Beneath Her Ice

Eliza Darcy had survived investor showdowns, media smear campaigns, and twenty-hour product launches with less stress than Will Bennett making breakfast.

Smoke curled from the toaster like a lazy warning.

She stood barefoot at the kitchen entrance, arms crossed, watching him jab at the stubborn appliance with the same intensity she usually reserved for market analytics.

"You realize," she said dryly, "that's your third slice."

Will glanced over his shoulder, shirt rumpled, curls uncombed. "It's called trial and error. Emphasis on error."

She padded forward, plucked the charred toast from the machine, and raised a brow. "Is your endgame here a smoke alarm serenade?"

He grinned, sheepish. "I was trying to impress you."

Eliza dropped the toast into the trash and stepped close, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind. "You already did."

He turned in her arms. "Really? Because I think I just committed a crime against carbs."

She kissed him — slow and amused. "You get points for effort. Subtracting a few for smoke damage."

"Fair."

He kissed her back, hands warm on her hips. It should have ended there — a quick laugh, a small mess, another story in their growing collection of shared mornings.

But something shifted.

Maybe it was the way her fingers curled tighter at the hem of his shirt.

Maybe it was the way his mouth lingered at her collarbone, tasting sleep and skin.

Whatever it was, breakfast was officially postponed.

Will lifted her onto the kitchen counter, their bodies drawn together like magnets that had finally stopped pretending they weren't meant to connect. Eliza moaned against his mouth, hips grinding instinctively.

"Meeting in twenty," she gasped as he slid his hands beneath her shirt.

"Plenty of time," he murmured against her neck.

He peeled her shirt upward, exposing smooth skin and the curve of her waist. She braced her hands behind her, breath caught between laughter and want.

"Countertop sex?" she asked, voice edged with disbelief. "You're really committing to the domestic fantasy."

He kissed down her sternum. "You're the fantasy."

When he entered her — strong, slow, deliberate — she clung to his shoulders like she'd drown without him. The morning sun spilled across the floor, warm and careless, as their bodies moved in sync. There was nothing polite about it. No performance. Just pleasure and need and the pure, aching intimacy of knowing someone deeper every time they touched.

When she came, her voice broke into his name.

When he followed, it was with her name on his lips like prayer.

Fifteen minutes later, she joined a board meeting on mute, hair still damp from a rushed shower, coffee in one hand and an unreadable expression on her face.

Will passed behind her quietly with a smug smile and a plate of unburnt toast.

Her eyes narrowed. "Don't."

He shrugged. "Didn't say anything."

But as he walked away, she let a smile slip — small, private, almost tender.

This wasn't a fairytale.

It was better.

It was real.

And she was starting to believe it could last.