Aria's Pov
The office was too quiet for how late it was. The lamps burned low, paperwork spread across the desk, and the smell of sawdust and seawater still clung faintly to Iceberg's coat where it hung on the back of his chair. My quill scratched the page, neat enough for someone who wasn't really supposed to be here, pretending I knew anything about bookkeeping for Water 7's busiest man.
"Mm." Iceberg leaned back, stretching with a groan, long arms above his head. His shirt pulled tight across his chest, and I pretended not to notice. "If one more invoice lands on my desk this week, I might set the entire shipyard on fire."
I laughed, soft but real. "Can't imagine that'd go over well since you're the mayor."
His lips quirked, tired but genuine. He rubbed his eyes with one hand, the lamplight catching in the strands of his blue hair. "Mayor, shipwright, problem solver. Sometimes I wonder if they'd even notice if I just disappeared for a week."
The way he said it—it was too casual, but I caught the weight in it. Vulnerability. It startled me. Iceberg was supposed to be the cool, steady one, the untouchable man who ran an entire city without cracking. But here, late at night with only me left, he let the corner slip.
And god help me, it made him even more attractive.
"Maybe they'd notice," I said, softer, trying to sound inspirational even though I hadn't a clue what I was saying. "But they wouldn't admit it. People forget their pillars aren't made of stone."
His eyes flicked to me then, something unreadable in the look. A silence stretched, not awkward, but heavy. My heart thumped. Was I imagining it? The way his gaze lingered, the faint shift in his posture toward me?
Our hands brushed when I passed him a file. Just skin against skin, fleeting, but heat jolted up my arm.
I froze.
He didn't pull away. His hand stayed over mine, warm, steady, deliberate. Slowly, he leaned closer across the desk.
"Aria," he murmured, testing, as if giving me a chance to back out.
Oh hell no, I wasn't letting this slip.
I surged forward, kissing him before he could second-guess. His lips were dry with fatigue at first, tentative, but I pressed harder, tilting my head, parting for him. He made a startled sound in his throat, then answered me fully, lips working against mine with a hunger that had clearly been bottled tight.
It wasn't smooth. My chair scraped back too fast, the edge of the desk caught my hip as I half climbed toward him, and the lamp wobbled dangerously. But I didn't care. His mouth was on mine, his hand sliding up to cradle the side of my face, thumb grazing my cheekbone like I was something fragile.
The tenderness almost undid me more than the kiss.
I broke away just long enough to gasp, "Finally," before catching his mouth again.
We fumbled with clothes, clumsy and rushed. My blouse buttons popped under his fingers, uneven. My skirt bunched awkwardly as I hitched it higher over my thighs. He cursed when his own cuff snagged on his sleeve. Reality was messier than any daydream—fanfics I read made everything happen smoothly.
It wasn't and I preferred it this way.
His mouth trailed down my jaw, my neck, teeth scraping lightly before his tongue soothed the sting. I shivered. His hands spread wide on my waist, grounding me, holding me against the desk.
I tugged his shirt free from his trousers, sliding my hands beneath to feel warm skin, firm muscle.
"Aria," he said again, lower this time, almost a groan.
"Yes," I breathed, already fumbling at his belt. "Don't stop."
He kissed me hard before pushing me back slightly, his palms gliding down my thighs. He spread my legs where I perched on the edge of his desk, then sank to his knees in front of me.
My breath caught.
The mayor of Water 7 was on his knees between my legs.
"Fuck," I whispered, heat flooding me.
He smirked faintly, then leaned in. His tongue dragged slowly up my center through damp cloth, and I nearly doubled over. The friction was sharp, filthy. He hooked my panties aside, and then it was skin on skin—his mouth hot against me, his tongue circling, stroking, sucking my clit with a patience that made me whimper.
"Gods—Iceberg—" My hands clutched at his hair, pulling him closer.
His fingers joined his mouth, sliding into me slow but sure. Thick, steady strokes that filled me perfectly. He wasn't rushed, wasn't frantic. Just deliberate, grounding me with every press of his tongue, every curl of his fingers inside me.
The tension coiled too fast. My thighs shook around his head, my breath hitched, my back arched.
"Don't stop, don't you dare—"
He didn't. He held me firm and steady, coaxing me higher until the orgasm snapped, tearing through me with a cry I bit into my own hand to muffle. My body shook, waves rolling, his fingers easing me through it, his mouth refusing to let go until I sagged, boneless.
He rose smoothly, kissing me again, and I tasted myself on his lips. The intimacy of it made me whimper.
"Your turn," I panted, sliding off the desk to my knees.
He started to protest, but I already had him undone, his trousers falling loose. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, and I swallowed hard before wrapping my hand around him. He groaned low, his head tipping back, the sound vibrating through me.
I stroked him, slow at first, then faster, before leaning in to lick along the length, tasting salt and heat. When I took him into my mouth, his hand immediately slid into my hair, not forcing, just there, trembling slightly.
I sucked, hollowing my cheeks, bobbing steadily, letting my tongue swirl around the tip each time I pulled back. His groan made me ache all over again.
"Aria—enough—" His voice broke, and before I could protest, he pulled me up, kissing me fiercely.
The next thing I knew, he turned me, bent me forward over the desk, my skirt shoved up, panties tugged aside.
I gasped, the rawness of the position hitting me, heart racing.
"Last chance," he murmured against my ear, steady even now.
I shoved my hips back. "Do it."
He pushed in slowly, stretching me, thick and hot and filling me until I groaned, clutching the desk edge. He paused, letting me adjust, kissing the back of my neck. The tenderness almost killed me.
Then he began to move.
Steady thrusts, firm and deep, nothing flashy, nothing rushed. Just deliberate, relentless strokes that drove the air from my lungs. The desk creaked with each push, papers scattering to the floor.
"Gods—you feel—so good," I gasped, pushing back to meet him, the rhythm building.
His hands gripped my hips, grounding me, guiding me, each thrust measured. And it worked—I couldn't stop the keening moans spilling from me, the heat coiling tighter and tighter.
He reached around, fingers circling my clit, and that was it—I shattered, coming hard around him, my cry muffled against my arm as my whole body shook.
He groaned deep, thrust harder, then stilled, spilling into me with a low growl against my shoulder.
Silence hung for a long moment, both of us panting, trembling.
Then he pulled back slightly, adjusting his trousers with careful precision, as if nothing had happened. The calmness of it made me bite my lip, half-laughing inside.
Step one: complete. Iceberg, conquered.
I sat back on the edge of the desk, smug satisfaction curling in my chest. And yet—just a flicker of unease tickled at me. That it happened so easily, so naturally. That I'd seen more of him than I planned to.
But I shoved it aside. There were other names on my list.
For now, I leaned back, stretched languidly, and smirked to myself.
Who's next?