They walked outside into the cold winter morning. Snow sparkled in all directions, and the sky was clear and dim. Outside the cold part of the Icehotel, a couple generators hummed, their cords disappearing into the structure.
Henning had gone back to the room to gather the outerwear the hotel had lent them, but Alya wasn’t wearing hers. Instead, she had on a sleek winter coat that looked way too thin for the temperature. He glared at the blue-haired woman’s back for leaving her underprepared for the weather, though he knew it probably wasn’t her call. But, Christ, Alya must be cold. He could have held his tongue about anything else, but not the cold. He caught up to them and opened the door to the Icehotel.
“You warm enough right now?” His voice was rough.
She nodded.
Still, he was dying to test her temperature himself, feel her hands. It was hard as hell to tamp down the bone-deep urge to take care of her, but he forced his hand to the side.
Just relax.
Jean Pierre and Alya followed the assistant down the ice hallway, the model’s hand now resting on Alya’s back. The way Henning’s had been. But the winter jacket meant his hand was nowhere near her skin. Yet. That would change the moment they started the shoot. Henning blew out a breath. He was going to spend the day watching her from the sidelines. How the fuck he was going to survive this was unclear, but he was banking on the belief that he could make it through just about anything as long as Alya didn’t get hurt.
The assistant led them past doorway after doorway, each room hidden behind a reindeer pelt. Henning had seen photos of a few rooms online, but they were from past years. Each spring the entire structure melted, and each fall, it was built anew. The walls and beds and sculptures he passed right now were temporary; each room represented so many hours of work that wouldn’t last. There was probably some deeper meaning in all this, but since when did Henning look for meaning in a world where terrible things happened without reason? And why the fuck did he keep coming back to his past, letting it taint this burst of happiness that was his present? The Icehotel was still and peaceful, the opposite of the world his memories belonged to, so it was time to get his head on straight.
As far as Henning understood, the designer had the models in different rooms for the morning sessions, some in pairs and some in groups. Then, in the afternoon, there would be a larger session in the Icebar, and that damn documentary crew would be following them everywhere. There was a longer break in the middle of the day, when Alya would have a chance to warm up as the crews shifted locations. At least he wasn’t the only one thinking about staying warm.
The assistant led them down the hallway, the stark beauty of the place cluttered with cords and people and collapsible tables full of God knows what. With all these real-world items, some of the magic of this place disappeared. The blue-haired woman stopped in front of the last doorway.
“The Viking Room,” she said, moving the reindeer pelt to the side.
Alya and Jean Pierre walked in, but when Henning moved to follow them, the assistant narrowed her eyes at him.
“Security,” he muttered to her, not waiting for her answer.
The first thing he saw was the bed. It was an enormous Viking ship carved of ice, with its curved hull and the stern in the shape of a serpent’s tail, curled and flourished. At the bow was some sort of sea monster, facing outward, warding away other monsters that lurked under the sparkling depths of the icy sea. The entire boat glowed and sparkled from underneath, though he couldn’t see any electricity hooked up to it. The actual bed was yet another cluster of reindeer pelts. There were lights positioned around the scene, some behind screens and some from below, though none of them were on.
Henning’s eyes went to Alya. She was wandering around, taking in the snow waves and the mermaid ice sculpture along the opposite wall.
“Beautiful,” she whispered.
In the middle of the night, long after Alya had fallen asleep, he had lain in the bed next to hers, trying to imagine today, trying to prepare himself for the worst. But his imagination had gone down an entirely different route, one undoubtedly influenced by scenes he had watched in the club, mixed with porn. He had pictured Jean Pierre and Alya and a lone, horny photographer watching them. The reality was a hell of a lot less sexy. For starters, there were a lot more people than he expected, and the conversation was on logistics. Henning suppressed a growl as he also noted that everyone else was dressed warmer than Alya.
“We’ll turn on the lights for five minutes, then let them cool, so we don’t melt this place down,” the photographer was saying in a thick Russian accent. “We tested it earlier, so that’s the last thing we’ll do.”
He sat down on the bed with a clipboard, and Alya and Jean Pierre joined him. “This is a rundown of what I’m thinking. I want to do as much as we can while you have your jackets on. We’re going for sexy, not arctic frozen,” he added dryly.
The photographer continued to give directions, and Alya and Jean Pierre asked questions and made comments about power dynamics and seduction like they were all talking about the weather. Henning found himself tuning in more closely as the three of them discussed ideas to so carefully play on people’s emotions.
Henning’s own line of work required him to suppress his emotions, to see through situations carefully and make decisions based on facts, details. It was a skill that surprisingly few were good at. Did Alya suppress her emotions, too, in order to give the photographer what he wanted, or did she know how to find them, on demand? Would he be able to tell the difference?
There were more directions and positioning, and then it was time to begin. A man came up to mess with Alya’s hair, though Henning couldn’t see anything that needed fixing. She looked fucking perfect because she was Alya, and anyone who thought otherwise was an idiot. Then again, that had nothing to do with fashion.
Soon it was time for her to take her coat off. Henning shivered as she tugged on the zipper, pulling it down, exposing her body covered in a skintight sweater and pants. He clenched his jaw and reminded himself to settle the fuck down. Alya shrugged off the jacket, oblivious to his reaction, and she looked around for a place to set it...but everything was ice. Henning crossed the room.
“I can hold that for you,” he muttered.
When she smiled up at him, a little of the tightness inside loosened. Henning retreated to the corner, leaving some woman to finish fussing with Alya’s clothing. He unzipped his own jacket and tucked her coat inside, keeping it warm against his body for when she needed it again.
Then the lights went on and the photo shoot began.
It wasn’t quiet or private at all, the way the photos made it look. The photographer gave directions, and Alya and Jean Pierre climbed onto the bed, setting up a wintry seduction scene. He had seen countless photos of her, on sofas or beds, with men or alone, all for background research, of course. He had tried not to step over the line, but sometimes it was so hard. Once he even bought Tropical Bliss magazine because there was a photo of her alone, walking out of the water in a tiny bathing suit. He’d jerked off to it. Not one of his finer moments, but that was back when he didn’t think he’d ever come face-to-face with her.
There was a series of shots taken standing up, with the bed, covered in the reindeer pelts, in the background. Then, during a quick warm-up break, while he covered her with the coat he had warmed against his body, a red satin sheet was fitted over the mattress that lay on the bed of ice. First Alya was alone, dressed in all white, her hair carefully positioned by the same guy who had messed with it earlier, and then, at her side, Jean Pierre eased down next to her. It was all an act, choreographed by the photographer in his running commentary, and yet, seeing it twisted something deep in Henning’s gut. He was watching this other man, a man with the kind of easygoing lightness Henning had never had, looking down at her like he wanted to eat her up. And fuck if he didn’t want to shove tha
t asshole right out of the bed and onto the icy floor. That man was the one who lay next to her, even though Henning was the one who had made her come last night. He should be the one lying next to her right now. He was getting hard just thinking about all the things he wanted to do.
Henning took off his glove and swiped a hand over his face. It was going to be a long day.
* * *
Alya was shivering by the time Henning opened his coat and pulled hers out again. He was trying not to react, but when she looked up at him, he got the feeling she saw something anyway. Henning wrapped the coat around her shoulders, giving him an excuse to look away. She wouldn’t ask questions there, in the middle of the bustle of equipment-hauling and cleanup crews around them.
But he was close enough for one, intoxicating breath of her scent, and it took only that one breath for the sharp ache of want to flare up again. Henning forced it back down. But then Jean Pierre was approaching; he could see him out of the corner of his eye, heading in their direction.
“Feels longer in the cold, doesn’t it?” Jean Pierre came up next to Alya, getting all in her space in a way that crawled under Henning’s skin. “Heading to lunch?”
Alya shook her head. “I’m having lunch in my room.”
Henning frowned. They headed out through the snowy cold, but when they were finally in the warm part of the hotel and alone, Henning stopped, right in the middle of the hallway. He was trying to figure out how to say this without being an asshole. Finally he blew out a breath and gave up. “I hope you’re staying back from lunch has nothing to do with me.”
“You mean you want me to ignore the way you were glowering at me for the last two hours while Jean Pierre and I lay on the bed?” she asked, leveling him with her gaze. “You want to spend more time watching us together?”
Henning closed his eyes and massaged his temples.
“Or you didn’t mean to stare at me like you were thinking of everything you wanted to do with me on that bed?” she said, her voice husky. “Am I mistaken?”
“I didn’t mean to—”
Alya burst out laughing, cutting off his grumble.
“Yes, you did,” she said, still laughing. The sound was beautiful, soft and musical, and finally, reluctantly, he smiled too. “But I also need a little time to relax.” She raised her eyebrows at him. “You want to go back to the room and relax with me?”
She tugged on his arm a little, and he blew out a breath and followed her. He probably would have followed her anywhere if she asked. They walked in silence, into the warm building and down the hallway, the tension from the day building with every step closer to the room. Two models passed, their glances bouncing from Alya to him in open curiosity, and Henning scowled at them. Yeah, it was obvious what was going on, but at this point, he didn’t care. All he could think about was Alya in white, lying on that red satin bed, looking at him.
Henning entered the room first, giving it a quick sweep because he would never, ever forget that he was here first and foremost for her protection. But the room was silent, the beds made and the breakfast dishes gone. It was simple, impersonal, so much like a setting from a magazine he’d see her in, and, yet, this was real. And of all the men in the world, she was looking at him right now. No one else. What a lucky bastard he was. For a few short days.
He turned to her and fingered the zipper of her coat.
“Are you warm enough?”
She blinked at him. “You have something about the cold, don’t you? You don’t like it.”
Henning swallowed. “We can talk about that later.”
She shrugged. “I’m fine. My jacket was warm when you gave it back.”
He stroked her hair, but he wasn’t convinced.
“Besides, when I lay there on that bed, I found a way to keep myself warm.” Her voice was soft and silky. “Want to know how?”
He tugged on the zipper of her coat, drawing out this moment, drawing out this time before the wave of want and need came crashing in. Slowly, he revealed the elaborate wrap of her sweater, soft and white. It twisted around her body, and he reached in to find the ties that held it together. Her stomach was warm under his hands. “Tell me.”
Alya licked her lips. “When I lay on that Viking bed, I was thinking about you last night. Kneeling with your cock in your hand. And what you’d say if you were next to me.”
Henning chuckled and took a step back from her. “I’d say let’s get the hell out of this ice prison and get you warm.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
STEAM CLOUDED THE bathroom mirror as Alya peeled off her pants and camisole. She slipped her fingers under the waistband of her panties but paused when she caught sight of the peach, lacy material.
She wiped a patch of the fog off the mirror and studied her arms, her stomach, her hips. In a world where women bonded over dieting wins and failures, she had gotten this body. Tall, slim but a little curvy, with small, rounded breasts and very little sun damage—that last part thanks to her mother’s own aversion to the sun, ensuring that not only her mother but also that she and Natasha were camera-ready. It was a body that brands designed for, before they translated those styles into real-world sizes. If she believed everything the fashion industry had taught her, this body was for show, not for real-world practicalities. But Alya didn’t care what the rest of the world thought. Today, she cared about what Henning thought.
Did he see her through the lens of the magazine descriptions? Ethereal was one of the words that surfaced, again and again, with its companions, otherworldly and untouchable. That last one she particularly hated. What kind of person didn’t want to be touched? Not her, that was for sure.
God, she hoped Henning didn’t see her that way. The electric tension between them yesterday had been very much grounded in the physical world.
She stepped out of her panties and into the hot shower. She stood under the showerhead, letting the warm water seep in as she replayed the morning. Henning on his knees in front of her at breakfast. On the Viking bed, with Jean Pierre stretched along her side as Henning’s gaze burned into her. Henning keeping her jacket warm against him.
How many times had other men touched her? Her job required close contact with other models, and not once had any one of those intimate poses awoken feelings this intense. But all it took was Henning’s gaze to send bolts of heat through her, fighting the cold.
The way he towered over her left her breathless. And the sound of his breath stuttering as she pressed her hand against his stomach. The strokes of his tongue between her legs. Now she was standing under the falling water, naked and burning up inside that memory. A flush crept up her neck, her body alive, craving more.
Alya climbed out of the shower, towel-dried her hair and then wrapped another towel around her body.
When she finally opened the door again, Henning was sitting on the bed, his forearms resting on his knees, his head hung. A T-shirt stretched over his hard, muscular chest, his biceps ripped and cut from years of physical training. Slowly, he sat up, and heat spread through her body in new waves as she took him in. Any traces of smoothness to him were long gone, if he ever had them. Just barely visible on one side were the ropy scars that lined his neck and disappeared under his shirt, healed but far from gone. Henning Fischer was the most incredible man she had ever seen. He had wanted to give her pleasure yesterday. Now she wanted her turn.
When her gaze finally reached his face again, Henning’s eyes were on her. His expression was dark and hot, and the tension between them crackled. He couldn’t know about the way she had imagined them together, but it was as if he was thinking about those exact same things.
Alya swallowed. Then, slowly, she walked toward him. His legs were parted, and she continued until she was standing between his knees. Liquid heat rolled from his gaze, turning her insides red-hot. The pull between them sparked, alive, electric. His hands moved to her thigh
s, touching them, but it felt more like an assessment than seduction.
“You warm now?” he asked softly.
“Yes, thanks.” She smiled. “You realize the temperature in our ice room will be zero tonight, right?”
His jaw tightened. “Yeah. I’ll deal with it.”
Henning wrapped his arms around her legs and urged her to sit on top of him, so she was straddling him much like she had in the car. But this time if felt different. More intimate. She rested her hands on his bare arms and explored the heat, the solid muscle, as her towel loosened from around her chest. Henning leaned in closer, dropping a trail of kisses down her neck. “How do you want to relax? Tell me what you’d like.”
Alya pulled back a little and raised a skeptical eyebrow. “What about what you’d like?”
“I’d like anything with you, Alya,” he said, his face solemn. “Anything.”
She had never met a man who had so seriously professed his interest without asking for something in return, and it still threw her off a little. Nick had been so closed off when they were alone, which was partly why the intensity of his pursuit had surprised her after she broke up with him. And the restraining order she took out only seemed to make him more determined. But now wasn’t the time to think about Nick.
She focused on Henning, so close. “How about for everything I tell you I like, I get to take off one piece of your clothing.”
Henning laughed. “If that’s what you want.” He gave her a sexy wink. “I’m willing to get naked in exchange for a peek into your mind.” His hands moved up and down her back and slow caresses. He kissed her neck again and then her collarbone. “You first.”
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