Whiteout

by Adriana Anders

  She went very still, but even that stillness was almost sensuous against his hands, which was crazy. Absolute lunacy. It reminded him of the way she pressed to him in their bag. He shook his head to clear it. “You’re gonna ski faster tomorrow. You’ll go”—he coughed, cleared his throat, and went on, almost at a whisper—“farther. Because if we don’t do more miles every day, we run out of food.”

  No way would he be responsible for snuffing out a light like hers. So bright he hadn’t been able to look at it head-on until now.

  She lifted her hand to his chest and took a slow, hesitant step, bringing their bodies too close, acting for all the world like he was a wild animal she needed to tame. Christ, his lungs hurt as she stood on tiptoe and pulled down her neck gaiter to reveal perfect pink lips, almost obscenely plump in a world that stole every last drop of moisture.

  Denial, he understood as his eyes ate her up, had turned his hunger into starvation, desire into a need so strong he’d die of want before the ice could ever take him. He put a hand up to run it over her cheek, to soak up her heat and humanity, and paused an inch away. No point touching her with gloves. It wouldn’t satisfy his inner beast any more than it would warm her skin. There was no choice now but to dip his head, share her shaky exhale, and press his cold lips to her hot ones.

  He went mindless the second his mouth met hers. No cognitive abilities, all nerves and need, this unbearable tightness in his chest, this raging fire in his limbs. He couldn’t slow down to save himself. His mouth wasn’t just on her; he was devouring, prying open, taking everything he could. As wild and out of control as this storm that was trying to end them.

  So much softness, but he needed more. He wrapped his arms around her, drew her flush to him, pressed and pulled and lifted, while his mouth ate her up.

  Tilted heads, delving tongue, the rough scrape of his teeth, which she met with a long, low moan. But, hell, they had to stop or they’d freeze their faces off in this cold.

  He couldn’t, though. Not when she slid her mittened hands inside his hood, running them down his jaw and back up, like she hungered for just one tiny feel.

  Finally, he managed to pull away, though he couldn’t quite disengage his hands—one tight on her ass, the other cradling her head.

  “Inside.”

  She nodded and turned gratifyingly quickly.

  He paused just before ducking in. What the hell was he doing?

  Didn’t matter. He wanted this.

  But did she? Had he pressured her somehow? Or even worse, did she think she had to, in order to receive his help? God no. No, he didn’t want her that way.

  Not that he could have her, he knew, in a tent in the freezing cold. More than fingers and toes could succumb to frostbite, and that wasn’t something either of them should risk.

  He had to check, though, before this—whatever the hell it was—went any further. Quickly, he ducked inside, almost blinded by the warmth in her eyes. She was shivering, halfway undressed—clothes still on by necessity, but boots and coats shucked. After that kiss, seeing her in just her base layers was as intimate as looking at her naked.

  “Why’d you kiss me?” He forced the words out, remembering the way she’d approached him, like she’d been taming the beast.

  She stopped on all fours, just about to slide into the bag. She must be freezing without the subzero protection, but her eyes focused hard on his.

  “You kissed me.”

  “Did you want to?” He swallowed. “Kiss?”

  The look she threw him should’ve shriveled his dick right up, but contrarian that he was, it only made him hard.

  “Yes, Ford. For some inexplicable reason, I wanted to kiss you.”

  “You didn’t do it so—” He cleared his throat and went on. “So I’d take care of you? Out here?”

  She blinked, her eyes losing a little of their haze and zeroing in sharply on him. This was where women usually backed off—when he opened his mouth. Over the years, he’d learned not to say much during sex.

  He waited, hunched, hands in his pockets, for her inevitable rebuff. When her look turned more into a squint and her lips tightened, he knew she was about to put a stop to it all. Probably even separate their sleeping bags again, which he surely deserved.

  “Would you shut up?” He’d started nodding already, resigned to the separation, as she slid under the covers and said, “And get your ass to bed.”

  It took him three seconds to comply.

  * * *

  Making out with Ford had bad idea written all over it.

  Not like that had ever stopped her before. Hugh, who’d seemed so talented and fun, had been the worst idea of all. Of course, in reality, he’d been neither artsy nor exciting. He’d been a total fraud. A con man. She just hadn’t realized it until he’d stolen her concept, her restaurant, her savings…her heart. Pretty much her life.

  She sucked in a bracing breath. Not her life, actually. In fact, life was exactly what was at stake right now. And here she was worrying about stupid kisses.

  Ford slid in beside her and all that ancient history disappeared.

  She shivered. Whether from the cold or his proximity, she couldn’t tell. But the space he took up—the sheer size of him—moved the dial heavily on the side of arousal. Her breathing picked up.

  It was more than his size, if she was honest. His smell was freaking ambrosia. Crazy, considering how ripe they both should be. Although maybe not, in temperatures like these. And at least they’d bathed using wipes.

  “Okay. I’m in bed.” God, that voice did things to her insides. Scraped her raw, leaving goose bumps in its wake. “Now what?”

  She huffed out a laugh. “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t have to do anything.” He let out his own soundless laugh that reverberated against her chest. “It’d be challenging in here anyway. Impossible.”

  “What if I want to?” Her mouth barely moved, but the whisper was perfectly audible in their cocoon.

  Crap, where was the smart woman? The one who learned from past mistakes? The one with too much pride to run after a guy who kept pushing her away?

  The problem was that, just as she’d given up all hope, the Ice Man had gone and surprised her. If he’d been different—bossy or entitled or at all an asshole—she’d have brushed him off, no problem. His generosity, this vulnerability, was like a spark to her tinder. The opposite of Hugh, who’d felt entitled enough to plow through her defenses.

  That was something she’d unpack later.

  Right now, the hand he settled on her hip was burning a hole through two base layers. With gloves on.

  “How about another kiss then?” he whispered, the words nothing but puffs of air against her ear, so easy to ignore if she chose.

  Yeah right.

  The problem with being a hothead, as Mama had always reminded her, was that she didn’t just make quick decisions—she dove into them headfirst. Those rash choices had left a trail of blood, tears, and regret a mile wide behind her.

  Then again, they might not survive this, in which case…

  “Okay,” she said, before reason could stomp all over this need coursing through her.

  Their lips had been cold outside, the kiss fast and hot.

  This was different. Sliding into a warm bath after a bracing dunk in the ocean.

  She pressed her mouth to his for one heated second before pulling away, already breathless. Already drunk.

  Their foreheads met with a light thunk. A few breaths passed between them, like acclimation, though not to the cold or the elevation, but to this new level of intimacy.

  When he finally moved, it was a gentle dip, his nose to hers in an achingly slow exploration that shouldn’t have been provocative. She strained for his mouth, but he denied her.

  Like a big cat toying with its prey, he stroked his cheek along he
rs, scruff to soft skin. Just that move made her choke back a moan. How would it be if they could take their clothes off? If skin touched all over?

  Deliberately, gently, he ran his nose beneath her ear and a sound escaped him. A tiny, tight-lipped hiss that she’d never have caught if he weren’t so near.

  “Ford.” With her arm wrapped around him, she did her best to urge him toward her. But he denied her. The man was so freaking stubborn.

  “Shhhhhh.”

  In frustration, she tilted her head for a kiss, getting nothing but his tight, rough jaw. He must have liked it, though, because it pushed him to lean lower and bite her, through her shirt, at the junction of neck and shoulder.

  And then, oh God, then he kept her pinned with his mouth, stilling her, while he finally stroked his hand, lazy as a lion basking in the sun, from her head to her neck, then down her side, bypassing the obvious draw of her breasts, to clamp her hip, holding it still when she hadn’t even realized she was fidgeting.

  Owning her.

  Slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, he shifted above her until she could feel every hard bit of him, put his mouth to hers, and took the kiss from her. She couldn’t find another word for the way his lips explored hers, the way he slanted them and softly—but so freaking perfectly—showed her what he liked. Slow, firm, knowing.

  A moan escaped her and he responded with a grunt of his own as he pressed deeper, kept her there with his melted Ice Man magic.

  When finally he used his tongue, it was like they’d never done it before, like outside hadn’t happened. A first taste of a rare ingredient that would change her palate forever.

  A tear escaped her eye.

  Had a kiss ever been so…everything?

  The soft touch of his tongue was as intimate as a hand between her legs. Good God, if he continued with this long, slow possession, she’d be done for. No touch needed.

  On the ice, in the antarctic cold, in the middle of freaking nowhere, his tongue showed her how dirty sex could be, his body made her take it, and that dark, raspy husk of a voice broke in to turn the whole thing up a million degrees. “I didn’t want to do this, Angel. Didn’t want to open this up.”

  Why not? she wanted to ask. And why’d he still sound so unhappy about it?

  A wash of cold swept through her, immediately doused by his next words.

  “Avoided you for months so I wouldn’t make a fool of myself.” Another kiss, this one just lips, punctuating the secrets he unveiled to her. “Guess I’m making a fool of myself.”

  “You’re not alone.”

  “No.” He smiled against her lips. Every breath he took pressed into her body, uncomfortable in theory, but in reality perfect. Close, warm, comforting. “But we are.” He sighed, pulling slightly away. “Alone.” Another kiss, sweet and almost chaste. “And we need sleep.”

  She nodded, which prompted another of those long, slow inhales against her cheek.

  “But, damn, if I didn’t have enough reason to get us to a warm bed before, this…” He kissed her again, but the damage was done.

  “Right.” She gave another nod. Survival before making out. It made complete sense.

  His body shifted to the side and she tightened her arms convulsively. Don’t go!

  He must have read her thoughts, because he scooted and rolled until she lay on top, a blanket for him, while his big, hard slab of a body soaked up the cold from the ground. Her heating pad: warm, firm, perfect. She curled her head into his chest, closed her eyes, and did her best to pretend like this wasn’t some last-ditch battle to feel something before dying.

  Chapter 25

  Day 4—Harper Research and Testing Facility, East Antarctic Ice Sheet

  “As I said, Director, the storm’s kept us from—”

  Clive took another sip of disgusting, cold Russian coffee and watched as Sampson reported their progress—or lack thereof—to the director.

  Hunting scientists and cooks wasn’t turning out to be quite as easy as the idiot had first assumed. Which, Clive had to admit, was pretty fun to watch, even if it did make it impossible for him to do his job.

  Would vodka make the coffee better or worse?

  “No, ma’am. Flying’s no longer a possibility with the—” Clive pressed his lips together to hide his smile while Sampson listened, no doubt receiving the type of talking-to he deserved. “The Herc left the continent and the Twin Otter’s grounded. Too windy and cold to fl—Yes, we… Yes, ma’am, either Volkov or the South African station. But there are five different ways they could’ve gone, at least. And given the—” Clive tilted his head, and though he couldn’t hear the director—she was much too cultured to actually yell—he could imagine her directives: No more excuses, Sampson. Get me the virus. Get the results I need. It’s a big continent. You can’t sit around and expect them to just stumble upon you. Go find them now, before they ruin everything.

  Fucking ridiculous. He supposed that was what happened when you grew up spoiled and rich. You sat back and watched your minions scurry.

  She didn’t give a shit how cold or inhospitable this place was. Frankly, she had zero understanding of the roadblocks Antarctica threw at its inhabitants.

  Sampson’s team coming here to collect the virus was one thing, but having Clive perform his vaccine research on this remote continent was absurd.

  The director was punishing him, he was certain, though she’d couched it in other terms—a private facility, unlimited access to test subjects, absolute control over the environment, and so on. And, yes, this facility provided all of that and more.

  But it was stuck in fucking Antarctica. Not Mexico or Bolivia or some private island where he’d have had all the time and space he needed to work on the Frond virus vaccine. No, the old bitch had sent him to the coldest, most inhospitable place on earth to conduct his trials.

  And now, due to this jackass’s absolute ineptitude, Clive didn’t have an actual virus to work with. Over a dozen subjects languished in their perfectly air-tight cells, waiting. For nothing.

  Not for the first time, he wondered what that man had done with the original virus. The one with which the director’s father had created the live virus vaccine. How in the hell did one of the biggest pharmaceutical companies on earth let someone just walk away with such an important asset?

  “I understand, ma’am. Yes, they’re on foot, but we’ve got no idea which route they’ve taken or… We head out there, we’re going blind… It’s a deadly—”

  Half-annoyed, half-entertained, Clive sloshed a shot of vodka into his cup. Until he could get started on his work, he was officially off the clock. And, frankly, everything tasted like shit here, so who cared? As long as it did the trick and made him stop dwelling on how he’d been screwed over and over again, he’d drink it.

  He sighed just as Sampson ended the call, looking pissed.

  “She didn’t need to speak to me, I gather?” Clive asked, nonchalant now that things were out of his hands.

  Sampson ignored him and turned instead to his men. “Head out at zero six hundred hours, storm or not. Tonight, we prep.”

  Without another word, the men stalked out of the communication center, leaving Clive to slug back the rest of his coffee with a fatalistic sigh.

  * * *

  Day 4—230 Miles to Volkov Station—18 Days of Food Remaining

  A couple hours into the next day, Angel began to hate the ice. Not the way she had before, like an object or an idea, but like a person.

  She cursed it with every slide forward, every painful drag on the sled.

  And the bitch spoke to her in return.

  It crackled beneath her skis, the pops and hisses as vicious and alive as a creature from the underworld. So big its back curved off in the distance. So vast she’d never meet it head-on.

  Swoosh, slide, crack. The wind, still working agai
nst them, whistled hard and loud. Even covered as she was, it ate at her skin, tore at her flesh, chapped her lips, and sucked the blood from her veins.

  Behind her fogged-up goggles, she could barely see Ford, which left her alone with her thoughts.

  And, honestly, her thoughts were a mess. Along with pain and hunger was the thrill of last night.

  The more time passed, the more she doubted her own sanity. Had she hallucinated the whole thing? It had sure felt like it this morning, when she’d unstuck her eyes to find him stoic and cold again. As if nothing had happened between them.

  How could he be so normal when everything was in such turmoil, inside and out? It had been business as usual for His Royal Stiffness.

  She was mad about it, actually. So riled that her pace picked up, every sliding step drawing her closer to that wide, straight back. In fact, when she caught up with him, she’d let him know it wasn’t okay. Between the stupid ice and the stupid wind and the stupid man who wouldn’t even throw her a morning-after smile, she wanted to—

  Her ski caught on something, wrenching her leg to the side and slamming her body painfully to the ice, so hard it forced the air out of her lungs.

  Wheezing, she rolled onto her back, stared dumbly at the sky, and waited for her eyes to focus. Her arm throbbed from breaking her fall and her head smarted. How about her knee? Slowly, she shifted to the side, taking stock as she attempted to put weight on it. Oh hell.

  Maybe she could stay here for a second or two. Just a few minutes to catch her breath and rest.

  The wind, bastard that it was, said her name, trying to get her to come up and play, toying with her like some evil force from the deep.

  “Leave us alone!” she managed to get out.

  When something grasped her arm, she pulled away, then froze for a few confused seconds.

  Ford, not the wind.

  Oh. Okay. So, this is it. I’ve officially crossed into delirium.