Hotter on Ice

by Rebecca Hunter

  “That guy in the corner,” she whispered, sotto voce. “Are you with him?”

  Thank God her cheeks were probably already pink from the cold because she was finding it harder and harder to hide her attraction. She glanced over at Henning. His gaze was cool, impassive, but it was fixed on her. Could they see through that hard mask he wore, beyond the scars, to the man who had stood over her in the hallway, whispering in her ear, turning her insides red-hot? That couldn’t be it. This was just the usual curiosity.

  Alya looked back at Brianna. “He’s security.”

  “I’d hire him,” she said, and her tone suggested exactly what services she’d be looking for.

  Should Alya be offended for Henning? No, he probably wouldn’t care. The fashion industry rested on others’ perceptions, but Henning so clearly didn’t. She got the feeling that he was a man who only did exactly what he chose to do.

  Brianna’s gaze drifted back to him, and she smiled. “Yes, I definitely wouldn’t mind having him watch me.”

  Alya bit back a smile. Was she going to ask for Henning’s business card next? Alya could see the scene, Brianna sizing Henning up with those bedroom eyes that she was known for. The clench in Alya’s gut came out of nowhere, sudden and intense. And completely unexpected.

  Oh, this was ripe. Of course other women saw Henning’s sex appeal. But when she glanced at him, his eyes were still on her, his gaze unwavering, and his words from that first day in the Blackmore Inc. conference room came back. There are no other clients for me. Not now, and not in the future. A hot flame of lust licked through her body, setting it on fire. Oh, now she understood this game she had suggested back in the hallway in a whole new way.

  Except she was here for work-related mingling.

  “Enjoy the view,” she said, smiling at Brianna, and turned to scan the crowd.

  The hotel wasn’t actually that big, and Sasha Federov’s team and the Behind the Runway crew had reserved all the rooms in the place, warm and cold, for the next two nights, which meant that everyone here was associated with this campaign. Being at the center of Federov’s collection could be a serious career boost, making up for all the time she spent rebuilding her career in a new country after Nick. If she played this right.

  She spotted Federov and smiled at him, and he made his way over to her.

  “Ahh...you’re here,” he said, his Russian accent strong and familiar. He kissed her on both cheeks and gestured at the crowd, smiling a little. “Lots of people are asking about you. I know Jean Pierre would love to spend a little time with you.”

  Right, Jean Pierre Rus. Notorious flirt. The man who would wrap his arms around her in the shoot tomorrow.

  “He’ll find me,” she said.

  Federov’s eyes were on her, sharp and assessing. Some people would mistake the intensity of his stare for sexual, but she knew what it really was: surveying a part of his empire, an empire that reached beyond the thousand-dollar neckties and one-of-a-kind dresses he created. Everyone in that room was part of it, part of the inventory he handpicked, worshipped, then culled. And right now, he was looking at Alya the way he’d look at his favorite suit, set apart, making sure it was hanging right where he wanted it.

  Alya had no illusions about Federov. She was the flavor of the day for a man known for his obsessions that surged and then fell just as quickly. But the artist-muse thing didn’t seem to revolve around sex for him—no way she would have signed on to this job if there were hints otherwise. The fucking was optional, though he certainly was known for that, too. In the end, she had taken a good, hard look at this job for what it was: an amazing opportunity to stand on her own and carve out her own path.

  “Let me know if you need anything during your stay,” Federov said, then leaned in to kiss her cheek. “Though it looks like you have someone else to look after that.”

  He nodded over her shoulder, and Alya followed Federov’s gaze. Henning’s expression was stony, his eyes darting from Federov back to her.

  “My bodyguard,” she said, though her voice might have given away more.

  “Interesting.” Federov’s expression hinted at mild amusement as his gaze flicked back to Henning. “Your mother had many admirers, too.”

  Her first instinct was to deny the connections he was making, between her and Henning, between her and her mother. But direct responses rarely were taken at face value.

  Instead, she gave him a dry smile. “My mother would be the first to say that men were the downfall of her career.”

  Federov chuckled. “And yet she couldn’t resist.”

  He kissed her again and turned to call Jean Pierre over. She had worked on projects with him before, and she had to admit she kind of liked him, despite his well-deserved reputation as a man-whore. Men like that either seemed to hate women or love them, and he was definitely in the latter category. He was good-natured and laid-back, basically a breath of fresh air in an industry with a few too many divas.

  Jean Pierre was also an insufferable seducer, and, from the smile on his face, those efforts were going to be aimed her way. It was actually a good thing in small doses since, tomorrow morning, they would probably be spread out on a bed of smelly reindeer fur, looking into each other’s eyes. It was a lot easier to do sultry with someone who actually liked her.

  “Alya Petrova.” He settled a hand on her back, though the intimacy of this gesture wasn’t as effective through the thick coat. “Can I get you a drink? Their signature drinks are in ice here.”

  Alya had no idea what he meant, and she wasn’t much of a drinker, but when in an ice bar... “Vodka martini, please.”

  Jean Pierre raised an eyebrow. “Not my first guess. I would have thought you’d order champagne.”

  He nodded to the group of models at the bar.

  She gave him a little smile. “Family drink.”

  A preference for vodka was one of the few Russian traditions her mother had maintained after their move to California. One of the many things Illana Petrova, model-turned-actress, was known for.

  Jean Pierre flagged down the bartender and ordered, then turned to her as the woman mixed their drinks. He was as good-looking in person as he was on camera, which wasn’t a given, with tousled hair, deep blue eyes and a hint of a smirk in his smile that very few guys could pull off. He was assessing her, too, but Alya wasn’t sure what his conclusions were, though she was almost sure sex was on the table if she gave any indication she wanted it.

  “The last time I saw you, your boyfriend Nick Bancroft was breathing down your neck.”

  Trust Jean Pierre to get right to the point.

  Alya rolled her eyes. “The whole world knows we’re not together anymore. He made sure of that, along with implying I was crazy.”

  Jean Pierre’s mouth turned down in a rare frown. “I’m sorry you went through that. That bastard really tried to drag you through the mud.”

  “Great taste in men, right?” She snorted. “I’m a lot more careful these days.”

  “And does that bodyguard go everywhere with you now?” asked Jean Pierre in a low voice.

  Alya had answered versions of this question, full of insinuation, many times when Max was her bodyguard, and there had never been anything between them. So she answered it the exact same way for Henning.

  “Everywhere.”

  “Huh.” That was all Jean Pierre said, but he was definitely registering something.

  He looked like he was about to make a comment, but the bartender brought them their drinks. Jean Pierre handed one to her. “Vodka martini in ice.”

  “Ahh, I see,” she said, studying the “glass” made out of ice.

  He raised his own ice glass to hers and winked. “To the sexiest winter collection ever.”

  Alya clinked her glass with his and took a sip of the vodka. It made a cool trail down her throat.

  “Wa
nt to check out the Viking Room?” he asked. “That’s where our first shoot starts tomorrow, no?”

  The suggestion itself wasn’t out of the ordinary, and the full-on snow gear didn’t lend itself to sexytimes. Still, she was getting that vibe in spades.

  Alya gave him a hint of a smile. “Not tonight.”

  “I should have guessed. Someone else has plans for you,” he said, his voice filled with amusement.

  She shook her head. “He’s just doing his job,” she said, though she knew Jean Pierre wouldn’t believe a word of it.

  “Looks like fun.”

  She followed Jean Pierre’s gaze across the room, to Henning. Fun wasn’t the first descriptor that came to mind. He definitely didn’t belong in this world, and his scars weren’t the biggest tell. He was too big, too intense, too guarded, too...everything. He had the presence of a person still in the rough. But what set him apart from this crowd most was that he sat, arms folded, resting against the wall, as if he didn’t care how others saw him. Henning didn’t seem to care that Jean Pierre was staring at him, assessing him right now, and he answered that stare with a fuck off, asshole glance of his own. Damn, she admired his attitude.

  Alya took one last gulp of her drink and said good-night to Jean Pierre. Then she started across the room. Henning was watching her like there was nothing else around except her, so she held his gaze, coming to a stop right in front of him.

  “Is all that reindeer fur keeping your ass warm?” she asked.

  He ignored her question. “Who is that?”

  Slowly he stood up until he towered over her, his jaw working, each tense movement, each moment of restraint sending hot bolts of lust through her, making her legs weak. His voice was cool and even, but his eyes blazed down on her. She could think of a handful of answers that were almost sure to stoke this fire hotter. This game was working a little too well for both of them. They were already walking a thin line right here, in front of everyone she worked with. If she taunted him with answers about Jean Pierre, one of them was going to step over the line, and judging from Henning’s well-practiced restraint, it would probably be her.

  “I’m ready to go back to the room,” she said.

  His eyes flared with heat, and he glanced once more in Jean Pierre’s direction. “You’re done with everything here?”

  She nodded slowly. Finally he lifted his chin in ascension. “Lead the way.”

  She brushed by him and headed toward the front entrance. He was right behind her, radiating a hot desire, and his gaze burned into her back. She wanted to turn around, to get a read on what all this tightly reined tension meant, but she wouldn’t let herself. Not until they were alone.

  She walked out the front door and into the darkness of the night. Henning’s boots crunched, so close, but he didn’t touch her. Didn’t say a word. When they came to the warm building, he held the door open for her, and they stepped in. The hallway was empty, and Alya was ready to continue their conversation right there, but she had enough of her wits about her to ditch that plan and look for a little more privacy. She found a door and pulled it open. An upscale locker room, but at this point she didn’t care.

  The door closed behind them, and the only sounds were their breaths, fast and ragged. Alya slowed to a stop, and so did Henning, still right behind her. She swallowed. Then slowly, she turned around. Oh, God. His eyes were alive and dark, and her entire body exploded with need.

  He tugged off his gloves and hat, dropping them on the floor. Next he grabbed the zipper of his snowsuit with his big hand, and she watched, mesmerized, as he unzipped all the way, until the fly of his thermals showed. He adjusted himself so that his thick erection jutted into the V, straining at the material. His chest rose and fell quickly.

  “Fuck,” he muttered. Then he met her gaze.

  When she didn’t say anything, he reached for her zipper. He tugged it down, exposing her slowly. His scars twisted as he watched this slow reveal, turning his expression into something darker. Oh, God, this was the sexiest game, and she wanted to play it so very badly. She dropped her gloves on the floor and reached up to his face, touched it, the rough side and the smooth side both under her fingers. He took a ragged breath and stepped toward her, her breasts pressing against his chest. She shuffled back to keep her balance, but he stepped forward again. Step. Step. Slowly, he backed her up against the rough wooden wall. There was nowhere left to go.

  Then he slipped his hands into her snowsuit, around her waist and down her ass, cupping it in his enormous hands. He bent down.

  “You like to be watched, sweetheart?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “You like knowing that you’re the only person I see in that room?” His voice was rougher. “You like knowing I’m hard as hell, wanting you, even while you talk to another man?”

  “God, yes.”

  He had been watching her all day, but it was nothing compared to what she saw in those dark brown eyes right now. It was raw and dirty, twenty-four hours’ worth of pent-up lust. Or more.

  Then his mouth came down on hers, cutting off all other thoughts as her body burst into flames. They were a tangle of hands and hats and snowsuits, and it was impossible to get close enough. It was a storm, sudden, torrential, drenching everything with its hot, wet downpour. She was so achingly hungry. His teeth caught her lips, his tongue stroked hers with unleashed craving. Alya moaned and kissed him back, showing him what she liked. He was claiming her, not by force or demand but with pledges. The kiss was a string of erotic promises, of all the ways they could be together, of all the ways he wanted to take her. You know you want to be mine. His hands had found their way under her sweater, his fingers slipping up her back, pulling his body against hers. She moaned again, and he answered with a deep groan.

  And then, as suddenly as it had started, he pulled back, dragging in a harsh breath.

  “Holy fuck,” he muttered, letting her go.

  Alya inhaled deeply, her mind still reeling from kissing, touching, wanting so badly. “The room. Let’s go back to the room.”

  Henning was silent for a moment, and then he nodded. He straightened her clothes and arranged her snowsuit over her shoulders, his touch almost gentle now. He zipped up his own snowsuit a bit, hiding his erection, and then picked up her gloves and the rest of his gear off the floor.

  His eyes were filled with that guarded lust he had looked at her with for so much of today. She waited him out, watching him, wondering if he’d speak his thoughts aloud. He swallowed, working his jaw, and he ran his free hand through the short bristles of his hair.

  Then he rested it on her face, cradling her cheek with his big palm. He took a ragged breath, and then his mouth was on hers again. His lips stroked hers with more finesse this time, but that edge of longing and need was still there.

  “Whatever you want from me,” he whispered. “Take it.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  FOR ONE, HOT KISS, Henning hadn’t held back. In that quiet locker room, with Alya up against the wall, her body flush with his, he let himself react, let her feel how deep his want ran. Because the twist in his gut as he watched that man—a man who was everything Henning wasn’t—touch her and smile at her? That was a real reminder that she would never really be his. That chasm had opened inside, exposing deep fissures, and all the buried want and need flooded out.

  Neither of them had said a word since they left that little locker room. But now, as the door to their hotel room clicked shut and she came to a stop in front of him, they were on again, for real this time. He stepped up close and slid the top of her snowsuit off, guiding it down her body. He got on his knees, easing the material over her ass and down her legs, tracing her curves with his hands.

  “Hold on to my shoulders,” he said softly.

  She held on, balancing herself as he lifted one foot to tug her boot off, then the snowsuit. He moved to th
e other side to pull off the other boot, her hands warm on his shoulders. God, it felt good to take care of her. He got to his feet and hung up her snowsuit on the hook next to him. Then he stilled as he took her in, dressed in thermals and a soft white sweater. With that searing kiss still licking flames through his body, everything else was fading except the need to give her what she wanted.

  He was going to give her a place to let down her guard, to indulge in her own wants. Over the last three years, he had learned a lot about Alya and the way she quietly shouldered the weight of her family. The way she’d supported her sister financially at age eighteen, taking care of Natasha when her mother was too distracted by the drama of her own life. Alya had even sacrificed nursing school so that Natasha could go to college. This was a woman with an enormous heart, and Nick Bancroft had taken advantage of it.

  Of all the reasons for Henning to drag himself out of his self-imposed years of seclusion, this was the strongest: he would give her whatever she needed for a few days. And if that meant his cock and his mouth, then hell, yes, he’d give it to her.

  He shed his own outer layers and then stood behind her, closer. His thermal layer did nothing to hide his erection. He couldn’t resist pressing it between her ass, the urge to have her growing stronger.

  Henning brushed her hair to the side and pressed his lips on her neck. “You have the sweetest scent. I could do this all day long.” He caught her earlobe between his lips, and her breath hitched. He took a long inhale and groaned. “You want to know what I’ve been wondering?”

  “Yes.” She turned her head toward him, looking over her shoulder, and her blue eyes were electric, shining, alive.

  Fuck, he was so hard right now, his cock pushing against the fly of his boxers, hard to ignore. Her voice was a siren’s call, so he answered it. “I want to find out if you smell just as good between your legs.”