Open House

A Her Ice Queen Landlord Bonus Chapter
by Aurora North

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Open House

Set three months after the events of Her Ice Queen Landlord.
Vivian’s POV. First person, present tense.

“Close your eyes,” I say.

Lena, who has never once in our relationship done what I’ve asked without commentary, says: “If this is about the plumbing again, I’m breaking up with you.”

“It’s not about the plumbing.”

“The electrical?”

“Close your eyes, Lena.”

She closes them. She’s standing in the third-floor hallway in an oversized sweater and her fox socks — the same ones she was wearing the first night I came upstairs with a toolbox and a lie about the heating — and I take her hand and guide her to the utility closet and up the ladder and through the hatch, and when we emerge onto the rooftop, I say, “Open.”

She opens her eyes. She sees the string lights, the blanket, the wine, the two mismatched chairs, the city glittering below us in the cold March dark, and her mouth falls open the way it fell open the first day she saw the transom — with genuine, uncomplicated awe.

“Vivian Hart,” she says. “You put string lights on the roof.”

“You — the woman who posted a formal notice about shared laundry scheduling — put fairy lights on the roof.”

“They’re not fairy lights. They’re outdoor-rated LED string lights with a weatherproof rating of IP65 and an expected lifespan of —”

She kisses me. Mid-sentence. Her cold hands on my face, her warm mouth on mine, the city sprawling below us and the building solid beneath our feet.

“I love you,” she says against my mouth. “You impossible, specification-citing, fairy-light-installing woman.”

“They’re not fairy —”

“They’re fairy lights, Vivian.”

They’re fairy lights.

We drink wine in the mismatched chairs, our hands interlaced on the armrest between them. The city glitters below — a thousand small private scenes playing out while we sit above it all on a rooftop that used to be off-limits and is now ours.

“I want to paint this,” she says. “The light on your face. The way the string lights catch your hair.” She tucks a strand behind my ear. “You look different up here. Open. Like you’re letting the building hold you for once.”

“Come here,” I say.

She climbs into my chair — straddling my lap, knees bracketing my hips. The string lights paint her in gold. She settles her weight against me and I grip her hips and we are eye to eye, mouth to mouth.

“Is this structurally sound?”

“The chair has a weight rating of three hundred pounds. We’re well within tolerance.”

“God, talk engineering to me.”

I laugh. She swallows the laugh with her mouth, kissing me deep. Her hands push under my sweater, palms flat on my stomach, climbing. Her hips grind down against mine and I grip the armrests.

“Here?” I manage.

“Here. On your roof. Under your fairy lights.” She bites the tendon in my neck. I gasp. “Stop calculating and let me have you.”

She pulls my sweater over my head. The cold air hits my bare skin and she presses against me — her body, her warmth. Her mouth finds my collarbone, my throat. I unbutton her flannel. Beneath it: a thin tank top, no bra. I cup her breasts through the cotton and she rolls her hips and we are grinding against each other on a chair on a rooftop in March and I have never felt less cold in my life.

“I need to touch you,” she says. Her hand slides down my stomach. Undoes my jeans. “Can I?”

“Yes.”

Her hand slips inside my jeans, inside my underwear, and her fingers find me slick and swollen and she says, “Fuck, Vivian, you’re so wet,” and I grip the back of her neck and pull her mouth to mine and kiss her so hard my teeth ache.

She strokes me — slow circles on my clit, her wrist angled in the tight space of my jeans. I rock against her hand and she finds the exact pressure that makes my vision narrow.

“Inside. I want you inside.”

She slides two fingers into me and I groan — low, open, the sound carrying across the rooftop into the dark. She curls her fingers and I am holding the chair arms watching her face from inches away, her dark eyes glittering in the string lights.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” she whispers. “When you let go.”

“I’m holding the chair.”

“The chair doesn’t count.” She presses deeper. Curls. Her thumb circling my clit while her fingers work inside me with steady, devastating purpose.

I come on her hand on the rooftop of my building with the city below and the stars above and her eyes on mine and I do not look away. The vulnerability — the visibility, the openness, the absolute absence of walls — is the most erotic thing I have ever experienced.

She withdraws gently. Brings her fingers to her mouth. Tastes me. The sight sends an aftershock through my body.

“My turn,” I say.

I spread the blanket on the flat roof surface. “Down,” I say.

“Bossy.”

“Always.”

She lies down. I pull her leggings off — no underwear, which she clearly planned. “You planned this.”

“The no-underwear thing was optimistic.”

“The no-underwear thing was strategic.”

“Same thing. With me.”

I lower my mouth. I taste her on the rooftop, under the stars, with the cold air on the back of my neck and her warmth against my lips. The first stroke of my tongue pulls a sound from her that is so uninhibited, so free of walls, that I feel it in my own body like a resonance.

I work her with my mouth — focused, devoted, precise. Tonight I choose slow. Her hand finds my hair, fingers twisting, holding on. I press her hips down with one hand and stroke inside her with two fingers and she is shaking, making sounds that are half-word and half-prayer.

“Vivian — please —”

“I know. I’ve got you. Come for me.”

She comes. Loud, unrestrained, my name in the cold March air. The sound lifts from the rooftop and dissolves into the night.

We lie on the blanket, breathing hard, tangled, laughing because we just had sex on a rooftop in March and neither of us has frostbite.

“Your building has excellent structural integrity.”

“I maintain it personally.”

“I love you. You know that, right? Not the building. Not the rooftop. You.”

I trace the freckle constellation across her cheekbone. “I know. Same thing. With you.”

Below us, the radiator clicks on. Right on schedule. Lena pulls the blanket over us and presses her cold nose to my neck and I hold her and I listen to the building breathe.

We’re home.

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