Eyes of Ice (Eyes of Ice Erotica Series)

Eyes of Ice

Book One

By
Emily Rose

One

Cecilia was nervous. She was eighteen years old in the biggest city she’d ever encountered, and her best friend Margaret was nowhere to be found. Oh, sure, Margaret had said that she’d be back in a minute, but that had been at least thirty minutes ago. Thirty minutes ago the cold had felt tolerable on Cecelia’s thin frame. Now, every gust of wind felt like razorblades over her cheeks, and shivers racked her body.

“
Mags
,” Cecilia grumbled aloud, pulling her coat tighter around her and glaring across the deserted street. But the extra insulation didn’t make a difference; she was from sunny, summery California, and this was blustery, wintery Chicago. She just wasn’t made for it. She could practically feel her tan fading, and her dusting of summer freckles shrinking away in an increasingly paling face. As if cued to respond to complaints referencing Mags’ name, Cecelia’s cell phone rang, startling her out of her depressed reverie.

“Ceecee, honey, just come inside!”

At least, that’s what Cecilia thought she could hear Mags say over the thumping bass of some dubstep dance mix. Mags’ voice was shrill over the music, and Cecilia could hear laughter and shouted conversation in the background, a stark contrast to the silence of the dark and snowy street on which she herself stood.

God, best friends since age five and she still doesn’t get it
, Cecilia thought bitterly. “Um, I really don’t ….” she began mumbling into the phone, only to have her half-hearted protest interrupted.

“What? I can’t hear you! Just get inside!”

“I really don’t … like clubs, Mags ….” Cecelia attempted again, absentmindedly watching clumps of frozen snow drift down the nearby storm drain and wishing that she herself could drift along with the current.
I can’t possibly get any colder, anyway.

“What? Are you making excuses again? Stop being so antisocial and get in here! What, are you going to freeze out there?” More music, more laughter, and then Margaret hung up
without warning, leaving an even number Cecilia staring at the phone she held in her mittened hand.

“I hate her,” Cecelia said out loud
, her observation emerging as a puff of steam in the freezing air. She turned on her heel, sullenly considering wonder it was worth the energy to kick a nearby snow drift.  Just then the door to the club swung open, and the street corner was filled with the same thumping bass that she had heard through her phone’s speakers. In spite of the deafening volume and blur of activity beyond the door, Cecelia had to admit to herself that it did indeed look warmer there, and perhaps slightly less miserable than the snowy street.

“Are you coming
or what?” the bouncer demanded. Peering out the door, he used one huge shoulder to prop it open and tugged a knit cap further down over his ears.

Do I look anywhere close to twenty-one?
Cecelia thought of challenging in return, her frustration diffusing any intimidation she might have felt. But that kind of question was the kind of thing that Mags had taken to calling “self-sabotaging,” and anyway, Cecelia already knew the answer she would get. Of course she didn’t look twenty-one, and she knew it. She barely looked eighteen, and was forever being mistaken for a high school student, not the Chicago University freshman that she had been for the past few weeks. So with some effort, Cecelia hitched up what she hoped was an endearing smile and nodded in what she supposed was a cutely apologetic fashion, stumbling forward through the snow.

Mags was sitting at a small table with four or five other girlfriends that Cecelia didn’t really know. A few weeks into their time at the Chicago University, Mags had made plenty of new acquaintances and spoke to them as if they had been friends for years. She had that way about her, and was perpetually outgoing and ingratiating. Cecelia did not. Her acquaintances tended to stay just that, usually either not noticing her at all, or mistaking her shyness for aloofness or standoffishness.

As an inevitable result, Mags and Cecelia had started to have divergent differences imperiling their friendship.
At the beginning of the school year, Mags had been as excited as Cecelia that they were attending the same university, but now, in their current experience at this very club, it was clear that Cecelia’s introversion had begun to take its toll on a thirteen-year friendship. To keep from completely losing her temper, Mags had taken it upon herself to treat Cecelia as, rather than a burden, a project. The Cecelia Project. It involved makeovers and increasing attempts to encourage extroversion, but Cecelia knew it was for the best.

“Guys, will you give us a minute?” Mags
called over the music, having sighted Cecelia’s haltingly awkward approach. Her friends stood in a giggling group and proceeded to the dance floor, leaving Mags and Cecelia at a table littered with purses, silky wraps, and fluorescent cocktails.

As soon as Cecelia sat down on one of the
high stools beside her, Mags flew into an erratic tirade of questions. “Why on earth did you stay out there for so long? Don’t worry, it’ll be fun in here! But why are you still wearing your coat?” she lowered her eyes in what she clearly thought was a jokingly seductive gaze as she purred: “No one will be able to see you.” Not waiting for Cecelia’s permission, she stood and tugged Cecelia’s winter coat from her shoulders.

“It was cold,” Cecelia answered lamely.

“Ceecee,” Mags sighed, returning to her seat and carelessly dropping Cecelia’s coat onto an empty stool. “Well, at least you look okay.”

The club was filled with narrow mirrors, like some kind of dark, liquored-up funhouse, and Ceecee looked at herself dubiously
, attempting to verify Mags’ compliment. What she saw, though, was what she expected – having left home, she was now too thin, in addition to being too short, her hair still a boring, dull brown and eyes boring, dirty-looking brown. She had worn a little make-up, and borrowed one of Mags’s silk dresses. Purple and just below thigh-length, it clung to the few curves that she had. Her feet already hurt from the high-heeled boots she wore, and she’d really only walked a few blocks.

“I guess,” was her
reluctant assessment.

“You know, I’m not trying to make it hard for you,” Mags said.
Cecelia thought this was perhaps the thousandth time Mags had reminded her of this in the past few weeks, but somehow managed to keep from rolling her eyes as Mags continued: “I mean, I’m not trying to force you into anything, I think this would be good for you, is all. Participating and stuff. I’m not saying, like, meet a guy or whatever. I’m just saying, dance and have a good time?”

“Um,” Ceecee responded, distracted by the
activity of the club. It was gloomy, the air hazy with smoke, flashing lights and gyrating bodies at the dance floor a few feet away. The noise made it hard to hear anything that Mags was saying over the near-deafening beat, and Cecelia found it difficult to concentrate on anything with the flares of light, which blazed in sickening contrast to the music’s rhythm.

“Look, sit here and watch tonight? I’ll keep an eye on you, too, in case someone bothers you,” Mags said
.

“Okay,” Ceecee replied, still watching the dancers
with rapt fascination.

“I’m not kidding. There’s some … weird guys here,” Mags said
, her brow furrowed.

“Okay.”

With that, Mags turned and walked to the dance floor. Once her friend was among the mass of dark bodies, Cecelia lost sight of her.
Do they ever get tired?
Cecelia wondered, transfixed. The dancers continued to move hypnotically to the music, with almost inhuman ease and fluidity. Some seemed locked at the hips and lips, which made Ceecee feel warm and uncomfortable at the same time. When she looked down at the table with embarrassment, she saw a flute of golden liquid appear in front of her.

“Wh
at…?” she asked, turning to see the bartenders’ receding figure.

“Some
one sent it to you,” he said over his shoulder, before disappearing into the darkness.

Confused, Cecelia scanned the room. N
o one made eye contact. Most of the crowd – for that’s what they were now, a crowd – was wrapped up together in the giddiness of alcohol, drugs, and sex, none of which she’d had much experience with.

With that thought in mind, she took an experimental sip from the flute, watching herself in the mirror to make sure she did so in at least a somewhat sophisticated manner. She
had guessed that it was champagne; at least, it tasted a lot like what her parents served at her high school graduation party not too long ago. The bubbles immediately went up her nose, and she sneezed, accidentally sloshing some of the champagne from the flute.
So much for sophistication
. 

“Bless you,” a deep and velvety voice murmured near her ear.

Cecelia jumped, spilling more champagne. “Jeez!” she exclaimed, setting the glass down in the puddle of its contents atop the table.

“Jeez?” the voice queried, and its owner moved to sit across from her
, removing the wraps and purses from the table, out of the reach of the rapidly spreading liquid. Cecelia didn’t even move to help him; she was too busy staring at the self-assured stranger. He was tall, with dark hair, high cheekbones framing wide, piercing blue eyes. His lips were curled upwards in exaggerated amusement, revealing perfectly white teeth. He was handsome, and from the look of that smile, Cecelia decided that he knew it.

“Yeah, that was – unexpected.” Cecelia snapped
, her bewilderment turning to irritation.

“I am sorry,” he returned,
tilting his head to gaze at her.

Cecelia caught her breath.
She couldn’t tell whether he was messing with her or not, his features were so implacable.

“It’s fine,” she admitted
, deciding to play it safe. He smiled again, and she looked down immediately, incapable of meeting his eyes. There was that warm feeling again, and she could swear her skin was burning where his gaze touched it.
He’s definitely messing with me
, she decided.
Hot guy messing with a shy girl only half as attractive as he is, it’s cruel.

“Did you send the …” (she realized she didn’t completely trust that it was champagne. “… drink?” she finished
clumsily, staring at her hands on the table and wishing she was Mags.
If I was Mags, I’d be able to tell him just what I thought of him!

“I did,” he said. “Did you like it?” His voice was so soft,
but somehow Cecelia could easily hear him over the pounding, throbbing music, his velvet tones cleanly cutting away all the background noise as if he had simply turned down the volume on the surrounding world.

Stop it, stop letting him play games with you!
Cecelia reprimanded herself.

“Well, I don’t actually drink that much.”
Ha!
She allowed herself an inner, triumphant shout.

“Do you dance, then?” he asked.

             
What?
This was getting too unbelievable, now. Cecelia looked up to see that the speaker was the very picture of honesty and sincerity, his hands neatly folded on the table before him.

             
“No,” she answered firmly.
If that doesn’t give him the message, nothing short of a tasing will.
Still, his eyes caught and held hers, and she saw that their icy depths now glittered with unnerving amusement.

             
“And why is that? Do you not know how, or do you question my motives?” His tones were full of good-natured humor, and he was smiling that inviting smile.

             
“Mostly the latter but some of the former.” Cecelia informed him, hoping he grasped the finality of her statement as she added, “Listen, my friend will be getting back soon.”

             
“That’s upsetting. About not knowing how and about questioning my motives. But no, I’m afraid she won’t be.”

             
“It’s never seemed important to learn,” Cecelia retorted, a fiery anger leaping inside her chest. “What do you mean Mags won’t be getting back soon?”

             
“She’s dancing with my friend, Devon. But I disagree, you know, I think it’s crucial to know how to dance.” His eyes were magnetic, now, and Cecelia felt more uncomfortable than ever. She couldn’t handle this whole concept of having two conversations at once, and she wished her anger or frustration could override her unprecedented attraction.

             
“Why?” she asked, her emotions stronger than her willpower.

             
“To which part?” he inquired.

             
“Dancing. I mean, knowing how to dance. I guess she’s probably dancing with your friend because she thinks he’s cute or something.” Cecelia clarified, trying her best to sound unconcerned.

             
His smile widened.
Damn it
, Cecelia cursed inwardly.
Now he knows. I’ve asked him a question – and I’ve ruined it. He was pursuing me and now he probably think I’m pursuing him. Ugh!