Longest Night (16 page)

Her hips bucked at the touch, and she started to move. He let her take control and concentrated instead on her pleasure rather than the tight heat of her body that threatened to push him too far, too fast. He wanted—
needed
—her to come first.

“Is this…?” she asked as she leaned forward a bit more, changing the angle. Obligingly, Ian tensed, shifting his cock to make her gasp as she pushed back down. “God. Is this okay?” she gasped out.

“It's perfect. Whatever you like,” he said, trying to match the movement of his fingers to her body's rhythm. She moved just fast enough to burn through Ian's self-control like a slowly spreading fire. He wished he'd thought to turn on power to the bedroom so he could see her in proper light, but he wasn't about to interrupt this exquisite pleasure to find the switches or build up the fire.

As Cecily's body tensed, her movements grew faster, more uncoordinated. She dug her short, blunt fingernails into Ian's shoulders, and he responded by pressing her clit with the steady, hard rhythm he'd come to learn she enjoyed. She let out a little gasp, and her movements stuttered, becoming hesitant.

Barely another minute passed, punctuated by Cecily's little gasps and quiet moans. Then she ground down hard on Ian's cock, muscles clenching tight, and he thrust into her as best he could. She was so tight and hot and gorgeous in her uninhibited pleasure, head thrown back, eyes shut, that she pulled him over the edge with her.

***

Ian stood in the dark shower stall, leaning against the cold tile, hot water running down his chest as he fixed every detail of Cecily's reaction in his memory. Tonight's sex had answered some questions, but others had taken their place. What else did she like? What had she never tried? How far could he push before she'd push back?

He turned, closing his eyes as the hot water hit his cold back. One day, he'd get Cecily into a proper hotel, even if he had to kidnap her and drag her across international borders. Ibiza was too crowded, but there was always Switzerland. She wouldn't object to the weather—not after living here—and Ian could probably convince Preston to make all the arrangements.

New goal, then: Get Cecily out of the primitive hell that was Canada before year's end. He pictured her in a steaming hot tub, surrounded by snow, and his smile turned predatory.

The bathroom door opened, admitting a faint glow from the dying bedroom fire. Cecily entered and closed the door. “Almost done?”

Ian hid a sigh and made a mental note to rent a ski lodge that had a proper hot water tank or an on-demand system. “Yes.” He pushed open the plexiglass door and went to step out, but Cecily was right there. Cold hands pressed against his chest for a moment, confusing him. He stepped back and heard the rustle of fabric.

Then Cecily stepped into the shower stall and pulled the door closed. Wishing he'd thought to turn the lights on, Ian held still, back pressed to the tile. There was no way to avoid crowding her; even breathing took up too much room.

Cecily rested her hands on Ian's hips and leaned her forehead on his shoulder. Water hit the back of her shoulders, splashing up onto his face in a cool mist. He wanted to pull her close and wrap his arms around her body, but he didn't dare. Even this might be too much.

So he stayed there, moving his hands just enough to brush his fingers against her hips, touching without holding. After a minute, Cecily turned her face enough to press a kiss against his collarbone. Then she turned and moved a few inches away—as far as she could go—and said, “I banked the fire. You get to fix the blankets.”

Ian allowed himself a smile, relieved that the close quarters hadn't provoked a panic attack. “I suppose I can do that,” he said as he pushed open the shower door. He got out and dried off quickly; there was hardly enough room in the small bathroom for them to both dry off at once, and he didn't want her worried that he'd see her scars, as much as he wanted the chance. Cecily trusted him, and he wouldn't betray that trust.

He left the warm bathroom and shivered while he put on his pajamas, though he was tempted to sleep without any clothes in hopes of encouraging Cecily to stay close. It was just too damned cold for that, which made him mentally note that the ski lodge should have central heating as well as fireplaces for ambiance.
Good
central heating—maybe a radiant system in the floor, to start.

Cecily was finished with her shower by the time Ian had the blankets sorted out. From the warmth of the bed, he watched her emerge from the bathroom as she had that first morning, wearing only a towel. The banked fire showed no details at all, but he watched anyway, appreciating the way the reddish light changed the visual quality of her skin.

She went to the dresser and put on a T-shirt, underwear, and fleece pants. Ian didn't bother to hide his sigh of disappointment. Cecily heard him and laughed, getting quickly under her own blanket. As she lay down, she reached out with one hand to touch the gun on the table, making a minute adjustment to its position.

Then she rolled over to face Ian, burrowing down under her blanket. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

He smiled at her and slipped a hand from under his blanket to Cecily's, finding her fingertips. He touched lightly, giving her every chance to pull back, but she didn't. Instead, she spread her fingers just enough to lace the tips with Ian's, joining their hands without either of them holding the other in place.

October 29

Ian came awake slowly and lazily to dull white light intruding on his consciousness. He opened his eyes and blinked at Cecily, who lay beside him, watching him. Their pillows touched, but their bodies didn't, separated by a barrier of clothes and blankets.

“Sorry if I'm rusty,” she said quietly. The window glowed with sunlight diffused through a blizzard of snow, casting new shadows over her face. She looked tired and serious, and he felt the immediate impulse to erase her grave expression and transmute it into a smile.

“Rusty?”

“At talking.” She took a deep breath and rolled onto her back. She lifted her arms and folded her hands under her head. The cold bedroom air raised the hair on her forearms, a pale aura over her skin. “Twelve years ago, I was an officer in the Marines. Combat engineers. I left seven years ago. Something happened—” She shook her head, the motion barely visible. “My dad was from Canada. I came here to get away from people.”

He clenched his fingers in the blanket to keep from reaching for her. He wanted to say something—
I
know
—but he wouldn't immediately be able to rationalize his conclusions without mentioning the video.

“It's not that last night was…bad,” she continued uncertainly. Her brief laugh was soft and nervous. “Anything but that. But I don't—I can't do this, Ian.” She turned her head to look sadly at him. “Trust me when I say you don't even want me to try.”

“Trust has nothing to do with you being wrong.” He moved closer and watched her arms tense, though she didn't try to move away. “As a blanket statement, ‘I trust you' is almost always invalidated by reality. I trust you to safely fly that death trap of yours, but I don't ‘trust' that you'll get us safely back on land every time. The factors are out of your control.”

Her expression had slowly shifted from sad to puzzled. A hint of irritation creased her brow. “Do you ever actually listen to yourself speak?” She rolled onto her side, propping up on her right arm, and tossed her head to throw her hair out of her face. “I'm saying you shouldn't be involved with me, Ian. I'm not what you want, no matter what you think. I'm not even
safe
.”

“How many others have gotten this close since you—” He cut off before he could reference the reason she had left the military. He blamed the near-slip on the unexpected, unwelcome surprise of this conversation happening without even a single cup of coffee, which would help them both be able to discuss this rationally. “Since you left the military?”

Evasively, she looked away. “None. Not for lack of trying—”

“Failures,” he dismissed. “Did you enjoy last night?”

She met his eyes for an instant, color rising in her cheeks. “Well, of course.”

“And the night before?”

“Ian, it's just a matter—”

“It's
not
just ‘a matter of time,'” he interrupted sharply. “It's the fact that almost everyone else is too stupid to
understand
you—to recognize what you want and what you don't want and what you want but can't have, and to help you have it anyway.”

She shook her head. “That makes no sense.”

He let out a huff, wanting to roll on top of her and hold her down and try to make her understand, but that would only make matters worse. So instead he caught her by one arm and pulled as he rolled onto his back. Surprised and wary of hurting him, she didn't struggle, though she snapped, “Ian!”

Only when she was on top of him, blankets tangled around their legs, did he let her go. He looked up at her, saying, “I know how to make this
safe
, Cecily. You don't have to be worried. I know you won't be held down. If you feel trapped, your instinct is to fight free—”

She went pale. “God,” she muttered as she pushed up on all fours, kicking at the blankets.

Before she could back up, he reached up to touch her face. “Stop. Cecily—”

“No. No, this is what your brother said you do in court. You fuck with people's minds.”

Outwardly, he huffed in irritation, but secretly he smiled. She was still on top of him as though tethered there by the featherlight touch of his fingertips on her cheek. “Let me give you what you want,” he offered. “What you thought you could never have again.”

Slowly, she sat back on his thighs, looking down at the blanket. She closed her eyes and pushed a hand through her sleep-mussed hair. “Why?”

It was his turn to fall silent, his confidence faltering as he realized there was no easy answer. At first, it had been simply an effort to alleviate boredom, but in slow, small steps, his motives had become less selfish. He'd looked at her as a challenge—a puzzle to solve, or someone who could be fixed—but at some point, he'd begun to care. She was intelligent and sexy, and she reacted to him in unpredictable ways, which no one, not even Preston, had ever done.

Finally, she shook her head and moved off him, throwing the blankets roughly aside. “Forget it. Forget I said anything. I told you—”

“Cecily.” His mind snapped back into gear, and he caught her T-shirt just as she stood up beside the bed. When she looked back down at him, he said, “I'm staying, Cecily. You can't scare me away, and you won't hurt me.”

“You don't
know
me,” she said angrily, though again, she didn't pull away. He saw desperation in her eyes. She
wanted
to believe, but her past had taught her otherwise. Now, she needed time to think.

He let go of her shirt and twisted to sit up on the edge of the bed. “I do know you, Cecily. And because I know you, I trust you.”

***

Cecily spent the day apart from Ian. While he had been showering, she'd opened the gun safe, closed it again, and left the property on the quad, despite the blizzard outside.

Ian tried to summon his usual calm detachment, but the effort was a miserable failure. He went through two pots of coffee, focusing on the fact that she was strong. She wouldn't get lost, even in the snow, and she wouldn't shoot herself. He had been very careful to avoid pushing her too far.

Finally, he went to his laptop and turned on the power to the satellite connection. He checked his email, hoping to find anything interesting enough to help lure her to Manhattan, but he had no idea what might work. He doubted she liked concerts, theater, or sports.

Frustrated, he played the guitar and drank more coffee and read more of her fantasy manuscript. Then he reread the other pages until the disturbing images they evoked in his mind grew too much to bear.

Hunger forced him into the kitchen, where he heated up leftovers. While he cooked and ate, he tried to figure out if the meat was venison, beef, bear, or something else. He couldn't tell, though he'd had all three during his childhood.

When she finally returned, entering the cabin on a gust of wind-driven snow, he snapped, “Where were you?”

She pushed back her fur-edged hood and pulled off a ski mask crusted white with snow and tiny shards of ice. “Hunting.” Her voice sounded raspy and harsh. She stamped her foot and went right for the kitchen, fumbling to take off thick gloves. Over her shoulder, she carried the rifle she'd brought to Marguerite's last night.

“You were hunting a bear?” he demanded incredulously. “Alone?”

She threw her gloves down out on the kitchen counter and took a mug out of the dish rack. “Of course not. I have a mule deer tag—but no fucking luck,” she added in a mutter as she used a towel to pick up the kettle. She gave it a shake and snapped, “You couldn't have kept this full?”

“You left! You said nothing about where you were going! You went out in a blizzard alone—”

“
I
live
alone!
” She slammed the kettle down onto the counter and turned, bracing her hands against the edge as she took a deep breath. “I'm cold, I'm hungry, and I'm tired, Ian.”

He wanted to retreat. He wanted to shout at her for how stupid she'd been to take such unnecessary risks. This was why he kept people at arm's length.

“Go. Just…go into the living room or something,” she said only a bit less angrily. “I'll get dinner started in a few minutes.”

“I'll do it,” he said, not realizing he'd spoken until the words were out.

She looked back over her shoulder. “What?”

“I'll do it!” he repeated. He crossed the kitchen and took the towel out of her hands, and then used it to pick up the kettle. “Go take a hot shower. I'll make dinner and tea. Or coffee.”

“Tea's fine,” she said, confused. “But—”

“Stop arguing and go!”

***

The water went from hot to warm, warning Cecily that she had less than five minutes to finish up, but she still felt the cold deep in her body. Only her right shoulder felt warm, and that was an agonizing flame, not a comfortable glow. She stood sideways to the shower spray, aiming the water directly at the bullet scar, and rested her forehead on her other arm, propped against the cold tile wall.

Ian's words twisted in her like knives. The unspoken accusation had hit home. She should have asked him to come out with her. She'd
wanted
to, which was exactly why she hadn't. She didn't dare grow dependent on his presence. As it was, just having him in her bed was an addiction that she already felt hooked deep in her mind.

The bathroom door opened. She didn't have the energy to complain that he hadn't bothered to knock.

Then the light went out, and she looked up abruptly. “Huh?”

In answer, the shower door opened. “The water's turning cold,” he said, his voice subdued. He slid a hand over her abdomen, startling her into flinching back. A moment later, the shower turned off, and she shivered at the absence of warmth.

“Where's my—” She cut off as her groping hand encountered rough fabric. Then he was right in front of her, wrapping her in a towel. Wondering if this was some sort of apology for losing his temper (and thinking that
she
was the one who should be apologizing to him, not the other way around), she said, “Ian, you don't have to.”

His hands went still, lightly resting on her upper arms. “I want to.”

She nodded before remembering that he wouldn't be able to see. “All right,” she agreed quietly and shivered as he went back to drying her off.

Instead of taking the towel from her shoulders, he reached for his own towel to dry off her legs. Tentatively, she brushed her fingers through his long, soft hair. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that.”

He rose, letting his towel fall. His hands returned to her arms, sliding up, but he stopped at her shoulder as if he knew how badly the bullet scar ached. “I don't
do
relationships, Cecily. I don't even have many real friends. I know hundreds of people in Manhattan, and only a handful are friends.”

“Ian—”

“Don't say anything,” he interrupted. “I'm not like other people. Neither are you. Everything you think you know about me—everything you think you should fear—is wrong.”

“That's supposed to make me feel better?”

His hand lifted from her left arm. A moment later, soft fingertips brushed over her lips. “Trust me, Cecily. You trusted it last night. Did you regret it then?”

She couldn't bring herself to say no and she didn't dare lie—not to him. Instead, she asked, “Why did you turn off the light?”

His hand moved to press against her chest. “You want to hide your scars, though you don't have to.”

Her heart thudded uncomfortably against her ribs. Was she that transparent, or was he really so perceptive? She was suddenly very glad for the darkness.

“It's getting cold,” she said evasively, though truthfully.

He left his hand resting over her heart as he leaned down to kiss her. “Get dressed. The kitchen's warm and dinner's almost ready.”

When he stepped back, it took all of her self-control not to go after him. As it was, she felt almost dizzy without his warm, steady presence close by. To distract herself, she asked, “What did you make?”

“Meat and mushroom rice. I would have made proper risotto, but I don't know what sort of rice you have in the bin.”

“‘Meat'? What kind?”

“I've no idea. It's not chicken, fish, or human.”

“
Human?
” she asked, horrified.

“An accused cannibal tried to hire me to defend him two years ago.”

It was awful to consider, but she couldn't quite hold back a choked laugh. She could all too easily picture him assessing the meat in the deep freezer and choosing dinner based not on a particular recipe but on the “not cannibalism” requirement.

Impulsively, she reached up and pulled him close for another kiss. “Thank you again.”

***

“You're not going outside tonight?” Ian asked when Cecily joined him on the sofa. She'd finished the dishes and they'd had their coffee, which meant it was time for her to do her usual check of the property. “The blizzard?”

“I spent enough time outside. We have firewood and water even if a pipe breaks. Everything else can wait until daylight,” she confirmed, turning to sit sideways opposite Ian, rather than cuddling close beside him, as he would have preferred.

He had taken the guitar from its case and had been idly playing. He considered putting it back, but instead held it across his lap and began practicing his fingering. His fingers were less dexterous in the cold.

“So, you keep saying you know me,” she said. “How?”

He couldn't hide his smirk. “It's more than that. Anyone who's not dead or comatose takes in far more information than most people realize. Right now, what are your senses telling you?”