Longest Night

by Kara Braden

  With an irritated huff, he twisted away and rose, catching her hand to pull her to her feet. “Stop making assumptions—especially incorrect ones. I told you, I could never be bored of you,” he insisted. His coldly logical tone was at odds with the gentle way he wrapped his arms around her body to hold her close.

  She sighed and rested her forehead against his shoulder. “I never thought I’d have anyone for a single day, much less a month. It’s…”

  “Important.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it is to me, as well,” he said, his deep voice taking on a sly edge. His hands slid down her back, fingers pressing to either side of her spine, catching on her belt before dropping lower. He dipped his head and pressed hot, openmouthed kisses to her throat. When he nipped sharply at her jaw, her knees almost buckled. “I believe a celebration is traditional in Manhattan. Does the same apply to Canada?”

  “You talk too much,” she complained.

  “Not tonight,” he purred against her skin, clipping the last t sound with another bite. “We should save our energy to properly celebrate tomorrow. If we’re going to celebrate tonight, then you’ll need to get those packages out of the basement so we can do this properly.”

  Oh, fucking hell, Cecily thought. She’d expected—feared—that he would be contemptuous of a little one-month-anniversary surprise, disdaining as too feminine or some quaint country custom. She’d never imagined that he’d put that brilliant, absolutely evil brain of his behind the idea and come up with something far worse than a couple of surprise packages picked up in town.

  “Tonight. Canadian tradition,” she lied. “Celebrate tonight, gifts tomorrow. Like Christmas.”

  He laughed and licked and blew gently, freezing the warmth right out of her throat as chills shivered deliciously up and down her spine. “Liar.”

  “It is. Historical basis,” she said, shivering again as he nipped her earlobe. “You know. In case we freeze to death before the actual date. Can’t die without celebrating.”

  Ian’s breathing turned into snorts of laughter that he failed to completely muffle against her shirt. “Forget everything I’ve ever said about lying to me,” he invited, grinning so hard that she could hear it in his voice. “Your lies are ridiculously entertaining. Keep trying.”

  “Entertaining? You want entertaining?” she growled in mock-anger. She backed away just enough to get a hand down between their bodies, fingers teasing over his jeans.

  To her surprise, he took one long step back. His blue-gray eyes had gone dark with lust; he grinned at her and tossed his hair back, saying innocently, “I thought we were saving that for our anniversary, remember?”

  “We? I didn’t agree to any ‘we’ in that,” she complained.

  His innocent act was no longer even remotely convincing. “Oh? Well, I suppose we could celebrate early. Need help carrying the packages?”

  Two could play at that game. Determined not to let him win, she gave him an icy smile. “Right.” She deliberately walked to the couch and settled at one end. “Tomorrow it is, then. You can go back to your playing,” she added sweetly, gesturing at the abandoned guitar.

  His eyes narrowed. He made a thoughtful, frustrated sound and then picked up the guitar. He set it on the floor and took his place on the far side of the sofa. The firelight gave a devilish gleam to his eyes, shadow filling the hollows beneath his sharp cheekbones, highlighting the gloss of his lower lip as his tongue swept over it. The bastard was absolutely gorgeous and knew it.

  Twelve hours, she thought, letting her eyes sweep over his body. The thick cable-knit sweater added minimal bulk to his lean frame, and his tight blue jeans hid almost nothing that her imagination couldn’t fill in with toe-curling accuracy. He wasn’t just sitting; he was posed, fully aware of how the light played over him and the angle at which she sat.

  Ian was an arrogant, clever bastard, but Cecily was determined. She hadn’t made all her careful plans just to have them undone by lust. If he wanted sex tonight, she was fine with that. More than fine. But the surprise packages were staying in the cellar, no matter what persuasion he attempted. She’d just have to keep him distracted and off-balance.

  There was only one way she was going to make it through until tomorrow, and that was by playing dirty. Time to cheat, she decided and unbuckled her belt.

  ***

  The subtle metallic rattle and leathery rasp of Cecily’s belt was a familiar sound, one that never failed to rouse Ian’s interest in a Pavlovian response based entirely on what inevitably followed. He glanced to the side before he realized he’d moved, ruining the attempt to capture her interest with his profile. She had her belt undone, and now her fingers, strong and sure, worked to unbutton the waistband of her jeans.

  His brain shut down like a computer program locking up, error messages flashing on screen. They were on the couch, not in bed, and while they’d kissed and very rarely cuddled and once she had gone to her knees and given him a truly breathtaking blow job on the couch, the sight of her stripping in the living room was new, outside all previously established behavior patterns.

  The sound of her zipper was deafening.

  He knew she was trying to provoke him. He knew he should turn away and look back toward the fire, summoning up an air of lofty disdain. He tried to focus on the puzzle of what was in the packages, but there was no hope for it. He could barely even remember what they’d looked like, much less speculate on the contents.

  Then Cecily sat forward to pull off her shirt, and he wondered if he was going to lose this battle after all. She took off not just her sweatshirt but her T-shirt, leaving her in a plain cotton bra that was more alluring than any scrap of lace and satin had ever been. The firelight touched her scars with highlights and shadow, and he couldn’t help but stare. She’d been less self-conscious about her scars—just in time for the snowy season to bear down on the cabin with relentless force, driving them both to pile on layers of warm clothing.

  She lifted her hips just enough to push her jeans down past her hips. They fell to the floor, followed a moment later by her heavy wool socks.

  The cabin was silent, save for the soft crackle of the fire. He didn’t move, didn’t make a sound, irrationally thinking that if he did, she might get dressed and leave.

  Then she turned sideways to lean against the arm of the sofa, reaching back to arrange the throw pillows more comfortably. She put her right foot on the cushion and slid it forward until her bare toes just touched his thigh. Her left foot hung comfortably down, touching the floor, and her legs were spread invitingly wide.

  She reached down, letting her right hand rest on her own thigh, fingers curling slowly over her skin with a soft touch he could all too easily imagine. Almost casually, she moved her hand up until her fingers were just barely resting along the edge of her white cotton panties.

  “Since you’re not doing anything, care to build up the fire?” she suggested casually, toying with the edge of the panties where the threads were just beginning to fray.

  His first instinct was to refuse; he wasn’t about to be complicit in her plan to break his resolve. If she wanted sex, all she had to do was to show him what was in the packages hidden away in the cellar.

  But only on the surface was this about sex or the mysterious packages they’d picked up in Pinelake. Beneath it was her desire to celebrate their meeting. The cardboard box and the canvas-wrapped bundle were surprises. Gifts. While all gifts came with costs that far outweighed their value, in Ian’s experience, he suspected that she would once again prove the exception. She hadn’t arranged this surprise with an ulterior motive. There was nothing of his that she couldn’t have, simply by asking.

  She could have ended this all by giving in, either graciously or in a fit of ill-temper. She could have stormed off, slammed the bedroom door, and refused to have anything to do with him until her self-appointed deadline of A
nniversary Day had dawned. Instead, she’d taken the one route that he hadn’t predicted: a playful escalation of the conflict, done not out of malice but affection.

  Ian was completely disarmed.

  He rose, moved the guitar aside, and spent a few moments rearranging the logs already on the fire. Conscious of how her scars ached in the cold, he took his time, even though all he wanted was to go back to the sofa. In a month, he’d become adept not just at keeping fires alive but at learning how to stack the logs to reflect more heat into the room. When he was finally satisfied by the warmth, he sat back down and turned sideways, making no attempt to hide his interest.

  Cecily’s smile went from sly to genuine. “Thanks,” she said, sliding her right foot forward another inch, tucking her toes under his leg. He reached down and rested his hand on her ankle, only to have her pull her foot back with a scolding look. Then the sly smile reappeared. “Thought you were too distracted by your surprise?”

  Never boring, he thought, hiding his affectionate smile. He faked an irritated huff and deliberately draped his arm across the back of the sofa to remove the temptation to reach for her again.

  “By all means, feel free to make yourself comfortable,” he said dryly.

  She grinned, shifting down a bit more. With her right leg bent, foot flat on the cushion, her hips were canted invitingly up. One fingertip slipped beneath the elastic. Then one more, disappearing under soft cotton that shifted as she deliberately brushed her fingers over the soft, dark red curls shadowed against her panties.

  Refusing to be baited, Cecily asked, “Are you going to make me do this alone?”

  Ian loved games, especially clever, intelligent, engaging games. His gaming board was the office, the courtroom, even the bars and nightclubs where he socialized with his colleagues and competitors. Once engaged, he had a reputation for being absolutely cutthroat. He played not only to win but to destroy the competition, using any means necessary.

  But this game, he cheerfully threw after only a token show of resistance. Pushing all thoughts of the box aside, he lowered his hand to her thigh, feeling the strong, sleek muscle under soft skin. “No.”

  She gave him a stern look softened by the heat in her eyes. “The packages stay in the cellar.”

  “Take those off,” he countered, glancing at her bra and panties.

  “Only if you agree. No stopping in the middle to renegotiate. No sneaking downstairs after I’m asleep. I expect you to play fair.”

  “I never play fair.”

  “You will, with me.”

  Despite all of his practice at theatrics, his sigh didn’t come close to sounding genuine. “You’re very stubborn,” he complained, lowering his head to press a kiss to her knee. “Fine. I agree.”

  Cecily didn’t fall for his irritated act. Laughing, she combed her fingers through his hair. Her voice was full of amused affection. “I’ll just have to keep you from getting bored.”

  Ian smiled, pressing up into her touch, and met her gaze. Warmth filled him, not only from desire but from the powerful love that stole his breath. He ducked to kiss her knee again and closed his eyes, surrendering to her game. “Please do.”

  ***

  November 21

  The next morning, Ian awoke alone, which was nothing unusual. Cecily rose before him most days and did her best to sneak out courteously without waking him, no matter how often he’d tried to explain that he didn’t need that much rest. Sleep was just a remnant habit formed during the mind-rotting boredom of his recovery in the hospital, physical therapy, and rehab.

  Knowing there was only minimal chance of luring her back to bed this early, he slid out from under the blankets and dressed in warm layers. The smell of coffee lured him to the kitchen by way of the bathroom, where he hurried to take care of the necessities. Warm tingling filled him, body and mind, as though he were still caught up in last night’s sexual high. Keeping the same partner for more than a few weeks at a time had always been boring, but not Cecily. Not even after this long…

  One month, he remembered as his sleepy mind finally woke for him to recall the surprise packages. He finished brushing his teeth and threw open the door to the kitchen, taking note of the relevant details: Cecily, still wearing her usual morning outfit of sweats and a bathrobe; smell of ham and coffee, sizzling sound of pancakes; electric lights on, rather than the oil lamp she usually preferred. Cardboard box and canvas bundle on the table.

  It took all of his self-restraint to go to her rather than the packages. When she turned to look at him over one shoulder, mouth quirked up in a grin, he threaded his fingers into her short red hair, pulled her head back, and kissed her. The tingling warmth of well-being alchemized into a rush of pure, fiery love that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with Cecily, and all he wanted to do was to keep her close and never let her go.

  He finally did, though. He relaxed his fingers to comb through her hair as he looked down into deep brown eyes, smiling at how they’d gone wide. With a lazy, satisfied grin, she invited, “Tell me what brought that on, so I can do it every morning.”

  Ian laughed and nipped at her lip, casting a glance at the skillet. “You burnt breakfast.”

  “I’ll never undercook pancakes again,” she promised.

  He rolled his eyes, let her go with one last kiss, and surrendered to his curiosity. He left her to burn breakfast all she wanted and walked a slow circle around the table, studying the packages. Last night’s urgency had given way to an unhurried sense of curiosity.

  “Your presents are in the packages,” she said, sounding both puzzled and amused. The frying pan sizzled as she scraped the last of the pancake batter into the pool of oil. “You can keep the box, too, if you want…”

  With another laugh, he decided to start with the irregular package first. He wondered how she’d managed to arrange this sort of surprise. He’d been with her almost every minute of the last month. Someone must have helped her. Mark, at the airfield, definitely. Possibly Marguerite, too.

  He tugged at the twine and unfolded layers of canvas and crumpled newspaper, revealing a pale, sharp tine. Antlers.

  He pulled away the rest of the packing material. The antlers were mounted to a small wood plaque, meant to be hung on a wall.

  “This was from your stag. The one you hunted,” he said as he counted the tines. But she didn’t take trophies. She’d once mentioned that she usually traded everything away for food or supplies she’d need to get through the harsh winters.

  “It is.”

  “But—”

  “I want you to have it,” she said, a hint of uncertainty slipping into her voice. “If you want. It won’t be easy to get back home, and Manhattan—”

  He turned, one hand resting on the antlers, and touched her mouth with his fingertips. “Yes,” he said, barely talking about the antlers at all. He watched her pleased smile reappear, and he answered with a smile of his own. “I know just where to hang them,” he said, thinking of a place of honor in his living room, currently occupied by a trendy piece of modern art that he’d bought as an investment.

  She smiled, eyes bright, and ducked to kiss his fingertips. “Breakfast is getting cold.”

  “I thought you burnt it,” he said innocently.

  Laughing, she smacked his arm and turned back to the stove. “Hurry up, or you starve this morning.”

  He grinned and dug into the box, tossing aside the twine and butcher paper. A bright, silvery gleam caught his eye, and he lifted out a pie wrapped in foil and plastic wrap.

  “That’s for dessert tonight.” She took the pie out of his hands and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “There’s more in there.”

  The lure of “more” made him look back down into the box, where he found another layer of butcher paper. He pulled it out and found a small, narrow cardboard package in the corner. He lifted it out, surprised at
the weight.

  The box was wrapped in more butcher paper. Ian ripped it free, and the lid came loose, revealing turquoise tissue paper. Inside was a matte black knife with bright steel hardware, the grip textured and notched in the front. One side had a metal belt clip. He pressed the safety button and eased the blade out of the grip. The mechanism was stiff. The blade was slick with oil, and it locked firmly into place at full extension.

  She nudged him aside and set down two breakfast plates, nervously asking, “Is it all right? After you helped with the deer, I didn’t know if—”

  After carefully setting the knife down, he wrapped a free arm around her body, pulling her close. He captured her gasp with a kiss that said all the words he couldn’t force past the tightness in his chest.

  “It’s perfect,” he whispered as the kiss ended. He leaned his forehead against hers, loving the feel of sleep-mussed, soft hair against his skin. “You’re perfect.”

  Cecily pulled him close, strong arms around his waist, and rested her cheek against his shoulder. “Happy anniversary, Ian.”

  Chapter 21

  December 20

  “Got an email from Preston. He sends his regards,” Ian called from the front room of the cabin.

  Cecily sat up, back aching from being hunched over the kitchen table. She’d been editing for hours, ever since they’d finished lunch. She put down the pen she’d been chewing and rose stiffly. She hated editing by hand, but it was part of her process. Write on the typewriter, transcribe to the computer, email to her editor. When she got the manuscript back, she’d print it out in Pinelake so she could edit by hand. Then she’d transcribe everything back to her computer, doing another pass as she typed.

  “How is he?” she asked as she went to the living room archway.

  Ian sat at the desk in front of his laptop. He looked back over his shoulder and said, “He’s asking if I want to come home for the holidays.”

  No.

  She felt panic rise up in her chest. Her fingers scratched over the riverstone archway as she fought to breathe. She wasn’t ready. She didn’t want him to leave without her, but she wasn’t ready. They were supposed to have more time. Tomorrow was their two-month anniversary. Two months was nothing after seven years.