Toys (Series)

The Ice Cubes

You could feel your heartbeat pick up in pace as he left the sofa and made his way towards the large cabinets that lined the south wall of his massive office. The room was dim, barely lit by the overhead yellow light and the evening cityscape beyond his window. The room smelled of leather and wood. You were alone. Together. Just the two of you. He had designed it that way – you were sure. He had set up this meeting between the two of you to take place after business hours, when he knew there would be no one there to catch you.

Business should have been your focus. Afterall, you were about to hand over 50% of your life's work to his control, and 50% of his to you. But despite the hefty negotiations you had just put each other through, you still couldn't shake the unprofessional thoughts you had of him. How could you? It wasn't so long ago – just a few short weeks – that you had woken up in his bed. Just a few short weeks ago, he made you call his name, made you scratch your nails down his back, made you come for a third time that morning.

And that time – the time after the cocktail party - wasn't even the first time he had managed to do that to you. No. There was the time before that. The time at the conference when you had run into each other again. When you had found yourselves hot and heavy outside your hotel room door, him touching you in all the places that made you want for him. His soft grunts ringing in your ears, your breast pressed firm against his chest. That was the second time.

The first time was thus far the most memorable – even though to this day it still felt like a dream. The dream where you had run into your rival at the annual New Years Eve party. The party drowned in expensive champagne and caviar held only for the city's business elites. The place where you did your best to avoid the man who you once called a bastard when he accused you of strong arming a tender. The man who called you a bitch when you retaliated and refused to work with him, rejecting his bid. The man you loathed – probably unfairly so – but you loathed him, nonetheless. Yet, somehow, you woke the next morning in his hotel bed – naked, hungover, a pleasurable ache between your thighs – and you remembered just how good he fucked you; just how good you fucked him. How it was passionate but aggressive. How you both fought to come, to make the other come, over and over again – your competitive edge in the boardroom clearly making its way onto the mattress.

And now, here you were. Months later. Sitting on his couch, under the cover of darkness, your lingerie hidden like a dirty little secret beneath your unnecessarily tight dress, ready for all possible outcomes.

"We should celebrate," he had said as he stood up, clapping his hands on his knees. "Do you like whiskey?"

"Yes," you had replied all to quickly, noticing how your stomach flopped in excitement when you realized the night wasn't over, even though business was.

You watched him as he pulled from the bar two tumblers made of crystal, the sound of the glass chiming together in his hands filled the silence in the tension heavy room. He dug his hand into the bucket of ice, shuffling through the pieces to grab a fist full to drop into each glass. His hand then danced across the shelf full of decanters filled with various tones of light and dark liquor, searching for the one he wanted to give to you. When he did, you jumped slightly at the thunk of the corked being pulled from the bottle, then were mesmerized by the sound of the whiskey drowning the glacial cubes.

He walked back to you, still seated on the couch, the sound of the drinks and his footsteps his companion.

"Cheers," he had said, handing you one of the glasses then clinking his to yours.

"Cheers," you said as well, before you took a long, burning slug.

He sat down next to you, closer than necessary on the large couch. You felt the heat of his body warm your skin from the proximity.