Deep Kiss of Winter

by Kresley Cole

  She reached forward, stroking his erection through his pants as his head fell back. Eager to use her gloves, she murmured, “Take it out, Murdoch.”

  “It will freeze,” he said, facing her.

  “If it did, then I could suckle you at my leisure.”

  He groaned. “Would you?”

  “For hours. But for now, I’ll be sure to rub you really fast, keep it warm with friction.”

  With a hard shake of his head, he set her hand away. “I want to see you come first. When you’re like this. Want to see your face,” he said, moving to kneel between her legs. “Daniela, put your arms over your head. Part your thighs for me.”

  Following his commands, she eased her arms back, then spread her legs.

  “That’s it,” he rasped, his gaze riveted to her sex. He might as well have been petting her there, because her body responded.

  When he licked his lips, looking desperate to taste her, her hips rolled. What would his kiss be like? Would he be gentle with her? Or ravenous . . . ?

  “Wider,” he grated, and she let her knees fall open. With a harsh groan, he lowered his head to run his face alongside her thigh, never touching her. But she could feel his breath, making her tremble.

  Over and over his breaths trailed up and down her thighs as his gloved hands fondled her breasts. She was shameless, undulating for his mouth, nearly ready to endure the burn just for a brief touch of his tongue.

  “I want to kiss you so much.” His mouth was an inch from her sex, his fogging breaths tickling her clitoris. “Spread you before me and lick you till you scream for me.”

  “Murdoch,” she moaned. “I can’t take much more of this.”

  “Do you want me to make you come?” he asked, leaning up.

  “Yes!”

  “You told me the ice feels wicked against your skin.” He reached to his side and plucked a long, thick icicle from a twig. “Were you hinting to me?”

  His eyes were dark and fierce. Hers went wide. Ah, gods, did he plan to touch her with that?

  She held her breath . . . until he grazed the smooth end over her cheek, making her shiver.

  “It doesn’t melt against your skin,” he murmured, seeming fascinated as he traced it lower to her parted lips.

  With her gaze holding his, her tongue darted out to lick the tip just before she sucked the phallus-shaped ice between her lips.

  A strangled sound broke from his chest. Heady power.

  When she relinquished it with a last darting lick, he skimmed it down her chest to the beginning swell of her breasts. They were heaving with excitement, her nipples begging for attention.

  With the ice, he circled one taut peak, then the other, until her back was arching up to meet each frozen caress. So sensual, so perfect. “Yes, Murdoch . . . clever vampire.” Now he was using his mind, delighting her by taking her here, pleasuring her body with the ice.

  She swallowed when he trailed it along her torso, past her navel. He repeatedly teased it just above her curls, making her undulate for it, sometimes holding it just out of reach to play with her. “Do you want this?”

  “Yes!”

  “How badly?” He smoothed the edge of the ice down until it was just against her aching clitoris.

  “Please, please . . .” When he began lazily rolling it over the bud, she gasped, then moaned low.

  “My female likes this.” His smoldering gaze was rapt on his ministrations.

  “Ah, gods, yes!” Again and again, he worked it back and forth, sending her closer each time. Between ragged breaths, she said, “More, Murdoch.”

  He skimmed her slick opening, making her cry out with bliss. Lightning streaked across the sky.

  Their gazes met; his held a question. “Yes, do it! Inside me . . .”

  Then . . . he slipped it into her wetness. She arched her back, moaning with abandon. Cold. Exquisite.

  Emboldened by her response, he began languidly thrusting the phallus inside her sheath.

  Her gloved hands dug into the snow, her head thrashing. She’d never been brought to come by another.

  I’m about to be.

  He’d meant to tease her. To send her out of her mind with pleasure.

  But now his mind was in turmoil, his shaft rampant in his pants, about to erupt.

  “Don’t stop . . .” When she rolled up her hips to drive the ice deeper, his own hips bucked uncontrollably in response.

  Sex. Want sex. Want to plunge hard into her. He needed to replace the ice with his cock so badly he thought he’d go mad.

  “Murdoch,” she moaned. “I’m coming!” As she climaxed, her body writhed in a wanton display—and he felt the beginning tremors in his shaft.

  Her cries made him frenzied. Now, for the first time, this encounter wouldn’t be about building his reputation so he could secure pleasure for himself.

  This was going to be rough and unplanned and dirty. Because he was about to spill in his pants.

  As soon as she pushed his hand away, spent, he said, “You’re going to make me come, Bride.” He tore open his zipper, took his cock in hand, and almost went off. He had to squeeze down tight on the head to stop his seed. “Do you want to?”

  She breathed, “Oh, yes.”

  “Then stroke it.” He didn’t recognize his own snarling voice.

  As he held on to the head, she cupped the shaft in her fingers, running her fist up and back.

  “Ah, God, again!”

  On her second stroke, he widened his knees, thrusting up to her grip. His balls drew tight, readying, swelling. “That’s it. . . .”

  On the third stroke, he removed his hand.

  At once, he began ejaculating in her fist, the crown of his cock steaming with hot seed. So fucking good . . . feels. . . A brutal groan broke from his chest as he watched her milking him steadily, pumping his semen out into the snow, again and again.

  Once she’d wrung him dry, he collapsed onto his back, hurriedly tucking his rapidly cooling shaft back in his pants.

  Unable to help himself, he turned on his side to stare at her. Daniela the Ice Maiden had so much fire . . .

  A man could get burned.

  If I’m not wary, I’m going to become dangerously obsessed with a woman.

  He’d bragged to her that sexually he’d been able to last as long as he pleased—because he always had been. Yet within hours of his boast, he’d almost come in his pants. He’d told her that he never lost control—she’d made him totally fucking lose control.

  She was smiling, glancing up from under her icy lashes. “You should probably go get my things before dawn breaks in New Orleans. I left two suitcases in my car. It’s a red X6, parked near the corner of Dauphine and St. Philip.” She had that optimistic air about her again, her eyes glittering like the crystals on her face.

  Her expression reminded him of the hopeful one she’d evinced their first morning together. He stiffened, reacting to it as poorly as he had then.

  She noticed his sudden tension. “Murdoch, we had an agreement.”

  How did she turn this around on me? He felt like scratching his head in bafflement. I control situations with women. “And how are you to stay here?”

  “You know I don’t eat. I don’t need or want heat. This is ideal for my needs,” she said, her tone growing absent. She seemed distracted, her gaze fixed on the drifts in the distance.

  “Fine, suit yourself.” He stood, buttoning his shirt. “Though I don’t know when you think I’ll be able to return.”

  She blinked up at him. He thought he spied a brief flash of hurt in her eyes, but it vanished so swiftly he decided he imagined it— especially when she said, “Vampire, after you fetch my stuff, I’m not asking you to return at all.”

  With a scowl, he traced back to the Quarter and found her car just where she’d said it’d be. He traced inside to grab her bags.

  Back out on the street, holding two suitcases, he thought to himself: My God, what have I done?

  TWENTY-FOUR

/>   WHILE HE WENT TO COLLECT HER THINGS, Danii slipped on her dress, then explored her new hideout.

  Murdoch had modernized the lodge to a degree. There was running water, lighting, plumbing, and a fairly new generator. She found bedding and towels.

  In every spacious room, the timeless sculptures, decorations, and brickwork had proved impervious to cold. Which meant this place was perfect for her. She was a nester. Her star sign decreed nesting, and she was helpless to resist.

  The first thing it needed was . . . ice.

  When he returned with her bags, Murdoch gruffly showed her to a guest room, acting like he’d made a huge concession by letting her stay. But he also appeared a bit wild-eyed as he glanced from her to the suitcases and back. She supposed BP would be worse in him since he’d been single for so long.

  “Do you have something in your bags to write my number on?” he asked her.

  “Yes, but you can just tell me. I’ll remember.”

  As soon as he uttered the last of the digits, he hastily said, “But keep in mind that I’ll be extremely busy following our leads and hunting Ivo.”

  She gave him her best ice queen impression. “Of course, I understand.” But did she? If she were honest, she would acknowledge that deep down, she’d hoped to convince him to stay here with her.

  Which regrettably hadn’t panned out. But no matter what, she still had this prime place of safety to hide out for a time—and that’s what really counted. If he didn’t want to experience more of the exquisite pleasure they’d just shared, then it was his loss.

  Which means it’s mine as well—

  “Good bye, then,” he said, tracing away before she could say anything else.

  Once she was alone, she gave a casual shrug as if she wasn’t hurt. But fooling him was easier than fooling herself. Ignoring the pang in her heart, she proceeded to decorate, figuring it would be many days before she saw him again. . . .

  Hours later, she lay on the stripped bed in the master room, eschewing the smaller chamber he’d stuck her in. A delightfully chill wind blew, rushing in through the outer doors and windows—which she’d opened to the freezing night.

  She was fatigued from her labors, but pleased with her progress. Icicles embellished all the woodwork and doorways, and ice sheets covered each of the walls.

  Yet then she frowned. The glazed walls looked faceless, the flawless ice seeming barren to her.

  Those unbroken sheets bothered her, like an off smell or a discordant sound would. And the irritation was sharp, as strong as the pull she’d been feeling to this place.

  She rose and crossed to the bedroom window, looking at the dark woods surrounding the lodge, then back inside at the walls. Out, then in. Wrong.

  Unable to stand it any longer, she fashioned a spear of ice, galvanizing it with layer after layer, honing it.

  Once finished, she took her makeshift chisel to the wall, stabbing the glaze. Then again. And again, until peculiar markings began to take shape.

  Murdoch would not return to Siberia. I’ve made it seven days, I can make it seven more.

  He’d finished chasing his leads for the night, and dawn was approaching—Lukyan and Rurik had already returned to Mount Oblak.

  But it would be dark in Siberia.

  Lulls in action were dangerous for Murdoch. They made the temptation to return to Daniela harder to resist.

  No, he refused. Because of the blooding, he was just supposed to succumb? To tolerate this total loss of power? Welcome a complete personality rewrite?

  He was determined not to go to her like some lovesick lad, especially since she obviously couldn’t have cared less when he’d been about to leave that last night. And she hadn’t called him once.

  Part of him resented how easily she’d manipulated him. Another part resented her encroachment. But that didn’t mean he had bachelor’s panic, as she’d accused—which, he’d noted, handily placed all the blame on him for this, while ignoring the difficulties she presented as a Bride.

  In any case, if a woman’s toothbrush was this age’s symbol of female encroachment, try two stuffed suitcases.

  So for the last week, he’d kept himself occupied, endeavoring not to think of her at all. With Lukyan and Rurik, he’d been following the leads she’d helped generate, closing in on Ivo with each one. He’d tried repeatedly to see Nikolai, but his brother was usually . . . engaged with Myst.

  During this time, Murdoch went to bed exhausted every day, hoping that he wouldn’t dream of Daniela. But he always did. And each time, that strange voice asked: What would you sacrifice? What would you do for her?

  He glanced at the lightening sky once more, feeling nearly powerless not to return to her, to check on how she was settling in, to see if he’d imagined the blue of her eyes or her crisp, clean scent.

  In his homeland, the fall came with a pounding rain, scouring the countryside. Then one morning the rain would be gone, and they would wake to a white landscape. The air would be briskly clean, carrying the slight tang of the nearby northern seas.

  Daniela smelled like those rare mornings. The ones he had never forgotten.

  Wait—maybe she hadn’t been able to recall his number. What if she’d wanted to contact him but couldn’t? He should go just to check on her. Yes, to make sure she had everything she needed. He traced back to the lodge.

  Murdoch’s jaw went slack at the scene that greeted him.

  The windows were all open and ice was . . . everywhere. She’d spun it all over the manor like a spider spins a web.

  He’d been raised on the Baltic in the seventeen hundreds. Keeping a home warm had been paramount. Yet now ice arched in the doorways, rounding out the square doorjambs. Icicles dangled from the ceiling and descended from the windows like curtains. The walls were covered in a white glaze, and she’d carved primitive-looking symbols into the ice.

  She had no right. Bachelors panicked over a toothbrush? Try having an otherworldly female leave a permanent ice storm in one’s hunting lodge.

  Who wouldn’t panic?

  And she was nowhere to be found. As he stalked from one empty room to the next, the level of disappointment he felt both staggered and perplexed him.

  When he reached his bedroom, he saw that she’d been sleeping there—she’d stripped the bed of all its blankets. Why would she stay here and not in the room where he’d initially put her bags?

  She’s been sleeping in my bed? That knowledge did something to him, touching some dark, primal drive within him. The thought of keeping his female protected within his property, in a stronghold won by his sword . . . aroused him.

  Sleeping in my bed.

  He gave himself a shake, then turned to one of her unpacked suitcases, finding a couple of erotic novels with titles that had him raising his brows and a collection of lingerie he’d be imagining on her for years to come. He picked up one of her silk nightgowns, inhaling her scent.

  Not surprising, he grew hard as rock. But his fangs also sharpened. Why was she the only one who tempted him to drink from the flesh? He’d never been tempted before her and hadn’t had the slightest urge all week until now.

  Setting the gown away, he opened the second bag. It was filled with containers of salt. What could she need so much of it for?

  He crossed to the dresser. Atop it sat her sat-phone, which he checked in case she’d been unable to contact him. Not a chance— fully charged, the ringer muted, the screen displaying numerous missed calls. He scrolled through her contacts, finding his number saved as VAMP PHONE. She’d could’ve called, but hadn’t.

  Tethered to the phone was a rugged-looking laptop, apparently ice-proof. At times, the world of the Lore proved boggling for him; the idea of internet capability in this lodge ranked right up there with the notion of an otherworldly ice being inhabiting it.

  Once he entered the bathroom, he discovered what she used the salt for. A container was opened beside the old fashioned bathing tub. Daniela needed salt so she wouldn’t freeze her bathwater
. He dimly thought, No wonder she smells like the sea.

  This was too bizarre to be believed. . . .

  The north wind gusted through the window, blowing snow inside. Without thought, he rushed forward to close the window, but it was frozen open.

  He stared out into the harsh, wintry night. She was out there, somewhere, the little Bride he could never touch. Everything about her, about this situation, was unfathomable to him.

  And all the ice was a blatant reminder that he could never drink her. You have blood lust for her. Leave this place.

  His chest felt like it had a band tightening around it. He traced away, out of breath and mystified by the female living in his manor.

  I’ll be damned if I ever return.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  MURDOCH GLANCED AT HIS WATCH YET AGAIN.

  The night was waning, and still he waited on Rurik and Lukyan. They were to meet here in the Quarter to investigate a new lead, and it wasn’t like Rurik to be late.

  Lulls in action were still dangerous for Murdoch—even after his ill-fated trip to the lodge a week ago. Yet he was determined to fight the unnatural pull toward Daniela. Yes, he’d experienced mind-blowing pleasure with her. But that just brought into relief how much he missed sex. The driving need, sweaty bodies writhing, hips pumping. And kissing. God, he missed kissing.

  No, there was no future with her. Monogamy was not his way. He’d seen it destroy better men than he was.

  And she iced my goddamned lodge.

  After leaving Rurik another message, Murdoch leaned against a light post. He caught the eye of an attractive brunette in a low-cut top. She cast him a lascivious smile, but all he could think was that she wasn’t a fraction as comely as Daniela. He turned away.

  In fact, over the last two weeks, he’d compared all women to Daniela, and without exception, they were all lacking.

  But at least they could potentially be touched.

  When his gaze wandered back over the female, she stared at him with undisguised interest. No, he hadn’t wanted to be blooded, but now that he was, he might as well enjoy it.