The Iceman

**Note: This story is something of a mirror to my earlier story, The Mountain Cabin. I like exploring role play and character breaks, and couples who find success with it.**

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The cocktail party whirled around me. Everything was crystal chandeliers, soft carpeting, and hotel ballroom chic. Men were in tuxedos and bespoke suits; women glittered in satin and jewelry. Discreet, uniformed waiters held trays with a dazzling array of cocktails and wine. I found an old-fashioned glass with a dark amber liquid, plucking it from the tray as I nodded at the man holding it. Wafting it under my nose, I judged it to be a high-quality bourbon.

I took a few deep breaths as I worked to unclench my jaw enough to sample the whiskey. Fury churned in my stomach, strong emotion that had built over weeks, months if I was to be honest with myself. It had all come to a head this evening with yet another set of cutting remarks from my wife of two years, Alexandra.

Rage was unfamiliar to me. I'm described as stoic and unflappable. My view is that I don't worry about things I can't control, and there's no use getting upset about them. But even men like me have their limits. Men like me can get worn down, pushed too far when it's the same person, the same thing over and over.

Alexandra and I both come from wealthy families. Philanthropy is important to both of us; our generosity to certain causes was known in charitable circles and we frequently received invitations to this type of party. I didn't make time for them very often. Although I didn't really have to work, I couldn't imagine not doing so. My entrepreneurial ventures had not only enhanced our net worth, but I found personal fulfillment in them. I loved my work and preferred doing it to almost anything else.

Almost anything except Alexandra. She was the love of my life. We had met in our senior years of college, among ivy-covered walls and the pressure cooker of high family expectations. Early on, I knew she was perfect for me. A crisp, patrician exterior, with the right look and connections, was what it took to satisfy my insufferable parents, who made it clear what would be acceptable to them for my prospective wife. But alone or with close friends, she was fiery and passionate. It warmed me to be near her after a cold upbringing with little or no affection from my parents. I knew my mother and father cared about me in their way; I never experienced abuse or neglect. I never doubted that they wanted what was best for me. They just had no inclination to show it physically or emotionally. This resulted in my reserved demeanor.

Something along the way had gone wrong, though. It began so subtly that I don't remember it. I couldn't put my finger on when I noticed that she wanted something from me that I wasn't giving her. More than noticing it now, it had affected our relationship to the point where I was having doubts about our marriage.

I'm not the best communicator. I even have trouble translating my feelings into facial expressions. It was foreign to Alexandra, who could ditch her refined persona like unwanted clothing. As best as I can tell, it began with her complaints about my lack of emotional engagement and inability to discuss my connection with her, such as it is. This spread to every part of our lives, from daily conversation to what took place behind closed doors.

Three weeks earlier, we had been in bed. I followed what was almost a ritual leading up to sex. The lights were off, everything in its place, nothing to distract or worry me. And I was always on top.

I wish I could have explained to Alexandra what satisfaction I gained from being with her in this way. When I was on top of her, buried in her gloriously heated, slick sheath, rocking in that steady motion feeling her smooth thighs around my waist, it was as if all was right in the world. I could hold myself up on straight, locked arms, or lie on her in a crush of warm flesh, but either way, it was one of the best feelings. No words or sounds were necessary to me. Just melding into her, coming together, was everything I needed.

I felt the pressure building in my core, my breathing quickening. I shook on my forearms above her as the release unfolded around me, exhaling as my orgasm flooded her. It was then that I noticed that, for the first time in my memory, she had not come. In fact, she was hardly moving at all.

"What... are you okay?" I asked, still coming down from the waves of pleasure.

Silence for a moment in the darkness. Then she sighed. "Yes, Jackson. I'm fine."

Even I knew that when a woman says she's "fine" in this type of situation, she rarely means that she's actually fine. But I was at a total loss. Not only was I unaccustomed to playing those sorts of semantic games, I had also never failed to bring her to orgasm with me. This was new and dangerous territory.

"Lex..." I trailed off, not knowing what to say. "You didn't finish."

"No," she replied, her voice sharpening. "I didn't. And I don't think I'm going to."

I withdrew, shifting to my side of the bed. What could I say to that? I was quiet. An apology seemed like the wrong thing to say.

After a moment, she huffed out a breath and turned over. "Typical. Good night, Jack."

We had not been intimate since then.

The pattern had become clear to me by now. She had gone from cajoling to complaining to cynicism. But what was new: in the last few months, she had been letting comments slip to our friends.

The month before, we had been at a dinner party at the home of one of my college roommates, Brent, who was now an associate in a prestigious law firm downtown. Before the first course, the attendees had been mingling in his impressive great room, enjoying wine and the stunning scenery from his floor-to-ceiling windows facing the Rocky Mountains. I had been making small talk with his wife, Laura, when she noticed that my wine glass was empty.

Gesturing with her own expensive crystal balloon, she asked, "Can I get you some more?"

"Oh, that would be wonderful. It's an excellent vintage," I replied.

"Follow me," she smiled. "Brent discovered it on one of his trips to Napa. I don't really have a taste for the so-called good wines, but even I know it's one of the better ones. We've got another bottle in the kitchen."

We were in the butler's pantry, just short of the kitchen entrance, when I heard Alexandra's voice floating toward us. "Who, Jack? Are you kidding?"

I instinctively brought my hand out to Laura's shoulder. She stopped immediately, looking up at me quizzically. I put my finger to my mouth, indicating that she should be quiet. She nodded briefly.

"Well, he's completely gorgeous, so I just assumed that—" Another woman's laughing response.

"Gorgeous, yes. But he's like Iceman," Alexandra said with a caustic edge.

"Like Top Gun?" A third woman. How many were there? I felt a knot develop in my stomach.

"No, like frozen and repressed," my wife said. "In every way, if you know what I mean."

Shock hit me like cold water even as I consciously held my face in an impassive mask. Laura's wide eyes turned up to me as I reached across her to set the glass down on the granite counter. Shaking my head minutely, I turned and walked back the way I had come as the conversation in the kitchen unrelentingly continued.

This was unthinkable to me. One did not allow his private life to emerge into society, polite or otherwise. In short, it was no one's goddamn business what was going on with Alexandra and me. And there she was, hanging it all out to dry.

Now, in the hotel ballroom, I had heard it again. A similar conversation about my glacial, passionless disposition. But this time, it was overtly in the context of our sex life. And this time, Alexandra didn't seem to care if I overheard.

"It's always the same. No words, no interest in reciprocation. I'm having trouble with... fulfillment," she said delicately. I was four feet away talking to a cluster of men, but her voice rang out unmistakably.

I glanced over unbelievingly at her little circle of friends. Two of the women with her had the grace to look embarrassed for me. One was openly curious. Alexandra, however, just turned toward me, arched an eyebrow, curled her lip and returned to her conversation, lifting her glass for a nonchalant sip.

I had made my excuses and was now tossing back the bourbon in a manner very uncharacteristic of me. Everything I did was methodical and precise. I didn't know how to be different. I didn't know how to be what she wanted, and worst of all in my mind, I didn't know how to control the anger burning inside me like acid.

I stood along the wall and watched my wife hold court with the same group of women. Who knew what she was talking about now? More about her inhibited, inadequate husband? Even through the storm of speculative thoughts, I took the time to appreciate her. She was beautiful as usual, with a floor-length burgundy ball gown that flattered her curves. She was slim everywhere except her generously round ass, which she hated but I had always loved. Once in a while, I would compliment her on it, and she would assume I was merely being nice. No matter what I said, she would dismiss me and continue, fruitlessly, to try to work it off in the gym.

Her brunette curls were pinned up, falling in strategic tendrils around her face. Even from here, I could see her high cheekbones and lush lips. I loved my wife. She made me a happy man. But I no longer knew if I made her happy, and I didn't know how to voice my fears to her that I was somehow losing her. One thing I did know was that even with her recent indiscretions, I wanted more than anything to be able to tell her how much I loved her and felt a deep bond with her.

A short time later, she approached. "I'm ready to leave, Jackson," she announced imperiously.

Although I was alone and clearly not occupied in conversation, I felt an irrational flare of irritation. What if I wasn't ready to leave? She didn't seem to care what I wanted lately. She waited expectantly. No sign of apology or regret over the words that I was now convinced she wanted me to hear.

I gave a brusque nod, offering my elbow to her out of habit. She took it with a hand that barely touched me. We were merely engaging in long-programmed behavior. There was nothing but cool indifference between us.

Acrimony and chagrin chased each other around in my head, coalescing into resentment. How dare she tell virtual strangers about her lack of sexual gratification? How could she embarrass me that way to anyone? People talked. How many among my business partners, our philanthropic colleagues, our acquaintances and friends, knew about this? The bitterness built into a hurricane as I paid the valet and began the drive home.

The question underlying all of this was: what was I prepared to do about it?

Alexandra's mockery, my weeks' worth of sexual frustration, and my animosity were combining to form a toxic but heady brew. Could I ride this wave to break the stifling spell that had fallen over the two of us? My hands white-knuckled the steering wheel.

Maybe I would just let it out when we got back to our bedroom.

A dark excitement took hold of me. I could show her. I could make Alexandra see that she was wrong. I remembered every scornful look, every criticism, every flouting of our privacy to people unknown. I gathered it all, compressing it into a tempest that I would unleash on her. It would be the character break of a lifetime. All the while, she sat in the passenger seat, not even deigning to speak to me.

She thought I was Iceman? By the end of the night, I intended to see her screaming in unprecedented pleasure for me. The thought sent a hot rush through my core. I felt myself hardening in anticipation, a new but not unwelcome stimulus.

At the house, she went up to our bedroom first, not looking back at me as she padded down the carpeted hallway, heels in her hand, holding her dress up off of the floor. I carried my own socks and shoes behind her, watching her ass flex under the smooth satin, thinking about what I was about to do.

In our room, she went into the bathroom, leaving the door open while she removed the pins from her hair, setting them on the marble countertop. I absentmindedly took off my suit jacket as I watched the soft, shiny curls slowly being set free, falling in a wavy curtain down her back. The white tile made her glow. I was mesmerized.

Our eyes met in the mirror. I worked my tie loose as she turned to me, walking across the bedroom. "Will you unzip me?" she asked in a neutral voice. Ever the useful husband.

As she got closer, I held her eyes, looking carefully. What I saw surprised me: hurt and helpless frustration. No hint of contempt—she only looked like a woman who doesn't even hope for what she wanted. I felt a wild mix of compassion and anger. She didn't think I was ever going to do anything extraordinary.

I kept my face blank. It was time. "Turn around," I told her, making a little spinning motion with my index finger.

She pivoted, holding her hair up above the reach of the zipper. I brushed a stray tendril out of the way and steeled myself. I drew one last time upon the wrath at her affrontery as I pulled the zipper down, exposing her flawless golden skin to me. I gently used my fingertips to push the dress off of her shoulders, seeing it fall into a rich pool at her feet. Alexandra stepped forward away from the dress, started to turn and lower her hair.

Then I moved.

My hand shot out and clamped around her nape. With my other hand, I grasped her upper arm, completely encircling the fine-boned limb. I propelled her forcefully to the wall three feet away, shoving her up against it, pressing her cheek onto the creamy surface.

I leaned down into her ear, taking in the side of her shocked face with a bit of satisfaction. "Hello, beautiful," I whispered savagely, kissing her temple. "Iceman's come to party with you."

Her jaw fell.

Keeping her pinned by the neck, I unfastened her lace bra with a flick of my fingers. The straps slid a little, slackening. I pulled it off, tossing it aside. Pressing up behind her, I sandwiched her between me and the wall. I was hard, my light wool suit pants tenting over my length, which jutted into her lower back. A thin scrap of silk was all that covered her delicious ass.

I reached down and grabbed a handful of it, this luscious globe of flesh. "You have no idea how fucking incredible your ass is," I grunted, massaging it. She gasped as I squeezed hard. "I keep telling you," I added. "But you never listen. You keep trying to ruin this perfection."

Leaning down, I bit the side of her neck, sucking a little, leaving a mark. The natural saltiness of her skin spread over my tongue, making me close my eyes in momentary enjoyment. "And you taste better than any of that goddamn bourbon at any of those parties." My hand came up to her bared breasts, covering one, pushing it upward.

Seeing Alexandra vulnerable under my hands, an unfamiliar tilt of power at play here, amplified the lust that had already been building in me. It loosened my tongue, enabling me to speak to her like I never had, my desperation to break through, to really connect with her, doing the rest.

I dragged her away from the wall and toward the bed. Heedless of the fine linen duvet, I slammed her down face-first onto the mattress. Trapping her by caging her in with arms on either side of her, I was in her ear again. "I'm going to show you how much I want you."

Standing long enough to undo my belt and remove the prison of my pants, I saw her arms move as she considered trying to push herself up. Then they stilled. "That's right. Stay there," I said tauntingly as I resumed my position over her. "I think there are some things I need for you to see. And some things I'm going to do to you."

I'll be damned if my wife didn't start trembling. Vindication flooded me as I once again channeled the anger.

I pulled her hips to the edge of the bed. Grasping the silk around her waist, I jerked it downward. I wanted to see her bared to me, really seeing it for the first time in a while. The lights blazed, we weren't cocooned in covers but here on top of the bed, disrupting all of my rituals. And it felt incredible.

A tiny moan escaped her as I ran a hand along her ass again, pausing at the cleft between the smooth cheeks, trailing downward along the surface of the slit now exposed. With my other hand, I made quick work of my shirt, unbuttoning and slipping it off. My boxer briefs were all that remained.

"You like that?" I laughed, a jagged edge to it, as she whimpered. "I knew it. You horny little thing." I nudged her legs apart a little farther. Now Alexandra was standing in a wide stance, her rear end pointed directly at me, upper body prone on the bed. Her curls spilled out over the white bedding, head turned to the side, her eyes wide and mouth open. It was unbelievably sexy.

I stood behind her, erection pressing into her ass insistently, making it abundantly clear what state I was in. "I think you'll find I'm not what you'd call repressed tonight," I said, my tone lightly mocking. My open palm cracked down on her ass.

To my enormous gratification, her back arched, and this time a full-throated moan escaped from her. Her arms stretched over her head, hands grasping the duvet, twisting the fabric.

Reaching down, I slipped a finger into her swelling folds. She was even wetter than I'd dared to hope. I slid through her sublime heat to the hard little nub, tugging on it. It was coated in slippery liquid, evidence of how aroused she was. I played, rubbing and swirling my finger around, watching as she began to glisten. Without hesitation, I parted her with my fingertip and plunged the entire digit in to the knuckle.

Alexandra cried out as I thrust in and out with my finger, curling to maximize her pleasure. I knelt behind her, kneading her ass with my other hand. "I know what you've been saying about me," I said roughly. "I'm here to show you differently. And then I don't ever want to hear you say that shit again." My hand was working at blinding speed now, causing her breath to come in short bursts. When I reached down and found her clit again, I barely had to rub for a few moments before she shuddered and orgasmed on my hand, fluttering around my finger and soaking my knuckles. Triumph surged through me; she must have been very close already. We were off to an excellent start.

She sank into the bed for a moment, catching her breath. I stripped off the boxers, removing the final barrier between us.

Pushing herself up onto her hands, she let her head fall, then picked it up again. When she turned around I was shocked at what I saw.

Not only was she heavy-lidded with lust, but she looked alive. Animated in a way that I hadn't seen for a long time, maybe years. She reached for me. I grabbed her and crushed her to my chest as our lips met.

She sucked hard on my lower lip, teeth coming down and drawing blood. I snarled and fell on top of her on the bed, pulling her hair but not wanting to break the kiss. Alexandra clawed at my broad shoulders, leaving bright little lines of pain as she lifted her legs and beat her heels into my back. Her tongue battled with mine, mouth scraping against my five o'clock shadow.

I pulled back, reaching between us and pinching her nipple, rolling it between my fingers. I bent down and sucked her other breast, pulling hard with my mouth, biting. She tilted her head back and pressed my face into her chest, hand on the back of my head. "I can't wait to fuck you," I growled, licking across the blooming marks I had just made.

Snapping her head back up, she looked at me with a fiery expression. "Yes," she hissed, the first thing she'd said since my outburst. Her legs tightened around me, my hard length settling between her legs along her slit, feeling the hot wetness that was ready to receive me.