. “Will you stay?”

Cecily's throat went tight at the invitation. She wanted to say yes—she almost did say yes—but she closed her eyes and found the strength to say, “No.” Then, because she felt guilty, she added, “You'll sleep better without—”

Ian silenced her with another kiss. “It's fine.” He pushed up off the bed and crossed to the bathroom, quietly closing the door. A moment later, Cecily heard the water start to run in the sink.

She got out of bed, wishing she could trust herself enough to stay, and not just because the bed was infinitely more comfortable than the sofa. She couldn't remember the last time she'd fallen asleep beside someone, and after what she and Ian had just shared, she knew she
should
stay.

All the more reason not to take that risk. She changed her clothes quickly, conscious that he could come back in at any moment, and checked the bed to see if she needed to change the sheets now or if it could wait until morning. Shivering at the chill in the room, she tossed her clothes in the laundry basket with Ian's, put another couple of split logs on the fire, and then left, closing the living room door to give him privacy.

She built up the fire in the living room and went to the couch, automatically reaching for the side table where she kept her gun before remembering she'd left it in the bedroom. The water in the bathroom was off, which meant Ian was probably in bed, possibly asleep, but Cecily knew she'd never be comfortable sleeping unarmed.

Quietly, she went to the bedroom door, only to have it open as she reached for it, startling her.

Ian was dressed in ridiculously impractical silk pajamas, lips curved up in a half smile as he extended his arm, offering Cecily her holstered gun.

“How did—” she began. She stopped herself and took the weapon. “Thanks.”

He nodded. “If you change your mind, you're welcome to join me,” he invited, leaving the door open as he went to the bed. With the fire banked for warmth, it was too dark for Cecily to clearly see more than the shift of the blanket as the mattress creaked.

She hesitated, wanting to stay, but not daring to try. Then she retreated back to the sofa. She put the .45 on the side table and wrapped up in her blanket. She stared at the fire for what felt like hours, conscious of the bedroom door still open in invitation, until exhaustion finally dragged her under.

October 28

Cecily should have known better than to expect an awkward morning-after. Despite the hard sofa, she slept deeply and well, rousing only when she heard the bathroom door creak. Even then, she came awake swiftly but without the jolt of adrenaline that usually had her reaching for a weapon before her eyes were even open.

A moment later, Ian came into sight, looking through the kitchen archway. “Coffee,” he said, going right for his laptop. It wasn't an offer but a request.

Cecily watched him, wondering what he was thinking. There was definitely nothing awkward or uncomfortable in his body language, which was a relief. He seemed fine. He'd dressed as he had been since they'd gone to town to pick up his clothes: jeans, a button-down shirt, and a sweater, this one a finely knit deep maroon that was probably a wool/cashmere blend. Today, Cecily knew exactly what was under that clothing, and she couldn't help but stare as he crossed the wood floor with light, silent steps and no hint of pain in his back.

Ian sat down at the desk and flipped the switch that turned on power to the modem and satellite dish. “Is it your turn or mine to make breakfast?” he asked a bit more politely.

“I've got it,” Cecily said, affectionate warmth spreading through her chest. By the time she was in the bedroom, searching through what little remained of her clean clothing, she was grinning at the thought that Ian wanted a repeat encounter. At least, he'd said so last night. Or implied it. Her exact memories were a bit fuzzy on that point.

She kept grinning all through her morning wash. Remembering that Marguerite was coming over, she pulled her hair back into a ponytail that wasn't as short as she normally liked. Usually, she cut it once every couple of months, when it became unmanageable. Now, though, she thought about last night, the feeling of Ian's fingers twisted in her hair, sparking bright pinpoints through her scalp.

She'd leave it, she decided. After one last splash of water on her face, she went through to the kitchen to start breakfast. She crouched down to build up the fire so she could start coffee.

The desk chair's wheels rattled over the floor, and Ian came through the archway a moment later. He looked at her clothes and asked, “You're not going running this morning?”

Uncharacteristically shy, she shook her head. “I feel lazy this morning.” With a bolder smile, she added, “It's your fault.”

His sly grin sent hot tingles down through her body. He stalked toward her, challenging, “Tell me it wasn't more fun than jogging or calisthenics.”

“It was all right,” she mused, “though you don't get out of proper exercise tomorrow morning. Be glad Marguerite's coming over.”

“Damn. That reminds me…” He rubbed his jaw, watching her put two ham steaks into a frying pan. “Have you got any razors? I forgot to order some.”

She looked over and couldn't help but smile a bit at the hint of gold stubble over his jaw. “You could skip it for a day or two.”

“You
don't
want to see me try to grow a proper beard,” he said with a laugh. “Anything—even some horrid pink razor?” he asked, walking up to look into the frying pan.

She let out a laugh and handed him the spatula. “Yes, because so much of what I own is pink,” she challenged, thinking of her father's old things, stored in a box in the basement. “Stay here. Watch breakfast.”

He looked at her curiously but didn't ask where she was going. He just went to get plates out of the cupboard, keeping one eye on the ham steaks.

At the bottom of the steep, narrow staircase, she turned on the light. She had her washing machine and an old gas dryer down here, along with her tools and a single trunk that had traveled with her from college to base housing to a Stateside storage locker while she'd been deployed. She wasn't one to keep mementos, except for the contents of the old trunk.

Her father's razor was old but stored carefully in oiled cloth to protect it from rust. It was nothing fancy—not a carved ivory heirloom—but she remembered being fascinated by it as a child. She used to sit and watch him shave every morning before he'd gone off to work. Later, when she came home on weekends during college, she used to shave him, sparing him the indignity of shaky hands or the electric razor he hated. The hospice had sent it to her with his effects; the package had been waiting for her at the base when she'd been flown home on emergency compassionate leave.

Now, she opened the trunk to get the box with her dad's old razor and the rest of his shaving kit. After last night, she was surprisingly comfortable with the idea of lending the heirlooms to Ian, though he'd been a stranger less than two weeks ago.

***

Ian was getting better at cooking on cast iron, though none of the pancakes were precisely round and one was markedly frayed at the edges from when he'd tried to skimp on oil. Still, Cecily was kind enough not to mention it, and she even complimented him on having finally gotten the coffee strong enough without letting it turn bitter.

“So, any ideas, or am I attempting to grow a beard for the first time since I was seventeen?” Ian asked as he helped Cecily bring the dishes to the sink.

She nodded in the direction of the cardboard box she'd brought up from the basement. “Found my dad's old shaving kit. Will that do?”

Ian was intrigued; she hadn't mentioned her family at all. He went to the box and opened it, expecting to find an old-fashioned metal safety razor and maybe an ancient, rusting red and white can of Barbasol. Instead, at the top of the box, he found a second thin cardboard box, the ends tearing. Inside was a piece of oiled cloth wrapped around an old straight razor, blade gleaming.

“The strop should be under there,” Cecily said as she started running the water in the sink. “You can use the bar soap in the bathroom. It should lather up just fine.”

“Wonderful,” Ian said uncertainly. He considered pretending that he actually knew what he was doing, but he'd never so much as touched a straight razor in his life. He glanced over at Cecily and said, somewhat embarrassed, “This is a little awkward, but I have no idea how to avoid cutting off anything important with a straight razor.”

“Oh.” Cecily glanced over at him, pushing a strand of hair out of her face with the back of her wrist. “If you want, I can…help.”

Ian held back his instinctive refusal. He didn't like anyone near him with sharp objects. “You
have
used a straight razor before?”

“Of course,” she answered as if it should be obvious. She dried her hands and took the razor out of his hands. “If you finish the dishes, I'll make sure it's sharp enough.”

“Comforting,” Ian muttered and took her place at the sink. He rolled up his sleeves and picked up the scrub brush.

Cecily grinned at him and took the box to the kitchen table, where she started to unpack the contents. “I used to do this for my dad, after he had a stroke.” She moved one of the chairs over to the stove, and then crossed the room to flip the light switch on. “Would you set a small pot of water to warm? I don't want to run the water heater empty.”

Ian found her smallest pot, filled it, and put it on the stove. He wanted to ask for details about her father, but they were still essentially strangers, even after last night. God, she'd been beautiful and brave, allowing him to coax her body to heights of pleasure that had seemed to catch her by surprise. He couldn't wait for another chance to see what else she hid under her reserved, quietly competent facade.

He finished up the dishes, listening as she moved through the kitchen and bathroom. She stacked a couple of hand towels on the counter, checked the water, and then moved the pot off the stove. “Almost ready,” she told him.

He turned to watch her hang a broad strop from the pantry doorknob. It was leather with a canvas backing. He watched, confused, as she started to run the straight razor back and forth over the canvas side with a soft whisper of sound.

At Ian's curious look, she explained, “I'm just making certain it still has an edge. Have a seat.”

“You don't have to do this,” he told her as he sat down by the warm stove.

“It's no trouble.”

He took a deep breath and told himself that she wouldn't be offering if she didn't know exactly what she was doing. She was self-confident enough to admit when she was out of her depth. He could trust her.

After a few more passes of the razor, this time over the leather side of the strop, she crossed back to the counter. She put down the razor so she could soak a towel in the pot of warm water. “Lean back. Or would you rather get the desk chair from the living room? That can't be comfortable.”

“It's fine,” he assured her, slouching down. He folded his hands in his lap and tipped his head back, waiting.

***

Cecily wrung out the towel, darting quick glances at Ian. He'd been tense when she'd first offered to shave him, but now he was relaxed and calm. The weight of his trust settled on her, giving her a moment's pause.

Determined to be careful, she draped the towel over his jaw and said, “Let that sit.” She covered the towel gently with her palms, both to warm her fingers and to press the cloth against Ian's throat. She couldn't resist brushing her thumbs over his high cheekbones, aware of how odd it was that they hadn't even kissed this morning, after last night's intimacy.

Not that she could bring herself to kiss him now. Instead, she removed the towel, soaked it again, wrung it out, and replaced it. She felt as if she should say something, though she didn't know what. Then again, neither of them needed the silence filled with meaningless conversation and small talk, something Cecily appreciated. So she left the towel in place and poured some warm water into the tin cup of soap. She had to work the badger-bristle brush for a minute or two to finally get a lather.

She turned back to Ian and took the towel off his face. She draped it over the sink, and then touched his warm, damp cheek, feeling the stubble, turned a richer golden brown from the water. She told herself that the touch was just to ensure that his beard was soft enough to properly shave, but she knew that was just an excuse.

Ian smiled slightly, a bare uplifting of the corners of his mouth, and opened his eyes to look at her. “So far, so good,” he murmured.

She smiled in response and looked down as she gave the brush one last swipe over the soap. “We're just getting started,” she answered and began to brush the lather into his beard, hiding skin turned ruddy from the heat under a layer of whitish foam. Ian shivered under the touch, hands shifting restlessly on his thighs, and Cecily paused for a moment, arrested by the image of using the brush, dry and soft, over his entire body.

Finally, she put the brush aside and touched Ian's hair in warning. She opened the razor, saying, “Stay relaxed,” as she set the blade at the edge of the foam high on his cheek. Smoothly, she drew it down, marking the subtle catch of the blade on the hairs. His breathing turned shallow but stayed slow, encouraging Cecily to continue. After she wiped the excess foam on a towel, she made a second stroke, just forward of the first.

Confident that Ian wasn't going to flinch and end up needing stitches, Cecily continued, losing herself in the concentration to keep from causing even the slightest injury or irritation. He was entirely pliant under her fingers, allowing her to tip his head or press a finger to his lips to hold the skin taut. The only time his breath actually hitched was when she touched his chin and pulled the razor down the underside of his jaw, but even then his hands stayed relaxed on his legs.

When Cecily finished, Ian went to sit forward. She touched his shoulder, and he froze. “Something wrong?” he asked, lifting a hand as if to check for blood.

“I'm not done.”

“But—”

“Trust me,” she said, remembering when he'd said those same words to her last night.

Ian met her eyes, and she knew he was remembering. He licked his lips and leaned back again, tension in his posture. It took a moment for Cecily to realize he really had no idea what she was doing.

She moved the towel from the sink to the pot of warm water. Then she touched Ian's face, stepping to the side of the chair to better meet his eyes.

“For a perfect shave, you do this two or three times,” she explained, stroking her thumb down the line of Ian's jaw and then back up. The stubble was imperceptible compared to a safety razor or electric, but it was still there.

Ian smiled, tension melting away. “It's good enough. It's just dinner with Marguerite.”

There was no reason to hesitate—no reason not to pick up the threads of last night's intimacy. So Cecily leaned down and pressed her lips to the path her thumb had just traced, and she listened to the way his breath stuttered. “She doesn't get to feel the difference. I want to do this, Ian.”

“How the hell am I supposed to say no to that?” Ian asked breathily.

Cecily smiled.

***

Every six weeks, like clockwork, Ian's personal assistant scheduled him for a visit to the salon she'd chosen. He'd been something of a local celebrity in Manhattan, and he'd had an image to maintain. But he'd never had anyone shave him—not when he could take care of his beard in five minutes with an electric razor or ten with a disposable.

Not content to shave him twice—once with the grain of his beard, once across it—Cecily insisted on three separate shaves, the last one against the grain over skin so smooth that the blade barely whispered.

After the third pass, Cecily carefully ran the wet cloth over Ian's face, leaning in close to study his skin. Her eyes were practically glowing with satisfaction, and the subtle smile tugging at the corner of her mouth made it worth all the fuss and effort and the ache that had settled in his back.

“Perfect,” Cecily said, tossing the cloth aside. She set her fingertips to Ian's face and traced little circles over every inch that she'd shaved, making him shiver. Her fingertips were callused but illegally talented, and he found himself entirely content to sit in the damned uncomfortable wooden chair all day if it meant she would keep touching him.