Longest Night (9 page)

After Cecily washed the dishes, she dried out the skillet, listening as Ian finally pushed his chair away from the table. Usually, as soon as his plate was clear, he'd be in the living room to check his email. She had grown accustomed to bringing Ian his coffee at the desk. After email, they'd switch places, and she would get back to her writing.

This time, though, he had stayed at the table for coffee, and what had been a comfortable silence turned awkward as Cecily's imagination took flight, filling the quiet with expectations and prying curiosity.

She left the dry skillet on the counter and went to the pantry, watching him out of the corner of her eye. Instead of going into the living room, Ian followed her and asked, “Dessert?”

Cecily's breath caught. She'd never heard “dessert” laden with such innuendo—or maybe it was just her imagination, fueled by the heat of their kiss in the woods. It had been so long that she wasn't just rusty at flirtation; she couldn't even reliably tell when it was actually happening.

“Need to roast coffee,” she managed to say. “We're running low.”

“Must you, tonight?” He pulled the door open and stepped closer to Cecily, who was trying to remember which of the plastic tubs held green coffee beans. Once the water heater had regenerated, Ian had also showered and changed clothes. Now he smelled of soap, and the cool humidity had dried his hair in messy blond waves hanging down toward his right eye. All through dinner, her fingers had twitched from the desire to brush those locks away.

“We'll be out in three days if I don't roast more. Maybe two, the way you go through coffee,” Cecily answered, resolutely not looking. She finally pried off one of the lids and glared at the rice inside. She replaced the lid with a loud snap.

“It can wait.”

Realizing they were about to have
the
talk
, Cecily took a breath to steady herself. She rose from her crouch and turned to find him standing much closer than she'd expected, only inches away. “Look, I—”

“Please, Cecily,” he interrupted gently as his hands came up. Long fingers skimmed over her face, sliding back along her jaw to brush lightly, chillingly over her hair. “We've talked enough for tonight.”

She stared at him—close, so close—and wanted to say something, but she knew that she'd come off sounding like a babbling idiot if she started to talk.

Ian took her silence for consent—which, in a way, it must have been, because when he leaned down to steal a kiss, Cecily couldn't find it in herself to protest. She leaned into it instead, hands sliding up to grasp his waist, holding him lightly but closely. The kiss was sweet, tasting of sugar and coffee, and full of his confident aggression, encouraging her to let go of her inhibitions.

Seven years of self-denial proved too much of a strain. The last of Cecily's reservations dissipated like fog, and she pulled him close to take control of the kiss. She reveled in the feel of a body pressed to hers, warm and hard and very real. His fingers twisted in her hair as he parted his lips further, allowing her to explore his mouth and nip at his lips.

Somewhere on the other side of the kiss Cecily knew things would be worse. For now, though, the kiss was enough—almost too much, in fact. She was starved for intimacy, for knowing that she had someone in her arms and that person wanted her just as much as she wanted him.

She broke the kiss to taste his skin, feeling the heat of his throat as she licked right over Ian's pulse. The answering exhale was just shaky enough to hint at a desire for more. Experimentally, Cecily bit, being overcareful because it had been so long and she didn't want to hurt him. A shiver passed through Ian, who shifted and got one foot between hers, pushing his hips forward against her body.

Heat arced between them, scorching away another layer of Cecily's fears and reservations. She stopped counting the reasons not to do this and started thinking instead about the sofa, which was close to the kitchen, versus the bed, which was much larger. She dropped her hands, feeling the back pockets of his jeans and tense muscle and tight curves, and she braced herself to pull his hips against her body.

With a muttered curse, he pushed Cecily back a step and twisted, crowding her back with another overwhelming, devastating kiss. Her shoulders pressed back against the wall beside the pantry, and he pulled her hair to tip her head back. He ran his tongue up her throat, the motion translating into a sinuous press of their bodies from knees to chests.

Ian's free hand braced on the wall beside Cecily's shoulder, and her breath stuttered, catching like gears knocked out of alignment. She stopped breathing altogether. Suffocated and trapped, she felt panic rise up through her in a single heartbeat. She pushed, awkwardly at first, hands sliding over Ian's soft cashmere sweater before her instincts took over. Her second push was a solid shove to the sternum, a twist of her hips putting strength behind the blow that freed her.

She wrenched away from the wall, getting herself out into open space, and gasped in a breath as though she'd been drowning. Her heart was pounding, deafeningly loud, and she dragged in another breath, then another, until she could finally think.

Only then did she realize what she'd done. Thank God she hadn't actually hurt Ian. He was standing warily back, his eyes locked to Cecily's. He stood balanced and ready, as though prepared for her to come at him again. He hadn't run, though. He hadn't fled the cabin or tried to barricade himself in the bedroom. He hadn't fought back.

Cecily exhaled, confusion snapping through her as if her fraying thoughts were finally breaking under the tension. She realized her right hand was on her gun—thankfully she hadn't actually drawn it—but she couldn't pry her fingers away. She could still taste his kiss, and her throat had a single icy strip etched into the skin where the open air chilled the path he had licked.

Abruptly, she turned and rushed out of the house, needing to escape herself.

October 27

Ian watched Cecily storm out of the house and rubbed a hand soothingly over his chest where she had pushed him. She hadn't actually hit him, but the push had been hard enough to startle him off-balance and stagger his breathing. Because it hadn't felt like an attack, he had actually wondered, for a moment, if it was her way of escalating the intensity that crackled between them, and he hadn't responded in self-defense. And then, she'd left. Obviously, he had been wrong.

He closed his eyes, reviewing his memory in meticulous detail, wondering if he'd done something wrong. Body and mind, she'd most definitely been interested, until she suddenly
hadn't
. Both times they'd kissed, Cecily had waited for Ian to initiate, but she hadn't been passive. She hadn't mirrored his touches, and she'd followed her own desires. There'd been no hint of shyness or uncertainty after the first few seconds.

Then it had changed. When?

When Ian had pushed Cecily out of the pantry and up against the wall. For one moment, she'd responded, going relaxed and pliant under his hands, before everything had gone wrong. He closed his eyes, remembering her stillness in the moment before she'd pushed him away. Not just stillness, though. She'd gone from breathless and wide-eyed to tense and defensive, without a hint of the arousal that had been scorching through them both.

The speed of the change told Ian this wasn't some whim of Cecily's. Her assault, controlled as it was, hadn't been a conscious decision but a reflexive one.

The memory of her desire threatened to interrupt Ian's focus. Thinking to follow Cecily's example and go out into the bracing night air, he went into the living room and pulled on his coat. Remembering that she had gone outside without her jacket, he took it off the hook and went back to the kitchen, thinking to bring it to her so she'd be warm.

He reached for the back door, and the connections teasing at his thoughts finally snapped into place. When he had approached her at the pantry, she'd been momentarily defensive, only relaxing when he had stopped his advance. It had been Cecily who'd pulled Ian close with every sign of enthusiasm and arousal, and that responsiveness had encouraged him to crowd her up against the wall.

Trapping her.

Furious with himself, Ian pulled open the back door. Cecily was on the porch, not out in the yard. Her hands were braced against the railing, head bowed down. Her posture screamed her embarrassment, regret, and self-reproach.

“Don't be stupid, Cecily,” he scolded. “There's only enough room for one idiot here tonight, and it's apparently my turn.”

She flinched and started to lift her head, but then turned away. Carefully, Ian draped the coat over her back, feeling a twinge of regret. In retrospect, the little behavioral oddities and habits all added up to a conclusion that should have been obvious.

He stepped back, putting two feet of space between their bodies, eyes fixed on the faint illumination that spilled through the kitchen window. He looked out at the ruined garden and the gravel patch surrounding the barbecue and meat smoker, both improvised from steel oil drums.

Slowly, Cecily straightened and put on the jacket. Ian watched out of the corner of his eye as she zipped it to the collar but didn't tug it up to expose her handgun for quick access. She was cold but didn't feel threatened. A good sign, that.

“Thanks.” The word was clipped.

Ian nodded. He considered stepping back to lean against the house, but that would put him behind her. Better to stay in her line of sight.

For a few long, freezing minutes, they both fell silent. Then, in a quick rush of words, Cecily asked, “Did I hurt you?”

He shook his head. “No. Which, if you consider it, is very impressive. You were very careful
not
to hurt me.”

Cecily's exhale was too sharp to be anything but disbelief, not at Ian's words but at herself. “Good. Well, it's too late tonight—I prefer not to fly in the dark—but—”

“No,” Ian interrupted. It didn't take a genius to see where this was going. “I'm not upset. I'm not angry, and I'm certainly not going back to Pinelake or to Marguerite's.” He crossed behind Cecily with long, casual strides, trying to minimize the time he was out of her sight. The side railing creaked as he leaned back against it.

“You can't stay,” she said as she turned to face Ian. Cecily's hands were in her coat pockets, and she pressed her arms against her sides as if to hold in body warmth, but her posture was balanced and relaxed.

Escape
routes
, Ian thought, hiding a grin at his successful assessment of what Cecily needed. If she took one step back, she'd be in line with both the kitchen door and the two creaky steps into the backyard. She wasn't claustrophobic—not with that little death trap of a plane—but she needed space. Space meant safety.

Then his mind lit up as things fell into place. It wasn't claustrophobia but something far more subtle: fear of being trapped
by
a
person
. When he had pinned Cecily to the wall—
that
was the trigger. It could well have happened if he had pulled her into a tight embrace or pushed her down onto the sofa.

And just like that, he knew how to prevent a repeat, at least of this specific incident.

“I'm not leaving,” he said calmly.

“Why?” she demanded as she turned back to face him. “After what happened—”

“What happened,” Ian interrupted again, “was perfectly understandable. I should have seen it before.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's not important,” Ian said calmly. He lifted his hands from the porch rail, holding them out toward her in a calculatedly inviting manner. The easiest way to ensure she was comfortable was to give her all the decisions. “Trust me, Cecily.”

She glanced down at his hands and licked her lips. He didn't think her shiver had anything to do with the freezing night. “I feel like that should be my line, but I wouldn't ask it of you,” she said quietly.

“You won't—” Ian cut off, realizing too late that using words like “panic” or “attack” would only reinforce Cecily's reticence. “You
can't
tell me you didn't enjoy the kiss.”

Between the faint light radiating through the window and the chill that turned every inch of exposed skin ruddy, it was impossible to tell if Cecily was blushing, though Ian guessed that she was. Then her chin came up almost defiantly, and she admitted, “I did.”

Ian smiled encouragingly. “And it's obvious that I did. So please.”

“It's still not a good idea.”

“I won't let you hurt me.”

Cecily's smile vanished. She shoved her hands farther into her pockets, pulling her jacket taut against her tense shoulders. “You can't know that, Ian. I was a soldier for too long.”

“Perhaps it's better phrased: I won't create a situation in which your instinctive response will be to defend yourself.”

With a surprised flinch, she asked, “What?”

“Cecily.” His exasperation was much less amused this time. “Either you can trust that I know what I'm doing here, or we can both freeze to death discussing it. I much prefer the option that
isn't
fatally boring.”

Startled, she laughed. “Did you really just describe freezing to death as boring?”

“Yes. So
come
here
,” he insisted, twitching his fingers invitingly, both to get Cecily moving and to prove to himself that his fingers hadn't frozen solid.

Thankfully, she pulled her hands out of her pockets and accepted the invitation, closing the last step between them. Their fingers awkwardly intertwined. The contact did nothing to share body heat, but Ian was too caught up in Cecily's trust to care.

“We should go back inside,” she said quietly, looking up at him. Their coats brushed together with a soft whisper of fabric.

“We will, in one minute.” Ian leaned farther back, lowering himself a few inches to Cecily's height, and stretched out one leg. He brushed his fingers over her wrists, light and teasing. He would've been more comfortable spreading his legs to get her body pressed against his, but he wanted to avoid even the hint of keeping her trapped or surrounded. “First, I want another kiss.”

Cecily's gaze flicked down to Ian's mouth. Her inhale was quick and light, as much a confirmation that he was on the right track as was the brush of her lips that followed a moment later. They were both cold and getting sniffly, but the heat of her mouth, as her lips parted, was more than enough reason for him to push winter out of his mind and focus instead on the feel of her teeth under his tongue. He encouraged her lips to part farther and shuddered pleasantly at the way she melted against him.

As the kiss grew heated and aggressive, Ian had to remind himself not to clench his hands around hers. He kept his touch light, feeling the steady, rapid beat of Cecily's pulse in her wrists, until she broke the kiss naturally. For a few seconds, she pressed her cheek to his, until their cold skin started to warm up.

“Inside?” she invited, with no sign of hesitation or anxiety in her voice.

Ian laughed, reveling in the way she shivered as his breath swept over her ear. “You'll have to be more specific, Cecily. Is that an invitation?”

Her inhale was a hiss of surprise that he ignored, biting back a laugh. Quietly, she muttered, “Fuck,” under her breath.

Ian grinned. “Not out here.” With some effort, he stood up straight. Cecily stepped back, giving him room to step away from the railing.

She smiled at him and said, “Right. I wouldn't want you fatally bored.” She released one of his hands but kept the other, leading him into the warmth of the house.

***

It took five interminable minutes of careful touches and heated kisses for Ian to subtly steer Cecily through the kitchen and past the sofa, where she'd headed as though by instinct. The comfortable sofa in front of the fireplace was a good option, the type of romantic setting that would appeal to almost anyone, but the sofa had a back and arms, and he didn't want to chance her feeling trapped or cornered in any way. The only truly open option was outside, but freezing to death would accomplish nothing except feeding the local predators. The bedroom was the much better option.

As soon as Ian stepped backward through the bedroom door, he let go of Cecily's hand and pulled off his cashmere sweater. He tossed it aside and let her draw him close for another kiss, and for a few minutes he let himself be distracted by the feel of her mouth on his. The kiss turned into sharper bites along his jaw and throat, and her arms held him close. Then she let go, and her hands went to his shirt. When she opened the first three buttons, she moved down to taste the newly exposed skin.

There wasn't a hint of anxiety about Cecily now, and Ian's growing arousal spiked further, hotter, riding the high of successfully figuring her out.

At the fourth button, she paused, leaning her forehead against his sternum. She rose, avoiding his eyes, and said, “Shit. Ian, I—I wasn't exactly planning this.”

Optimistically, he had anticipated this days ago, but he couldn't resist the opportunity to tease. Cecily was far too polite to have snooped in the shipping boxes that had come with his clothing delivery. “You're clean. Healthy.”

“How do—”

“No medications. Not even vitamin supplements.”

Cecily stared at him, lips curved up just slightly. She laughed and asked, “You noticed that? What, were you snooping through the medicine cabinet?”

“You don't have an actual medicine cabinet. But yes.”

“I should be offended by the invasion of privacy, you know,” she told him mock-sternly, grinning too much to be truly offended. “And how do you know I just haven't been tested?”

“You take good care of yourself. You're disgustingly healthy, in fact, for someone who actually kills and butchers half of what she eats and who lives a thousand miles from anything resembling civilization.” He touched her chin, holding her still for another kiss. “And I'm healthy. The vampires at the hospital seemed to take particular joy in drawing blood daily, it seemed.”

“All right,” she conceded with another laugh, “but that doesn't change the fact that I don't do unprotected sex.”

Ian leaned in to kiss her again. “Do you really think I hadn't anticipated this possibility?” he asked. He released her reluctantly and went to the closet, where he unzipped his suitcase to reveal the cardboard shipping box.

“Wait—anticipated what?” she asked as she walked up behind him. She looked down as he opened the cardboard, revealing multiple boxes of condoms shrink-wrapped together. “Dear God, are you preparing for the collapse of civilization or something?”

Ian looked up at her. “Is there anything
else
to do in the winter here?”

“If we actually use all of those, we'll probably be dead from exhaustion.”

“At least we won't be bored.” He ripped open the shrink-wrap and picked up one of the boxes.

Cecily laughed and left the closet to sit on the edge of the bed. She bent over, unlacing her boots. Ian pulled a strip of condoms out of the box and tossed them onto the bed. She glanced at them, kicked off one boot, and gave him a wry look. “Sure that's enough for tonight?”

Ian got rid of his shirt and let it fall as he walked forward to set his glasses on the nightstand. “Better too many than not enough.” Instead of standing over Cecily, he sat down beside her, wishing he'd found an earlier opportunity to get rid of his boots. They were warm and offered decent traction in the snow, but had no business at all getting this close to the bed.

“Should I be insulted you decided we were going to…” Cecily laughed softly, brushing one hand up Ian's arm, lightly enough to make him shiver. “For some reason, the words ‘have sex' seem incredibly inadequate.”