ICE QUEEN

Chapter 7: The Ice Returns

The hallway felt longer than usual when I finally stepped out of her office.

My legs were unsteady, skin still burning where her mouth had been, where her hands had gripped my hips like she never wanted to let go. The taste of her lingered—scotch, heat, the faint salt of my own skin. My pulse hadn’t slowed. My body was still hard, aching, traitorously ready for more even though she’d pulled away the second the moment shattered.

She’d stood up abruptly after I came—hard, messy, shuddering against her tongue—wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, smoothed her blouse like nothing had happened, and said in that crisp, boardroom voice:

“Clean yourself up. We’re done for today.”

No eye contact. No softness. Just the Ice Queen snapping back into place.

I’d nodded mutely, fixed my clothes with trembling fingers, and left. The door closed behind me with that quiet, final click that sounded like a sentence.

Now, sitting at my desk in the dim after-hours light, I stared at the blank screen and tried to breathe normally.

It was a mistake.

She knew it the moment it was over. I could see it in the way her shoulders stiffened, the way her eyes went distant and professional again. Vicky Reyes doesn’t do vulnerability. She doesn’t do loss of control. And what we just did? That was the opposite of control.

She probably hated herself for it already.

I hated myself a little too.

Not for wanting her—God, how could I not?—but for letting it happen. For moaning her name like that. For coming apart so easily under her touch. For being the one who made the perfect, untouchable CEO kneel on her own office floor.

By the time I got home, I’d decided: it never happened.

Not really.

It was a one-off. A lapse. A moment of temporary madness brought on by the storm, the scotch, the weeks of tension that had been building like pressure in a sealed room. Tomorrow we’d both pretend. She’d be cold and professional. I’d be efficient and cheerful. No glances. No post-its with hearts. No brushing fingers when handing her coffee.

Denial was the only way forward.

The next morning I arrived at 6:35—earlier than ever. Coffee brewed precisely at 85 degrees. Blinds adjusted. Schedule printed in crisp black and white. No color-coded notes today. No smiley faces. Just the bare minimum required to function.

She arrived at 6:58.

Charcoal suit. Hair in the flawless low bun. Expression carved from stone.

I stood as she passed my desk.

“Good morning, Ma’am Vicky. Your coffee is on your desk. The board packet has been updated with yesterday’s final figures. Investor call prep is in your inbox.”

She stopped for half a second—long enough for my heart to lurch—then kept walking.

“Send the risk assessment summary by 9:00,” she said without turning. Voice flat. Distant. Like Friday night had been erased from existence.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

The door closed.

No flicker in her eyes. No lingering look. Nothing to suggest she remembered the way I’d gasped her name, or how her fingers had dug into my thighs, or how she’d whispered “You’re mine” right before she took me apart.

Nothing.

I sat down slowly, stomach in knots.

She was denying it. Completely. Ruthlessly.

And so would I.

I opened the risk assessment file and started typing. Fingers steady. Breathing even. Professional.

But every time I glanced at her closed door, I felt it—the ghost of her mouth, the heat of her hands, the way her eyes had darkened with want before the ice slammed back down.

She could pretend all she wanted.

I could pretend too.

But deep down, we both knew the truth.

The mistake wasn’t that it happened.

The mistake was thinking either of us could forget it.

(To be continued…)