Longest Night (19 page)

“Stay,” he suggested, circling around in front of her. He stayed slightly off-center, leaving one side clear—a reassurance to her subconscious that she could walk away at any time, if she felt the need. Slowly, he moved his hand from her shoulder to her chest and down, fingers catching on the buttons and dipping into the gaps to brush soft skin underneath.

Tentatively, she leaned back again, eyes fixed on him. She licked her lips, and he couldn't resist leaning in to chase her tongue back into her mouth in a kiss that seemed to catch her off guard. Her hands skimmed up his sides, holding him close with a light touch.

He caught her face much more firmly, biting at her lower lip before he swept his tongue back into her mouth. He lowered himself to kneel upright in front of her, body pressed against her right leg. He lifted his hand and touched her chest again.

This time, when he followed the trail of shirt buttons down, she shivered and whispered, “Ian.”

“Don't talk,” he said, kissing her into silence. When she relaxed, complying, he kissed her again and brushed his fingertips over her eyelashes. “Keep your eyes closed for me.”

Tension rippled through her, but she nodded, her expression taking on an air of determination. She licked her lips again and opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it again.

After one more kiss to reward her self-control, he knelt back on his heels, resting his hands on her thighs. Immediately, her legs parted just slightly, the movement so subtle as to be subconscious. He smiled, watching her expression as he trailed his hands down to her inner thighs. He pressed her legs open a bit more, taking the subconscious movement and making it his own.

He moved his hands up the insides of her thighs, reading the subtle responses on her face. He lightened his pressure as he ran his fingers over her fly, following the contours of her jeans. Cecily shifted her hips but made no effort to move away, and her eyes stayed closed. Her breathing was loud over the ever-present crackle of burning wood.

The quality of her tension had changed. He considered drawing this out, but the sight of her tongue as it darted out to wet her parted lips shattered his patience. He unbuttoned her jeans and drew down the zipper, watching for any sign that he should stop or slow down. He wanted her to want this as much as he did.

But she didn't object. She bit her lip, hands tightening on the seat of the chair.

“Lift,” he said, his voice lower and rougher than he'd anticipated. His own body was reminding him of his desire, but he pushed it aside to focus solely on her.

Without hesitation, she shifted against the chair, bracing her feet on the floor. She lifted her hips enough for Ian to work her jeans down her legs. She let him pull them off her feet. He considered taking off her socks, but there was something adorable about her in thick socks and an oversized button-down. Instead, he took off his glasses and set them on the desk. Then he leaned over to press his mouth against her cotton panties. He breathed through the stretchy fabric.

She moaned and whispered, “Fuck,” under her breath. She slid one hand into his hair.

He lifted his head to look up at her face. “Shh,” he reminded her, smiling when he saw she'd kept her eyes closed, as he'd asked.

She exhaled softly, jaw going tight. She scratched her fingers over his scalp. Seconds ticked by. Entranced, he watched her struggle against her own impulse to speak or move or pull his head back down, and he saw the moment that she surrendered. She relaxed, waiting for him to continue or not, as he chose.

Heat blossomed deep in his gut as, for one moment, he mentally abandoned his plan. He considered picking her up and moving her to the desk, or laying her down on the sofa to take her slowly, lavishing attention on her body until her self-control broke. He thought about two nights ago and how he could lie down on the sofa instead and have her do all the work, giving him the chance to watch her every reaction.

Only the fact that he had a goal kept him on track. He pushed aside the fantasies, though not permanently—he
would
indulge in every one of them, some other night. Now, he leaned down again, pressing his lips to the damp spot of fabric. Cecily's whole body reacted with a twitch, and her hands dropped to clench the sides of the chair. He hid a smile and opened his mouth, pressing his tongue to the fabric as he exhaled slowly and listened to the quiet sounds she made.

With slow, teasing motions, he worked his fingers under the waistband of her panties. Almost immediately, she went to lift her hips, until he let go of the elastic to press her back down. “Don't move,” he warned.

She growled under her breath, knuckles going white on the seat of the chair. She added a huff to express her displeasure, but she was still playing by the rules. Mostly.

Quietly laughing, he eased the waistband away from her skin and leaned over to lick at her abdomen. Her breath hitched; she wasn't ticklish there, but the touch had caught her by surprise. He slid his hands together, pulling the waistband farther away, exposing soft red curls to the cool air for a moment. Then he ducked his head and licked again, slipping his fingers down to tease over her clit.

With a broken sigh, she arched her back, pushing her hips forward against his touch. He moved between her legs to better tease, licking to the side, tasting the soft skin of her hip. Her breathing became ragged.

When he finally said, “Lift up,” her movement was so abrupt that the chair rolled back three inches until he caught it by the base. She swore under her breath, but he let it pass, amused by her overwhelming arousal. She was usually the model of self-control, which made its loss to pleasure that much more appealing.

Once she conquered her fears, Ian would be free to push her further than she'd ever imagined. The thought of bringing her such pleasure was intoxicating, stealing his breath away. He knew it would be glorious.

***

Cecily's head rolled back against the chair when Ian finally—
finally
—licked over her clit and slid a finger inside her body. She bit her lip to keep quiet, thinking only that if she said anything, he might stop, and she might well die on the spot if he did.

It wasn't possible that he had her so on edge now, with virtually no actual foreplay. The only explanation was that she'd somehow reverted to being a teenager. Two nights of mind-blowing sex, a night off in preparation for a predawn deer hunt, and now she was right back on the edge of desperation again.

For now, though, she lost herself in the feel of his mouth and fingers, the teasing brush of teeth, the hard flex of his tongue. It took an eternity for her to remember that the condoms were still in the other room.

She let go of the chair to reach for his shoulder. “Stop. Ian—”

He backed away and lifted his free hand to touch her lips. “Trust me.”

She hesitated and started to say
condom
, but he turned his hand to cover her mouth.

“Trust me, Cecily.”

She did. It wasn't his gorgeous baritone or commanding voice or the fact that her body was screaming for release. She had no reason to trust him, except that he had yet to betray her trust, and she didn't think that he ever would.

She trusted him, so she pushed aside her concerns and nodded, realizing only then that her eyes were still closed. The thought made her want to open them, to look down into his eyes and watch, but she didn't. So she tried to relax—to show, silently and without moving, that she was complying.

It felt like forever before he finally took his hand away. She pressed her lips together to keep from speaking. She had no idea if she'd insist he get a condom or if she'd plead for him to continue. But a moment later, the point was moot. He licked a broad stripe up over the center of her panties, tearing a moan from her throat. Then he tugged down her panties and teased his tongue over her clit, lighting fireworks behind her eyes at the hot pleasure that coiled deep in her body.

He was far too good at this, she decided. It was impossible, the way he knew
exactly
how to bring her to the very edge before he backed off again, lightly sweeping his tongue down over her heat as the urgency receded. Then he moved back up to her clit with a hard, intense lick, and her world narrowed down to the effort not to grab his hair and hold him to her.

When he pulled back, she made a sound suspiciously like a whimper. She nearly let go of the chair, and her eyelids fluttered, almost opening. Then he pushed a second finger inside her, curled and pressed up, and licked over her clit all at once. She bit her lip, catching skin between her teeth, as he brought her to the edge and pushed hard, sending sharp heat to spike through her in waves of pleasure that left her breathless and tingling.

She forgot about silence, forgot about stillness, forgot about keeping her eyes closed.

Forgot about everything for a moment.

Breathless, she looked down, feeling the little aftershocks of her orgasm settle into her gut and chest, warming her. She met his beautiful blue-gray eyes and saw nothing but rapt pleasure. No demands or expectations.

“You're amazing,” she whispered, cupping his cheek with one shaky hand, knuckles aching from the strain of clenching the chair.

Ian closed his eyes and pressed into the touch like a cat needing to be petted. With a soft smile, she leaned down, brushed his blond hair aside, and kissed his forehead. At some point, her growing affection had crept up behind her, evolving into something deeper, something far more powerful, and she had to close her mouth to keep from saying something she might well regret.

He's leaving
, she reminded herself, sliding her hand to the back of his neck. In response, he drew close, chest pressed to her legs, fingers curved over her bare thighs.

Now that the desperate need had been sated, she had to work to fight off a growing sense of loss. They had one less time together in the future, one more memory that she knew wouldn't be enough to hold her steady, once he was gone. She swallowed, throat tight, and closed her eyes against the growing pressure that she couldn't face.

When she finally could speak, she asked, “Bed?”

In answer, he drew back to look at her, eyes flicking over her face. His eyes went wide, and his stare turned disconcertingly intense. Remembering his unnatural ability to read every one of her thoughts at a glance, she looked away and rose, pushing the wheeled chair back to make room. She pulled up her panties and tugged down the hem of her shirt so she wouldn't feel quite so exposed. “I'll be right in,” she said. Then, cowardly as it was, she retreated, crossing the bedroom to go into the bathroom.

There, she closed the door and leaned back against it, trying to convince herself that she couldn't be falling in love. Not just after ten days. And definitely not with Ian, who was going to leave, whether she loved him or not.

October 31

Too stunned to move, Ian watched Cecily disappear into the bathroom. He could still feel her hand on his face, the kiss she'd pressed to his forehead. When he closed his eyes, he could see, with perfect clarity, every detail of her expression as their eyes had met, and he could hear in his imagination the three words that she hadn't spoken.

So many times before, he'd faced his colleagues and schoolmates and clients and the police, and he'd told every single one of them that they were all too blind to see properly. Too rooted in expectations to accept the truth, simply because it didn't fit in with whatever stories they'd constructed in their minds. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had once written, as Sherlock Holmes, “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” Ian had lived by those words since he'd been old enough to understand the basic principles of law and reason.

In this case, her tender expression and gentle touch left no room for doubt. He couldn't even lay blame on the haze of post-orgasmic neurochemicals. The look in her eyes had been far too eloquent for anything other than a genuine emotional reaction.

No… Not that look. The fear that had followed—fear of loss.

Marguerite had insisted Cecily loved him. Was she right?

He rose, back aching as if it were on fire, and let himself out into the night. It was freezing, but he needed the cold to help him think. The taste of her body was like a drug, turning his thoughts slow and lazy with satisfaction at how completely she'd given herself to him.

“
Trust
me
,” Ian had said, and she had, beautifully.

Shivering, he looked at the sky, searching out the stars between the clouds that were rolling in.

Cecily loved him. It struck him as unlikely and probably unwise, but it was apparently true.

Cecily was afraid of him—afraid of losing him.

But that was a false fear. He didn't want to leave without her. All she had to do was be willing to take a chance—to follow the courage that was an intrinsic part of her psyche—and they could be together, which was what she wanted. What
Ian
wanted, too, more than he'd ever wanted anything before.

Was it love?

Yes.

When Preston lost Lilit, he'd told Ian to harden himself against emotional attachments. He had been young enough that Preston's rebellion caught fire in his mind. He'd taken Preston's word as law, finding emotional distance no handicap at all to getting whatever he wanted.

Early on, Ian had learned how to read people, how to manipulate people, and he'd always thought that was enough. Free of emotional entanglement, sex had been an easy distraction during school or a way to celebrate courtroom victories. He'd prided himself on being immune to the emotional vulnerability that others seemed to seek out recklessly, no matter how often they paid the price in breakups and divorces.

Now, he closed his eyes and thought about Cecily, recognizing that he'd entirely lost his objective distance. He laughed softly, a bit bitterly, and breathed in icy air. All the while, he'd been trying to encourage her to trust him, to let him help her heal, and instead, he'd let her become a part of him. He would sooner cut off a limb than lose her.

As the cold settled into his bones, turning the ache in his back into a bonfire, he tried to find answers. He had no plan for how to proceed—no past experience to draw upon. It seemed inconceivable to consider walking up to her to say, “I love you,” with no warning. He'd too often seen those three short, ridiculous words turn into an emotional minefield of misunderstandings and expectations.

No,
saying
it would be too dangerous—even pointless, except perhaps for the momentary self-gratification of expressing himself. Even thinking those words provoked a physical reaction that entirely eclipsed the sexual desire he had for her, filling him with an all-consuming warmth.

He went back inside, and the warmth of the fires hit him like a truck. Cecily was still in the bathroom, so he went into the bedroom, closed the door, and went to build up the fire. As he stirred up the embers and coaxed the fire to catch, he considered fetching drinks for them both. After his unintentional addiction to painkillers, he was still wary of alcohol, but one glass would help her to relax. Then he pushed the idea aside. He wanted her trust, and that meant conscious, fully aware consent, not trust born of artificially relaxed inhibitions.

The bathroom door clicked, hinges squeaking softly as she entered the bedroom and closed the door again. “Need help?” she offered. Her voice was two steps higher than normal; she was still anxious but hiding it as best she could.

Deciding that the fire would do for now, he shook his head, rose, and turned to look her over. She'd changed her button-down for a T-shirt, but her legs were still bare. “Get under the blankets before you freeze. The room hasn't warmed up yet,” he urged, pulling the stacked blankets back for her.

With a muttered thanks, she climbed into bed and slid across to her usual side, avoiding looking at him. The evasion hurt; it was his turn to retreat to the bathroom, where he closed the door and hid like a coward, trying to figure out what to do next.

***

Ian was in the bathroom for almost ten minutes, leaving Cecily to anxiously wonder if she'd finally ended up pushing him away. She hoped not, but…in a way, ending things now would be easier on them both. They could develop a distant friendship and part without any pain later.

Then he came out, and she forgot her good intentions under the sight of firelight playing over every inch of beautifully bare skin. Idly, she thought she could really learn to hate him for being such a gorgeous, perfect bastard. Half-remembered sayings flitted through her mind, things about love and loss and how experiencing one day of love balanced out a lifetime of loss, and she decided that all of that was bullshit.

Seven years ago, she thought she'd lost everything there was to lose. Then Ian Fairchild had swept into her life and turned everything upside down, and she realized she hadn't been living at all until now. And soon it would all be gone again, except the emptiness would be that much bigger.

Casually, he threw an armful of clothes into the laundry basket and got under the blankets. He didn't fuck around with staying on his side of the bed or waiting for her to close the last foot of space between them. He worked his way across the mattress and worked one arm under her pillow as he settled down on his back.

“Cecily,” he said quietly.

“Ian,” she protested, wanting to turn her back and curl up and try to stop hurting. Anticipation of pain was sometimes worse than the pain itself. That lesson had been cut and burned into her flesh, and now she was learning it all over again in a way that couldn't be stitched or bandaged. She
needed
to roll onto her left side, facing away from him, and pretend that the emptiness was already there, just so she could start trying to acclimate to it.

“Trust me,” he said, as seemed to be his habit for the night. But then he added, “Please,” and while she could have resisted the first, she had no defense against the second.

She moved close enough that her T-shirt brushed against his side whenever he inhaled, but that wasn't enough for him. The arm snaked out from under her pillow, circling her back, and she fought the instinct to flail and get free. The pressure was gentle, not stifling, and soft touches guided her to roll over until she was lying on top of him.

She thought about protesting—she hurt too much, deep inside her chest, to have any interest in sex. But his hands settled lightly on the small of her back, and he looked up at her with a serious, thoughtful expression that silenced her.

“I will never be bored of you,” he said quietly.

She stared down at him, trying to think of how she could possibly respond to that, but there were too many layers of meaning hidden below the outwardly simple phrase. She studied his expression, half-hidden by the shadows. Her right shoulder started to give out under her own weight, and she shifted more weight to her left arm.

Ian frowned and ran his hands up her back, pressing more firmly between her shoulder blades. “Lie down before you hurt yourself,” he insisted.

“You're—”

“Cecily.” He sighed, pulling her close, for the first time in days taking choice away from her. Fear rose up, choking her from the inside, and her pulse hammered in her ears. Right as she neared the breaking point where she'd
have
to
get free, at any cost, his arms relaxed and fell aside.

It was like sunlight breaking through clouds. She drew in a deep breath that was almost a gasp and felt the panic start to drain away, like water trickling through a clogged pipe. His hands moved down to rest lightly on her ribs, idly tracing ticklish little circles on her sides. It took some time for her to realize those circles were drawn to the rhythm of her breath, and she fixed her attention on them, consciously trying to match the movements. She didn't know which changed first—her breathing or the movement of his fingers—but soon she was relaxed enough to inch down so she could rest her head on his perfect, unscarred right shoulder.

His left hand slipped up, fingers combing through her hair, and though she wasn't precisely comfortable, fighting to balance on his too-thin frame, hip bones digging into her abdomen, she stayed. She didn't have this closeness in her life—not with anyone—and as much as it would hurt to lose it again, now she wanted to stockpile the memories, to arm herself against the coming loss.

“I won't hurt you,” Ian said, his voice a deep, resonant rumble that seemed to sing along her bones.

She closed her eyes and curled her fingers over his shoulders. The feeling of fingers in her hair was hypnotic. “I know.”

“I will push you, though never more than you can endure. I promise.”

She sighed and moved, fighting his arm for a few seconds; he relented and let her go. She rolled onto her back a foot away, kicking to sort out the blankets tangled around her legs, and pressed her hands to her eyes.

“You're not here to analyze me.”

“I'm not analyzing.” Ian twisted up onto his side to face her. His right hand slid across under the blanket to settle possessively on her hip. “I want you with me.”

She went tense and still, her mind thrown back to the times when a shot rang out from nowhere, echoing through the maze of twisting streets and tall buildings, and all you could do was drop for the nearest cover, never knowing if you were on the right side of the wall to hide from the sniper or if he was somewhere behind her. She wasn't infantry, but that had been no protection then, and she was equally defenseless now.

“Always,” he promised.

Her mind shattered, not into darkness but into a war against itself, a war she could never win, between the side of her that wanted to believe that
always
meant what she thought it meant—what she hoped it meant—and the other part, the part that found safety in the shadows and solitude.

She knew better than to hope that this was his awkward way of offering to stay in Canada, but she wanted to cling to that tiny hope anyway, because the alternative was impossible. She couldn't go to Manhattan, not even with the temptation of Ian to lure her there. She could barely stay in Pinelake for more than a few hours, and she knew every single resident. Even the trip to Little Prairie had strained her self-control, leaving her with two solid nights of nightmares. If a tiny town in the middle of nowhere could put her on edge, Manhattan would leave her catatonic. She'd end up living in his closet like some sort of strange monster, creeping out at night to feed herself, returning to her lair without anyone ever seeing her.

“Cecily.” Ian snapped out her name like a verbal slap.

Recognizing the signs of panic growing inside her, she lowered her fisted hands from her eyes and slowly worked her fingers open. Her palms stung from where her nails had dug in, and her chest burned as though she'd stopped breathing.

She turned to look at Ian, who took the slight movement as an invitation to inch closer. “I can't—”

“No, not yet,” he agreed steadily. He deliberately moved his hand from her hip to her heart.

She caught his hand, clenching tight around long, fine fingers. Her grip must have hurt, but she couldn't stop herself, and he made no protest. “I can't,” she repeated.

“You
will
, though.” He held his hand steady over her heart, so she could feel warm skin through her T-shirt. He lifted up onto his left elbow to look down into her eyes. “You're strong, Cecily. Stronger than anyone I know.”

The kindness stung more than the fear and loneliness did. She closed her eyes, swallowing, her throat painfully tight.

“Have I given you any reason not to trust me?” he asked.

She didn't want to have this conversation, but he wasn't going to let her escape. She shook her head, hoping to get it over with quickly. Sleep wasn't painless, but at least it was an old, familiar pain. Even her nightmares would be easier to endure than this.

“Then trust me now,” he continued relentlessly. “Say you'll let me help you. Please, Cecily.”

“Fuck,” she whispered raggedly. She opened her eyes, blinking rapidly for a second. “Why?”

“Because if you can't—if you try and you still can't come back with me—then I'll stay here with you.”

Her world tilted as his words left her disoriented, scrambling for balance, because what she'd heard couldn't possibly be right. Ian loved Manhattan. Every time he mentioned it, his eyes lit up and his voice filled with excitement and life.

“You hate it here.” She shook her head and rolled over, twisting around to face him. She didn't dare let herself hope that this wasn't some huge misunderstanding, because this
couldn't
be happening to her.