Surviving Ice (Burying Water, #4)(48)

Like what I’ve been feeling with Sebastian all day.

I want to take him home. I want to take his clothes off and mother his wounds—my artwork—with a gentle, experienced hand. And then I want to f*ck him. I decided that somewhere between tucking the cigars into my cleavage and him revealing a vulnerable side that he was hiding so well, until he wasn’t.

But to be honest, I’m not entirely sure that this is simply physical attraction anymore. Had I had sex with him on the dirty floor of Black Rabbit two minutes after he walked in the first time, or even yesterday, then it would have been. But after spending seven hours with him and his body today, I feel connected to Sebastian, for reasons that go beyond his looks.

So maybe this is going to be a huge mistake.

Maybe Sebastian is going to be the one who messes with my head.

Maybe I should call it quits right now.

“Make a left turn up here,” I instruct, a split second before his finger hits the signal, as if he already knew where he was going. Just like he begins to slow his obscenely clean car as we approach my driveway. “Pull in behind that Honda there. Please.” I bought the used silver Civic for five grand cash a few weeks after I moved here. It’s been reliable so far, if not exactly sexy.

He turns in. And cuts the engine.

“Quite presumptuous of you,” I say.

He rests his elbow on the console and turns to give me a look as flat and unreadable as the one I’ve perfected. “Is it?”

It’s not at all. I think it’s inevitable, really. There’s no way in hell I’m calling it quits. That decision I would definitely regret.

Flutters explode in my stomach. This guy is not good for my cool, unflinching mask. Soon, I’m going to be giggling like a f*cking Valley Girl. “How’s your side?” There is that giant open wound to think about in all this.

“A little sore.” His gaze skates over my mouth. “Nothing hindering.”

“I guess I could take a look at it for you. Show you how to clean it properly.”

“That’s what I was thinking.” I watch his hand as it reaches out for me. His fingers dip into my top to pull the cigars out, the edge of his thumbnail skating against the inside of my breast. “And then we could smoke these.”

I shrug. “Maybe.”

I duck out of the car before he can see my excited smile, slamming the door shut behind me, thinking I’m going to get ahead of him and up the stairs, so he’ll have to trail. But he’s somehow already out and waiting for me by the time I get around. “Do you do everything so fast?”

Amusement sparkles in his dark eyes. “When it matters, yes.” He steps closer, pushing my hips into him with one hand on my back. He cups the back of my head with his other hand. “And when it matters,” he says as his breath skates across my lips, “no.”

And then his mouth is on mine, firm and demanding and arrogant, because he already knew I wanted it. He ropes a fist around my hair and pulls my head back to get a better angle of my neck. He takes it, and when I feel the edge of his teeth scrape against the underside of my jaw, I know that we may end up doing this right in front of Ned’s house.

“Inside,” I whisper, pushing against his chest. I charge up the steps while fumbling for my keys in my purse. Not because of the whiskeys I pounded back—I sweated those out on the dance floor—but because I’m suddenly very nervous about being with Sebastian. About pleasing Sebastian.

I finally find my keys. I pull them out, then drop them—twice—each time earning a loud clank and a groan from behind me as I bend over to retrieve them, my extremely short dress not made for modesty at that angle. This is the longest, most graceless trip up a set of stairs in my life. If I wasn’t so anxious to get inside, I’d be mortified. Finally, I get a good grasp of the ring, climbing the last few steps.

It turns out I don’t need my keys.

“What the . . .” I come to a dead stop in front of the iron gate with the visibly mangled lock. The door sits open a crack.

Sebastian grabs my arms and shifts me back behind him before slipping through, the tension suddenly radiating off him palpable. When we find that the front door sits ajar as well, he smoothly reaches back and hands me his keys. “Take my car and drive down the street. Lock the doors,” he whispers calmly, without looking behind him. Then he disappears through the front door.

Leaving me standing there, debating whether I should actually listen to him or not.





TWENTY


ICE


This is not a coincidence.

Ivy’s home has been trashed, the flat-screen smashed instead of taken, the heating vents ripped from the walls, drawers pulled out and overturned, the couch torn apart and emptied.

Someone was searching for something.

I slide my piece out of my boot and flick off the safety. Standing in the living room, I simply breathe and listen. For creaks, for windows sliding, for anything that might indicate the person is still here.

Or people. Because what I see here suggests more than one person.

Whoever it was, we missed them by only minutes. I can still smell their sweat in the air. I’m now sure that the guy at the club tailed her all the way there from here and was tasked with being on lookout while whoever he is working with ransacked her place.

Was this on Bentley’s orders?