Page 44 of Jack Frost
"Beautiful isn't a strong enough word." He steps forward, and suddenly I'm burning up inside the dress, and my lungs draw tighter with every breath. Those eyes of his—they're mesmerizing, like the azure sweep of Antarctic ice. "You look glamorous," he says, "and graceful."
"Stop it," I whisper, because I'm blushing hotter and I don't want to sweat in this beautiful dress—
His hands slide over my bare shoulders, cool and soothing. "Relax. You'll do great at this thing. Everyone will be watching you now, admiring you."
Oh god. "Maybe I don't want that?" Maybe I'm going to have an anxiety attack, right now, in this exquisite dress, with this exquisite man standing in front of me, calling mesublime, of all things—
Jack examines my face for a second. "Okay then. Take the gown off and go put on those smoky clothes from last night—those pants that hug that cute little butt of yours, and the shirt that slides off your shoulders—did you think I didn't notice?" He winks. "You looked just as enticing in that as you do in this. Although, speaking objectively, this ensemble might be more socially appropriate for the event we're about to attend. Can you turn around? I want to see how your ass looks in this dr—" His words cut off as I smack him in the face with a pillow.
"I'm getting my camera," I growl, stalking into the bedroom. But I can't help the big stupid grin on my face, because he gets me. He switched from romantic earnestness to inappropriate teasing, and that's exactly what I needed—to be piqued just enough that my anxiety eased.
I love him.
Oh hell. I love him so much.
No. No. I can't think about this right now.
Focus on the benefit. Professional. Poised. Taking videos, networking. Eyes on the future.
With a deep breath, I return to the living room, where Jack is waiting with mischief in his eyes. "Emery, darling, would you kiss me again? I forgot my lipstick and I thought maybe I could borrow some of yours—"
"Hush." I sweep past him, out into the hall.
"Good goddess, look at that view," he crows. "I think I'll walk behind you all night."
"Do I need to hit you again?"
"Please. It's very exciting. Or if you have a knife handy, you could hold it to my throat. I hear that's considered romantic in some circles."
I stare over my shoulder at him. "What the hell circles do you hang out in?"
"The fun ones?"
Auxesia's word flit through my mind:Dozens of women before you. He tired of them quickly.When I speak, my voice is stiff as hard-frozen snow. "And which of your dozens of previous girlfriends—or boyfriends—held knives to your throat?"
"Dozens? No. Three girls, and no boyfriends."
I spin around, glaring. "Auxesia said you'd been with dozens of women. You expect me to believe you've only been withthreewomen in your two-hundred-plus years?"
"Yes." His expression is open, honest, clear as the sea beneath the ice floes.
A door down the hall opens. Jack and I move toward the stairs together, our silence a mutual agreement to discuss this later.
He has a car ready—a sleek BMW, brand-new and all-electric. When I slide inside, I feel as if I've stepped into a spaceship instead of a car. I don't think I've ever ridden in something this fancy before. The sheer excess of the vehicle causes me a twinge of guilt. How much energy, how many resources went into its creation? But I quiet my own inner protest, reminding myself that at least it's electric. Cleaner. A step in the right direction.
Jack hops into the driver's side. "I'll drive there, but you get to drive back, okay?"
"What? Oh, no. I'm not driving this thing. What if I wreck it?"
"Insurance, baby." He slaps the dash. "No problem."
We glide out of the parking lot, heading for the benefit venue downtown, and Jack picks up the conversation as if we never ended it. "Now then, to answer your question in a little more detail—I've kissed about a dozen women, but I've only slept with three, all of them before my transformation. Even when I'm in my human aspect, there are telltale signs I can't disguise. I can't have sex with humans without them noticing that I'm different."
"So you must be—pretty horny then." I look out the window to hide my blush.
"I have two hands, don't I? I can take care of myself well enough." Maybe he means it to sound casual, rakish, but there's a hollowness to his tone that pierces my heart. "But I won't lie, I do miss being touched, or touching someone who won't fear me or give me away. Not that anyone would believe them if they tried to tell my secret—but they'd probably end up institutionalized and I'd feel guilty for ruining their lives. It's a whole thing." He laughs, short and mirthless.
I pity him, I do—but I won't sleep with him out of pity, or a one-sided love. If we're going to do this, I need to know what he feels for me, beyond the shadow of a doubt. How on earth am I going to figure that out?
