Surviving Ice (Burying Water, #4)(76)

“Don’t forget that I’m not paying you.”

His smirk widens into a full smile, watching me as I slide my own shirt up over my head. “Don’t worry, I haven’t.” He’s already zoned in on the front clasp of my bra. He pushes the button and the material springs off.

He’s resting on an elbow now, peering down at my bare upper half, his index finger trailing over my arm. “What do these mean?”

“A lot of things.”

Dark eyes flash to me. “Like what?”

“Like . . .” Do I want to tell him? I’ve been asked that question by many people before, including Amber, and I’ve never given the complete truth to anyone.

He looms over me, waiting.

“Like that one there.” I nod to the one he has his finger on—a classic weight scale with a tiny woman perched on one side, raised high while the empty side hangs low. “It means I’m nobody’s burden. I can take care of myself.”

A flicker of softness catches his eyes. “That’s important to you, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. And this one”—I tap the mask that Ian did for me last year in Ireland—“is my mask, that I like to wear to keep people from seeing how I’m feeling.”

“And this one?” One by one, I describe each and every piece of ink on my arm. It’s been a seven-year process beginning on my eighteenth birthday. Well planned out, each component my own design that I handed to a trusted artist—there are very few of them—to etch into my skin.

Each piece deeply personal to me.

“This one?” Sebastian’s strong, large hands sweep over the beautiful woodland fairy that dances along my rib cage on my right side.

“That’s Iridessa, my fairy godmother. Ned used to tell me that she’d watch over me while I was sleeping. For years, I believed him.” That was one of my first pieces. Ned did it for me.

Sebastian’s long fingers trail along the bramble of ivy and sharp thorns that runs along my pelvis. “And this?”

That anyone who wants past it is going to have to work for it and accept a few wounds. “What do you think it means?” I say instead.

His hand slides past it, down the front of my leggings and into my panties. “That it doesn’t apply to me.”

Completely unabashed by how wet I am right now, I close my eyes and turn toward Sebastian, finding a corner of that thick, strong neck of his to lay my mouth on, tasting just a hint of salt on his skin. I love the taste of Sebastian, I decide, as I fumble over his belt buckle and zipper, quickly unfastening them so I can wrap my fist around him.

I groan in protest when his hand suddenly disappears, but I soon realize it’s only so he can pull my leggings down, over my hips and thighs. I help him, kicking my legs until they work their way down to my boots. They won’t get past those.

“I’m stuck,” I whisper.

“Are you?” He lifts his head to assess the situation, smiling a touch, before his gaze rakes over me and his hand lands between my legs once again.

I reach up to pull his face back to mine, but he’s already on the move, leaving a wet, ticklish trail across my nipples and down the center of my body with his tongue and his scratchy beard, all the way down until my thighs are resting on his shoulders and his hot breath is skating over me. Torturing me.

I lift my pelvis until I feel his mouth against me. He’s smiling, I can tell. I don’t care if he knows how much I want this. I am needy right now.

And with the first swipe of his tongue, I know that this isn’t going to take long at all.

The doorbell rings.

Sebastian pulls away.

“Ignore it,” I growl, reaching to pull his face back down.

He complies, his hands squeezing my thighs tight. I weave my fingers around the back of his head, relaxing as he keeps going.

Until my phone begins to ring. It’s Fez’s ringtone. He’s outside, with the truck.

I forgot about the truck.

“Dammit,” I curse. “Stop. This isn’t going to happen now.” Fez is doing me a huge favor, but he’s not the most patient guy out there. He’ll leave.

Sebastian lays a few kisses on the insides of my thighs and then climbs off the bed, tucking that impressive dick that I pulled out back into his pants. “I’ll be down . . . in a minute.” He leaves me to get dressed and ducks into the bathroom. To pee, to wash me off his face, to jerk off. Probably all three.

And I want to be in there to help him.

Throwing my clothes on, I storm down the stairs and throw open the door, chanting to myself, “Fez is helping me, Fez is helping me, Fez is . . .” so I don’t bite his head off the second I see him like the frustrated bitch I now am.

“Yo! I’m turning gray out here!” Fez exclaims.

“Sorry. Got caught up with something,” I mumble.

“We’re ready. Called up my homies, figured you could use the halp.” True to his word, the cube van is parked outside and open. Joker and Weazy are tossing the trash bags already on the curb in.

“Seriously?” Suddenly, I can deal with Fez’s weird obsession with slang. Three extra sets of hands and this place may be all cleaned up by tonight. “This is huge. I don’t know what to say.” I back up and let all three of them in.

“That face, though.” Fez cringes at me and the black mascara that I’m sure is streaking across my cheeks. “Channeling your inner Cruella de Vil?”