Snowfall on Rival Skin

Snow catches in his hair first. Tiny stars melting before they reach his shoulders. He stands at the far edge of the hot spring, robe still on, pretending to study the steam rising from the water. I watch the way his breath clouds in the air—shorter than mine, controlled. The scent of cedar wraps around us, sharp and warm from the wooden walls.

You always take the corner seat in boardrooms too, I say.

His thumb rubs over his lower lip. Just like before a veto. The chipped blue tile in the corner winks under the dim light, the only imperfect thing here.

I drop my robe. The air bites. Then the water swallows me whole, heat rushing up my thighs, my stomach. His eyes follow the steam curling off my skin.

He undoes his robe at last. The Hokkaido deal—you conceded too fast. I expected more fight.

His cufflinks click against the bench. Silver, monogrammed. The cedar smell thickens.

I picture him shoving me against the wooden wall, steam condensing between us. His fingers would dig into my hips the way they grip a pen.

The water parts as I cross to him. His cufflinks are cold in my palm. Slippery.

These would look better on my nightstand, I say.

He catches my wrist. Prove it.

Then I'm in his lap, the heat of him under the water, his thighs solid under mine. His grip tightens. Our mouths crash together like a deal neither of us wants to lose.

He braces against the chipped tile as my nails scrape his shoulders.

His teeth sink into my shoulder. A sharp, perfect pain. Water sloshes as he pushes me back against the stone ledge, his hands mapping my spine.

Next quarter’s earnings report—

—will wait.

Cedar sticks in his hair. I pull it, just enough. He groans against my throat. His knee slots between my legs, and the world narrows to the scrape of stone and the catch of his breath.

Dawn light filters through the snowfall. His cufflinks leave grooves in the bench where I press them down.

Monday’s meeting starts at ten. Don’t be late.

The chipped tile glints. Already drying.