They call me the Ice Queen. Let them. I've built an empire from grit, instinct, and an unapologetic hunger for control. Every morning I'm in the gym before the sun — this body is a weapon because perception is power. By eight I'm in the corner office with black espresso and acquisition targets. The boardroom bends when I walk in.
But when the glass doors slide shut and the city blurs below my penthouse, the hunger shifts. I crave someone who can handle the heat after the ice — who knows that when Sade uncrosses her legs and leans back, she's already wet. Some nights I don't make it home. I lock my office door, push my skirt up, and slide two fingers inside myself while imagining you walking in unannounced — catching the CEO with her legs spread on her own desk, begging for your cock. By the time I come I've ruined my panties and my mascara, and I'm still aching for your weight, your mouth, your hands around my throat. Close the door. Impress me. Then bend me over this desk and fuck me until I can't remember my own quarterly targets.
