A Taste of Ice (The Elementals)

by Hanna Martine

  “I don’t understand.”

  She drew a deep breath. “I need someone else to tell me I’m good at something. To tell me what’s inside my head is worth sharing. Or even worth knowing.”

  Where on earth had that come from? She’d never said that out loud. She didn’t even know if she’d thought it before. His expression softened, and he was so beautiful she literally could not look at him too long in the bright sunlight.

  “But at the same time I’m freaking out because what’s going to go on those walls, what people may or may not buy, is exactly what’s in my head. And if people hate it, I’ll think they hate me. And then what will I have?”

  “You’ll have what you’ve always had. Is that so terrible?”

  “No.” But was it enough? When she compared her earliest work from six years ago to the canvases completed only a few months back, it was plain to her that her confusion and discontentment were getting worse, not better.

  “Ugh. Listen to me.” She tried to grin but knew how awkward it must have looked. “Do you get nervous cooking?”

  He pursed his lips and shook his head. “Is that all that’s bothering you?”

  She started to shuffle through the snow, tiny steps, feet together, to make a large figure eight. “I don’t think I like being paraded around. Michael, he…he’s selling me, not my art. And sometimes he’s using me to help himself out, too. That’s becoming more and more apparent. Like two days ago? He brought me to this lunch with a guy I was made to believe would buy my art, but it turned out I was, like, the fluffer for Michael’s big movie pitch.”

  “Have you said anything to him?”

  “And bite the hand that is, quite literally, feeding me?”

  “I see.”

  Did he? He turned and walked carefully toward a jumble of boulders at the ice edge. He scooped up snow, packed it into a ball, then set it down and started again, until he had a nice pile.

  “You throw those at me and we will have a serious disagreement.”

  The mischievous grin he tossed over his shoulder made her catch her breath. He faced her, grabbed one snowball, tossed it in a high arc, then grabbed another and another, until he had so many going in the air she lost count. The snowballs flew around in impossible ovals, seemingly multiplying then disappearing, defying gravity.

  At last, one by one, the snowballs fell to the ice in unceremonious plops. She applauded.

  “I remember you liked the juggler,” he said. “Did you forget about your show for a few minutes?”

  She gasped. “Yes. I did.”

  “Good.”

  He stood as still as the waterfall, his eyes like granite, searching her face. The intensity in them turned her to stone, too. Not even if the ice cracked and opened up beneath her did she think she could wrench herself away from his stare.

  He said, “I want to try again.”

  Somehow, she found her voice. “I think you’ve got the juggling thing down quite well.”

  “Not juggling.” He inhaled, shivering. “This.”

  He crossed the open space between them, his strides long and full of purpose. Like the ice didn’t exist. Before she had time to process what was happening, he drew her into his arms and kissed her. Instantly she saw stars. Instantly her arms swept around his waist.

  Though he held her tightly, as though that crack in the ice had indeed opened up and she was about to slip through, his mouth was achingly gentle. This was not the kiss against the Mexican restaurant wall—hard and hot, with pain spicing his tongue. This kiss moved slowly, softly. A deliberate opening and closing of his lips over hers. She tasted no pain this time, just a warm, moist mouth that erased all the chill from her body.

  He was holding back, testing his own waters. She would hold back, too. She’d let him give whatever felt right to him, because she’d take whatever he offered. So when his lips parted and his tongue slid against her own, she almost cried with joy. A little moan came up from her throat. He stiffened for a second and then sank into a deeper kiss, nudging their mouths wider, coaxing their tongues into a slow drag.

  Suddenly she knew this was greater than lust. For both of them. She felt it in the way he held her—the way he aligned his body with hers but didn’t crush her. Didn’t grind against her like the world was about to end and they were each other’s final screw. But neither did she. They stood there on the ice, clutching each other, mouths fused, the heat between them threatening to make spring come early.

  With a harsh groan he wrenched away, turned his face. But not before she saw the terrible grimace twisting his lips. Where did this frustration come from? This agony? He didn’t want to stop kissing her but it was like her mouth had turned to poison.

  He came back to her, pressed his forehead to hers. “It doesn’t mean I don’t want you,” he whispered. “You make me hard. You make me want things. Make me imagine more of what I can do to you…”

  Oh, God. Yes. This man who didn’t always speak so easily suddenly knew exactly what she wanted to hear. She’d sensed that power, that blatant honesty in him. He wanted her, but on his terms, and she was dying to know what those terms were. She wanted to destroy the shell he wore and kick the butt of whoever had done this to him. She wanted to hear more.

  Kissing seemed to be a truth serum. She’d kiss him for days, just to keep him talking. She’d lick out his words, make him tell her all his desires.

  He let out a strangled sound and stepped away, though it was clear he didn’t want to. Icy wind rushed between them. She didn’t want to give him another chance to run.

  “Come to my opening,” she blurted out.

  He shook his head. “I don’t usually get off work until eleven.”

  “It shouldn’t matter. They’ve arranged the ‘big unveiling’ for midnight since there are late-night screenings and Michael wanted as many people to be there as possible.” He looked completely dumbfounded. “Please. It would mean a lot to me. When I’m around you, I’m not nervous. When I’m with you, I feel like myself. And I…I would really love to have you there.”

  Oh, man, the hair flip. He stared at the ice for a long time. When he raised his head, his eyes burned silver. “For you, then.”

  Then he offered her his arm and she couldn’t help but feel like some monumental battle had just been won.

  TWELVE

  The Burned Man growled and shouted and cursed at Xavier’s back, but he held tight to Cat’s arm as they crossed the ice. He let the tirade go on and on, let the insults and demands fade into a great, evil blur. The words didn’t mean much to him now, because his desire was cooling and he had Cat’s strong warmth beside him. And because this time he had made her smile.

  He hadn’t intended to reach for his illusions, but to see her cheeks widen, her eyes fighting for brilliance with the snow…it had been worth it. If he had thought his own laughter the pinnacle of life, he’d been wrong. To give it to someone else—to give that to her—was far better.

  He’d been right to bring her to the lake. He’d started to doubt it in the wake of the mysterious phone call that may or may not have been from Gwen. If Cat had been Ofarian, he would have seen the magic in her eyes when she first saw the waterfall. If she’d been Ofarian, she would have touched the ice with her bare hand, for those people touched the element with terrible confidence and thought themselves better for it. Cat may not have known her parents, but the water didn’t know her either.

  That brought a whole new smile to Xavier’s lips.

  He didn’t let her go once they reached the snowy path. He didn’t release her hand as they crossed the parking lot and waited. When she climbed the steps into the empty bus he wrapped his fingers around her waist, and when they sat next to each other with their backs to the side window, this time he allowed their thighs to touch.

  The Burned Man materialized on the bench opposite. Just watching, hovering. Waiting for Xavier to weaken.

  He took off his gloves and unzipped his coat. So did she. Though his hand reste
d on his own knee, his pinkie finger brushed her jeans. He could feel the flex of her firm muscle underneath, hear the shallow way she breathed. He shut his eyes and avoided the Burned Man’s smirk.

  The memory of her mouth ran too strong. He could still sense the hot puff of her breath the moment right before he’d kissed her, could still feel the way she’d tightly clasped herself to him. Too much blood began to flow too quickly. The Burned Man snickered.

  Without warning, Cat stretched an arm across his body and touched his face. The chill of her fingers was strangely welcome. With a gentle insistence, she turned his face toward her. Her mouth touched his before he could protest or give himself a chance to fight the desire. She smelled of everything forbidden and lovely and delicious. The patient, sexual kiss ignited a flame inside him, which caught quickly and spread before he could contain it.

  It raged through him. It hardened him.

  That’s it. That’s it, the Burned Man urged.

  Xavier pulled away. Cat sighed deeply and dug her fingers into the hair behind his ear. She buried her cool face into the warm crook of his neck.

  “Xavier.” His own name vibrated against his skin. “I think about you. About us. Together.”

  Don’t say that, he silently told her. Keep going.

  He dipped his head and rubbed his cheek against hers.

  “I want this,” she whispered. “I want us.”

  She opened her thighs. Just a few inches, but the invitation pounded into his brain and fought with the Burned Man’s demands. Through the cacophony a single idea fought its way to the forefront and shouted in a clear, hopeful voice: What if Xavier gave her what she wanted but didn’t take anything for himself?

  His shoulder blocked her from the bus driver. When he slid his hand over to rest on her leg, she jumped. When his fingers tentatively curled around the underside of her knee, she exhaled. Her lips opened against his neck and started to travel upward, seeking his mouth, but he wouldn’t give it to her, fearing how it might skid him off course.

  He gripped her like he owned her. Pulled her legs open just a tad more. She made a high noise in the back of her throat and softened beneath him. Resistance completely fled her body.

  She’s yours, the Burned Man snarled.

  No, Xavier thought. Right now, I’m hers.

  He slid his hand higher up the inside of her thigh, inch by inch, the incremental rise in heat licking his fingers. When her hand came across and clamped on his upper thigh, he froze. Hissed through his teeth. With great pain and regret, he reached down and plucked her hand from his leg. Touching her was one thing; having her touch him was quite another. The former was a slow-burning ember, the latter a lit stick of dynamite.

  “No,” he said.

  “Sorry.” Even her whimper of frustration was sexy.

  He paused, mind churning. She vibrated with need under his hand and he was quickly becoming obsessed with how he affected her.

  “I want to touch you,” he murmured against her mouth. His hand slid all the way up her thigh and found the hottest place on her body, hidden behind the hard crease of her jeans. “Here.”

  She shuddered. “Yes.”

  His thumb grazed the button on her jeans. Flicked it open.

  The bus lurched, jolting him back into reality. Though the driver couldn’t see beyond Xavier’s body, at any time someone else could get on. Private versus public meant little to him, but it probably meant a lot to her. He moved to pull away, but her hand grabbed his forearm and held on. Kept him in place.

  “Keep going,” she whispered. Or was it just in his head? He had to make sure.

  “Say that again.”

  She clung to his arm. “Don’t…stop.”

  The zipper was cool and hard. He felt every tooth of it release, the tiny clicks reverberating all the way up his arm. Each one sounded like her name. Cat Cat Cat Cat. When the zipper was all the way down they both went motionless. Then, at the same time, she lifted her hips from the seat and his hand dove into her jeans and swept beneath her underwear. He’d never touched anything so wet or hot or soft. Had never known it was even possible for a woman to feel like that. His fingers slid right into her, palm cradling her like a fragile thing.

  Now what? Instinctually he’d known he’d wanted to be here, to touch her like this. She’d begged for it…but he’d never done this to a woman before. Had never even cared to. What exactly did Cat want him to do? Whatever it was, he’d do it.

  When she started to move, tiny circles against his fingers and palm, he caught on. Slowly, softly, he began to rub and stroke. A brand new sound left her mouth and curled into his ear. He’d never paid attention to what women sounded like before.

  Suddenly he wanted to tell Cat everything. How he loved how smooth and slick and yielding she felt beneath him.

  “Oh, God, Xavier.” She was trembling, her thighs quaking around his hand.

  One of her hands flailed around, looking for something to grab onto. It fell on his knee again and he let it, because all she was doing was holding on, digging in. The other scrabbled around on the hard, smooth plastic seat by her hip, her short nails tapping. Finally she grabbed hold of his hand down her pants, held on tightly, and moved him harder and faster. Harder and faster than he ever thought could possibly feel good to a woman. He had so much to learn.

  “No,” he said against her ear. “I want to do it.”

  He did. He wanted to make her come, right here on the bus. He wasn’t getting off the damn vehicle until he did.

  He reached around her shoulders and tapped her upper arm, silently telling her to give him the hand that covered his. She complied, and he laced their fingers together. Now she was all his. Open and waiting.

  He took up the pace and pressure she taught him. Hesitantly at first, then enthusiastically when she responded with a lovely whimper. When he thought it might be too much, that he was hurting her, she surprised him again by rocking even harder against his hand.

  Her head dropped back and he kissed her, pulling back only to murmur, in absolute honesty, “I love this. Doing this to you. Watching you.”

  It was easy to tell her these things. He’d been used to taking what he’d wanted. Even when the daily, nightmarish urges assaulted him, he would’ve said anything to convince a woman to sleep with him. After the Plant he could never, ever take someone who wasn’t willing, but he’d gotten used to speaking his mind. Only difference was, Cat was the first woman he enjoyed saying these things to. For her and her alone, he meant every word.

  Those candy eyes squeezed tightly shut. She went terribly still, as still as the frozen waterfall, then her whole body shuddered as if the thaw arrived suddenly, breaking through the ice. She was coming. For him. For a moment he just gazed at her in awe, then when she let out a little moan, he bent down and took her sounds into his own mouth. Swallowed them, tasted them. He kept going and going, feeding off the movement of her hips against his hand. More wetness, more heat filled his palm. The little muscles inside her clenched around his fingers. Though he felt the matching ghostly pressure around his dick, he pushed it away. Forced himself to be soft and unaffected. This was not about him.

  She came down slowly and he took the cue to ease off. He kissed her softly. The clench of her fingers on his knee released. With a short tug he pulled up her jeans zipper and then she finished with the snap.

  Cat’s head, with its gorgeous spill of brown waves, lolled against his shoulder. She laced her fingers with his again and they stayed that way, side by side, silent, watching the white mountains pass outside the windows, all the way back into town.

  It wasn’t until they pulled into the White Clover Creek bus stop on Groundcherry that he realized that, through it all, the Burned Man had stayed completely silent.

  A world of possibility bloomed inside him.

  Xavier was a book of a million pages, written in teeny tiny type. One that Cat could read from now until the end of time, and she’d still never fully understand him. The amazing n
ews was, he’d finally allowed her to crack open the cover. Now she was pretty sure it hadn’t been just a broken heart that had messed with his head.

  When they disembarked in White Clover Creek, the bus driver gave no indication he knew what had happened in the back. And really, at that point, Cat couldn’t have cared less. She was flying high and the world moved below her in a slow gelatin haze.

  Xavier took side streets, coming up on the Margaret Hotel from the side. As they stood at a corner waiting for a legion of golf carts trucking camera equipment to pass, she said, “I’ll get the opening invitation to you. You’ll need it to get in—”

  The sudden way he turned to her, the fierceness with which he pulled her into his body, made her hold her breath, waiting for the heat of his mouth. He didn’t kiss her though. He wanted to—he stared hungrily at her lips—but he instead just pressed his forehead to hers. He touched her face, his eyes closed, his fingers searing lines over her cheeks and jaw and neck.

  “This,” he murmured, “is more than sex for me.”

  His voice moved over and around her, as hot as a current of ocean air. A cryptic statement, but she suspected what he meant. Secrets decorated his soul like tattoos.

  “It is for me, too,” she said. He seemed to be her truth serum as well.

  “No.” He shook his head. “You don’t understand.”

  “I think I might. At least part of it.”

  “But not all.”

  She pulled back a bit and forced him to look at her. “You can tell me.”

  He barked out a laugh. “Not likely.”

  At that, she fully stepped out of his embrace.

  Regret darkened his eyes. “You’re going to leave. I’m just protecting myself.”

  Sadly, that made sense. And if she had any sense of her own, she wouldn’t allow herself to want this man in the way she did.

  With a sigh her gaze drifted across the square, with its mass of tents and noisy mob that would disappear the same day she would. Today they lived in a temporary world, and to him, she was a part of that.