Eyes of Ice (Eyes of Ice Erotica Series) by Emily Rose

you?” she queried , recalling his side of the bargain.
    She felt his body stiffen reflexively as he replied: “What would you like to know?”
    She returned his question, though slightly abbreviating it: “About why you’re here. In this city.”
    “It’s similar to your story, in some ways,” Andrew told her, running a hand over his face. “I was infected three years ago. When I was your age, actually. If I hadn’t met Devon, I might have turned into a monster. I would have either taken myself out or been put down. But Devon … he found me, and took me under his wing. We were in New York, which is a very crowded city for a new vampire, and the clan there is less friendly. Space was limited, I was uncomfortable, Devon uprooted himself. He’s getting his PhD at Chicago University, you know. Physics. That’s all.”
    Cecelia closed her eyes, trying to organize her thoughts and take in all this new information. That’s definitely not all, she mentally accused. There were so many facts missing in his story. Infection? And how had he met Devon? And why New York? Cecelia had no idea how to ask these questions, and quietly lay there, listening to Andrew’s steady breathing. She realized that she had provided no comforting response of the variety that Andrew had provided to her, and that Andrew must be waiting, tense, undoubtedly wondering and perhaps fearing what she thought of him now.
    “I’m glad you’re here,” she said.
    It was the last thing she remembered saying before surrendering to sleep.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Six
     
    When Cecelia stepped back into her dorm the next day, wearing a pair of Andrew’s pants held up by a belt and a black hoodie that Andrew said Alexandra had left in Devon’s room a few weeks ago (“She won’t mind,”) Mags gave a long, shrill wolf-whistle.
    “Shut up,” Cecelia mumbled in an attempt at anger. But she couldn’t help a proud, satisfied smile from spreading across her face.
    “Nuh-uh,” Mags refused. “Not when you look like the cat that’s got the cream. Any details?”
    “No!” Cecelia snapped, self-consciousness flaring up.
    Mags only laughed. “Okay, okay. I thought it was worth a shot. Are you going to classes today, or what?”
    Cecelia mentally calculated how many absences she was allowed. “I don’t think so,” she said. Thankfully, Mags was on her way out the door to tackle her own schedule, and didn’t seem too worried about Cecelia’s sudden shift towards truancy.
    “We’ll talk later. Call your parents,” she ordered, breezing out of their dorm room with her backpack slung over one shoulder.
    Cecelia spent the next six hours in front of her computer, typing and deleting in conflict, her entire body sore. But a good kind of sore , she thought, crossing her legs and feeling a twinge of tenderness at their junction. As the day wore on and the soreness grew, her mind became increasingly dulled by the intensity of her thoughts, and she found herself staring at her cursor blinking at her from the screen, hypnotized. When her cell phone buzzed from the edge of her desk, it was seven o’clock, and Cecelia had spent the last several hours in a reverie, eating ice cream and attempting to lose herself in classical music instead of fantasy and replay of the previous night.
    Good evening.
    Cecelia dropped her spoon loudly into her bowl of ice cream, and Mags looked up from her own desk in confusion. “Sorry,” Cecelia told her. “It’s nothing.” A tiny wrinkle in Mags’ forehead told Cecelia that her friend wasn’t convinced, but Mags went back to her statistics homework without a word.
    Hi.
    She smiled as she typed the minimal reply. In the hours that had passed between the morning and now, her mind had worked on horror stories: she had imagined never seeing Andrew again, told herself that sex was all he had