Page 25 of Hotter on Ice

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 boughtTropical Blissmagazine 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 that 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?”