Page 25 of Jack Frost
But my entire body is playing traitor to my words. My skin and nerves are practically vibrating, and my blood races hot through my veins, impelled by my throbbing heart.
Jack glares at me until I lower my gaze to my food. It's too tasty to ignore, and I try to enjoy it despite the tempest of emotion inside me. I'm not even sure what I'm feeling right now. Confusion, irritation, anxiety—those I know. We're old friends. But there's a trembling, aching soreness too—a twinge of pain so sharp it's almost a thrill—it's both and neither, unidentifiable and dreadful and delightful. I had silly flutters with my exes, sure, but I never feltthis. This is something deep and raw, waking up, surging toward the surface. I don't dare look it in the face because I want so badly for it to be beautiful and real but what if it's hideous and false?
When I finally dare to peek at Jack again, he has veiled the blaze of those blue eyes. They're resigned now, almost sad. "How's the food?" he asks softly, like an apology.
I reply with an "mmm" that seems to satisfy him.
Slowly, bit by bit, I tell him about my day, until we've both relaxed into the flow of conversation. When we're done eating, I collect the plates and head for the sink, intending to clean up. It's only fair, after he cooked for me. And then I have to figure out how to kick a supernatural stalker out of my apartment so I can get some sleep.
"What do you think you're doing?" Jack's frosty breath ghosts across the back of my neck.
"Cleaning up."
"I'd like to take care of that for you." His soft, cool voice slithers right into my core, tingling in all the little places I haven't touched in way too long. My heartbeat goes quick and crooked.
Gritting my teeth, I turn on the water and squeeze soap across the plates. Jack's hand slips over my right one, attempting to steal the sponge, but I smack him away. "Go rest some more."
He snaps his fingers, and with a scintillating flash the water streaming out of the faucet freezes into a thick icicle stretching from spout to drain. The plates are encased in a thin sheet of ice, impossible to wash.
Savagely I wrench the faucet further to the "hot" side, grab the sprayer, and turn it on Jack. The blast of hot water catches him full in the chest, and he yelps, darting across the room. "Ow!"
His skin is barely pink from the heat, so he's not badly hurt; but his expression is one of such profound and dramatic offense that I can't help a giggle. I pinch my lips together to cut it short.
"That is the cutest sound I've heard you make." Jack's eyes glitter as he stalks toward me. The air stirs around him, six-pointed crystalline flakes fluttering along his limbs. My breath catches, because he looked and acted so human this evening that I almost forgot how powerful he is. The breeze flows outward from him, across my cheeks and through the ends of my hair. He's an arm's length away now—closer, closer—I'm trapped in the corner by the sink, caged between the counter and Jack's body.
His eyes are a beautiful compulsion, a pressure so overwhelming that I have to avert my own. My gaze drifts down his throat, across the T-shape of his clavicles and breastbone, down to the groove that runs between his abs. The robe he's wearing is so thin, and the knot looks so temptingly loose—my fingers dart for the long end, and with one quick tug the knot is undone, and the robe falls open.
His scent wafts to me—mint and evergreen, sea ice and the clean, crisp fragrance of snow. There's a faint azure tint to his skin in places, like under his pecs and along the slanted muscles of his abdomen.
And he's fully equipped. More than adequate for anything we might want to do—which is nothing. Absolutely nothing, because sex with a frost god would be ridiculous and weird and—
He hauls me toward him, his hand cupping the back of my skull, and I meet his mouth eagerly, my mind going blessedly blank for a moment as I simplyfeel. I feel everything—my skin sparkling with the delicious chill of him, my pulse pounding in my throat, his arm wrapped hard and fierce around my body.
With other men, moments like this have always consisted of heat and heavy limbs, the sweat and smell of all-too human bodies. But Jack—oh, Jack—he is all litheness and lean muscle and smooth, ocean-scented skin. His lips are marvelously soft, and the sweetness of his breath in my mouth refreshes my entire being, revitalizes me from tongue to toes in a way no espresso ever could.
But the niggling, gnawing voice of anxiety in my head won't shut up, won't let me enjoy the moment. I probably smell awful. I'm over-tired and overwrought. I shouldn't be kissing him back this desperately—shouldn't be doing this when I don't really want him in my life. I've always had trouble with anything being "just sex." For me, actions have intention, and meaning, and consequences, emotional and otherwise. I need to stop this. Now.
But—
One more kiss.
One more salacious sweep of his tongue through my mouth. One more moment in which I am pressed against every bit of his gorgeous, solid, perfectly naked body.
And then I force myself to push him away, to shape words that will put distance between us. "I need to shower, and sleep. You should go."
He blinks snow-flecked lashes at me, slow and dazed, the exhilaration in his eyes fading to comprehension.
A tremor races through me, because Ididmake the first move. I unfastened his robe, and I kissed him back. And I know that sometimes, once a woman brings a man this far, he won't stop, even if she asks.
But Jack pulls the robe's edges together and ties the belt carefully in place. "Of course. I'll go home and rest as well. I hope you don't mind if I return the robe later?"
"Sure."
"All right then. Good night, Emery."
He vanishes in a spray of icy wind, leaving behind more snow than usual.
The next morning I'm walking from my car toward the conservancy offices, sipping my coffee, when Jack pops up at my elbow. I startle violently, dropping the cup, which he catches and tucks back into my hand.
