Fire and Ice: A New Adult Erotic Romance (4 page)

His thumb strokes my throat, explores the hollow between my collarbones. “Problem is, I keep picturing pigtails and braces, not a woman who speaks three languages.” His mouth moves from my ear, along my cheekbone, to where, at last, his lips meet mine.

We kiss, tongues meeting, exploring, slow, intimate, heat building, a longing centering deep inside me. And I think: yes, we should take this slow if this is what slow feels like.

“Also, you know your way around a French kiss,” he adds, his voice barely above a whisper.

“The advantage of being trilingual,” I say.

“And then, of course, you landed on my lap.” He curves his hands over my hips. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking of that, what you feel like against me.”

“I haven’t either,” I confess.

“If you’d stayed three seconds longer.” He pulls back, just enough so I can see those dark eyes, then presses his hips into mine. “It would’ve been embarrassing, for all.”

He is hard against me. The trousers of his tuxedo are expertly tailored, and there is very little I need to imagine. I reach a hand down, stroke, and I’m rewarded with his groan.

“Embarrassing like that?”

“Just like that.” In retaliation, his hand inches lower and soon his fingers find the slit in my bridesmaid skirt. It’s a daring look, the slit reaching to mid-thigh, the style that Athena chose specifically for this sort of occasion.

“If you can’t have fun at the reception in this,” she told us. “You’re not trying hard enough.”

The skirt falls away, exposing the top of my stocking, the lace band that holds it in place—just barely—and the bare skin above that. Further up, he’ll discover red silk bikinis. Some of the other bridesmaids have gone commando, but this is not something I plan to tell George.

His mouth finds my throat the moment his fingertips meet skin. He inches his other hand up the bodice, beneath the bolero jacket, and discovers my nipple is already hard beneath the velvet that covers my breasts. And that swath of silk between my legs?

Already wet.

“Jesus,” he murmurs against my ear, his fingers toying with the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. “Do you want me as badly as I want you?”

I manage a nod. When he brushes between my legs, he knows I’m not lying. His touch is so hot; I’m so hot. At last, like all the ice inside me has melted. I can’t help it. I whimper.

“Peri.” He eases his hand away.

“No!”

And now he chuckles, his palm against me, an easy back and forth that will drive me to distraction.

“It’s just … been a while, is all,” I say.

“Oh. I see.” His hand stills, his words grow more serious. “Mr. dark and gloomy?”

I give a halfhearted laugh. “Yes. Him.”

“He’s the past.”

It’s not a question, but I answer anyway. “Very much.”

“Did he hurt you?”

This is a question, and one my mouth is unwilling to answer. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

“Then we won’t,” he says. “We’ll pretend he doesn’t exist. We’ll pretend the reception doesn’t exist, although I’m pretty sure I have some sort of best man obligations I haven’t fulfilled.”

“I’m probably supposed to be helping you with those.”

His lips find my temple, his words spoken against my skin, his lips unbearably hot. “Do you think they’ll mind if we slip away for a bit?”

“I think they’re expecting it.”

George laughs again, quiet, controlled. “We think alike.”

He adjusts my skirt, straightens my jacket. His fingers are laced with mine, and we have taken the first steps away from the reception, the music, the chatter, when footfalls echo behind us.

“There you guys are!” David stands at the threshold of the reception area, light from the party silhouetting his form. He braces an arm against the wall, his other hand against his midsection as if he’s sprinted through the entire lodge, searching for us.

“Athena?” I call out. “Is she okay?” I can see no other reason for the panic that tenses David’s shoulders.

“Yes, yes, she’s fine, but—”

“But what?” My mind canvases all potential problems. Dinner was superb, the cake gorgeous and melt-in-your mouth. All that’s left is dancing, drinking, hooking up. I can’t imagine what might go wrong. Then it hits me. Not what, but who.

“Tell me Caleb isn’t doing anything.”

“I, well … about that,” David begins.

He doesn’t have to finish; whatever it is, it’s bound to be awful. Whatever it is, only I can stop it. I squeeze George’s fingers, just once, and cast him a quick glance. Oh, it’s almost unbearable—the concern in his dark eyes, the worry that carves lines around his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him. And I am so very sorry, for hurting George, for wasting months of my life, for allowing someone to cast their shadow over me. “I need to go. I can’t let him … I mean, it’s Athena’s wedding.”

I pull away, hike up the skirt of my bridesmaid dress, and dash down the hall. I don’t turn around. I know if I do, I’ll throw myself into his arms. But that won’t help. That will only make me a party to Caleb’s poisoning.

At the edge of the dance floor, I let my skirt plummet and the velvet swishes around my ankles. I march across the parquet. I still long for a sword, but for this battle, I don’t need one.

I am going to find Caleb.

Chapter Seven

CALEB IS STANDING at the dessert buffet, talking to Miriam.
Innocently
talking, he’d protest, if I felt the slightest urge to ask. I don’t. Still, my throat tightens. Whatever he’s said to her will get back to Athena. And God only knows what he’s said. To Miriam. To others. How could I’ve been so stupid to leave him alone, unsupervised?

I’ve trudge through this muck so many times, I simply don’t want to explain, even to Athena. I know she’ll let me off easy. Her little sister. And maybe that’s the problem. I’m the problem. The easy way isn’t an option anymore.

I collect odd glances as I cross the dance floor. Couples stop gyrating as I pass, and a certain amount of dread fills my stomach.

I approach the dessert table. Caleb fumbles with the plate of cheesecake he’s holding, then sets it down. Miriam plants a hand on her hip and thrusts it in my direction.

“I didn’t know you two were getting engaged,” she says, a lilt to her voice.

I point my chin at Caleb. “Neither did I.”

“I meant it as a surprise,” he says, “but I’m having a hard time keeping a secret.”

To her credit, Miriam looks like she might gag. “I’ll leave you two, I’m sure you have loads to talk about.” She sashays past, pausing long enough to whisper in my ear.

“He has a very hard time keeping a secret,” she says, “and you’ve had a very hard time keeping your hands off the best man.”

Oh
. That explains the looks everyone is giving me. Yes, that makes sense. Caleb has painted himself as the devoted fiancé, while I’m the tramp who’s busy hooking up with the best man.

“So I’m the slutty little sister.”

Miriam raises an eyebrow. “You said it, not me. But here’s my response: catch and release.”

I follow her gaze to where George is standing, near the open bar on the opposite side of the dance floor.

“That.” She nods toward Caleb. “Makes him.” A nod toward George. “Fair game.”

None of this is necessary. I’m already clear on her intent. If I weren’t the spectacle of the moment, everyone at the reception would be clear on her intent. And she’s off. Poor George, I think. He has no idea he’s in season.

I turn my attention to Caleb. He gives me a smirk. Transport me back in time, and I would tell you his smile is ironic and knowing. He sees through everyone’s hypocrisy. Today I wonder why he can’t love one single thing in earnest—other than himself.

“Leave,” I say.

“Excuse me?”

“I want you to leave this wedding. I want you to leave the resort, the state, my life. Leave. Now.”

“Whoa, can’t we just talk about this?”

I’m not armed for battle, not one of words; I’m also not ready to make a scene during my sister’s wedding, so I let him lead me to the dance floor. Keep the peace. Keep the peace. Until midnight. Until David whisks Athena upstairs after the New Year is rung in. So I dance. With Caleb. George, I notice, is dancing with Miriam. Caleb notices too.

“Fickle,” is his one word verdict. “All pretty boys are.”

He’s one to talk. “I still want you to leave,” I say.

“Look, I’ve done a lot of thinking since you walked out. You’re right. I was a bastard. I behaved like a little boy, a first-class asshole. But everything is different now.”

“I don’t see how it could be,” I say, “and I still want you to leave.”

“What else do you want me to say? That you were right and I was wrong? Because I’ll say it. I’ll admit that life is shitty without you. I can’t manage. Why do you think I flew out here at the last minute? Do you have any idea how expensive that is?”

“You should’ve saved your money.”

“I did it for you.”

“No. You did it for
you
.”

His grip on my arms loosens. I take a step back. I can’t actually escape, because I can’t leave him alone at my sister’s wedding. The music shifts, the strains familiar, romantic.
As Time Goes By
, from
Casablanca
.

“They’re playing our song,” he says.

Once upon a time, it was. Caleb took me to see
Casablanca
on our first date. I loved it; Caleb dissected it during our walk back to the dorms, criticizing everything from the writing to the direction to the fact it was, what he considered, 1940s propaganda. He even harped on Ingrid Bergman’s eyebrows.

“But I thought you’d like it,” he had said.

Back then, I’d heard nothing but consideration. It’s funny how easy it is to confuse that with condescension.

The glitter ball above the dance floor has gone crazy, throwing stars across the parquet. Whoever mans the spotlight has also gone crazy, zooming the light about, highlighting Caleb, then me, the glare dazzling my eyes, making it hard to see, to think, to figure out what might happen next. Couples step back, anticipation on their faces. We stand in the middle of the floor, commanding all the attention,
stealing
all the attention.

In one of the spotlight’s passes, I detect the bulge in Caleb’s suit coat pocket. It’s the size and shape of a jewelry box, the perfect size for a ring. His knees quiver. The look on his face? Like nothing I’ve ever seen. He is determined to do this thing, to propose. He knows I won’t—I can’t—refuse. I will not spoil Athena’s wedding with a scene. He’s counting on that. And once I’ve said yes?

He’s just played his trump card.

And I have no way of winning.

I scan the dance floor. Athena is snug in David’s arms, the way it should be. Miriam still has George in her clutches, and perhaps that’s the way it should be as well. George set me on fire, but it wasn’t enough to melt all the ice I’ve built up inside.

Ice. Yes, I think. My answer is in the ice.

“All right,” I say to Caleb. “If you won’t leave, then I’ll will.” It’s impossible to propose to someone who physically isn’t present.

Before he can stop me, I push through the crowd. If he truly wants me, he’ll deal with it; he’ll follow. He’ll propose to me in the snow, in the ice, in the cold. He’ll propose where no one can see him, praise him. I’m out the balcony door, down the flight of steps, and on the path that leads to the dock. I don’t walk quickly, but my strides are sure.

There, at the dock’s end, floodlights turn night into day, illuminate the snow and ice. The hole they’ve cut into the lake looks dark and endless.

I join the line of those waiting for their polar bear swim. I slip off my dyed satin pumps. I hang the little velvet jacket on a post. A man behind me helps with the zipper on my skirt.

“Thanks,” I say, the frigid air stealing my breath.

“My pleasure.”

I step from my skirt, roll the stockings down my legs, and in nothing but silk bikinis and velvet bodice, wait my turn.

“It’s cold,” the man at the end of the dock tells me.

I give him a look that I hope conveys how unnecessary his warning is.

“It’s a shock. But you’re in and out right away, and we’ve got guys standing by.”

I nod.

“Ready?” he says.

I am. My toes leave the dock. I jump out as far as I can. I am reckless and wild. The moment before my head plunges beneath the water, Athena’s shriek slices the air.

“She can’t swim!”

* * *

But I can. In the months after I left Caleb, I took lessons. There’s a special humiliation to this. Three-year-olds look cute paddling around in flotation devices. Adults do not. I stuck with it, as did two of my classmates, a widower in his seventies and a housewife nearing fifty. Like me, they both used the water to escape.