Fire on the Ice Page 16

  “Of course I do.” To say anything else would be hypocritical in the extreme. Everyone should have control over their own bodies to do with them whatever they want. Piercings? Fabulous. Tattoos? Ink your bad self. Dying your hair? Clearly, I’m all for it. Pretty much anything you can do to yourself unless you’re doing it to self-harm? I’m down. And give others permission to do whatever they like, as long as everyone’s consenting and of legal age and all that good stuff.

  “If that’s true, you can’t be okay with taking away my choices because they look different than yours.”

  It’s possible that the point of Maisy’s chin quivers, but she shuts that down before it can go full tremble. And what she’s just said . . . it renders me speechless. Is that what she feels like I’ve been doing to her? Is that, in fact, what I have been doing to her?

  People telling me what to do with my body—the people who side-eye my hair and my clothes, the ones who shame me for posing mostly or completely nude for magazine shoots but then look at them anyway, the people who tsk at how many sexual partners I’ve had but still want to claim my glory for their own? Those slut-shaming, narrow-minded hypocrites, they infuriate me. Completely infuriate me.

  But have I gone too far? Yeah, Maisy and I don’t make the same choices, because she’s way more modest than I am, but then so are 98 percent of people I’ve ever met in my whole life, and she’s more private, too. I’ve never called her a prude out loud, but I may as well have with the way I’ve dismissed some of her concerns, and that’s not fair. I’m as bad as the people I hate.

  “I don’t appreciate being used as a pawn in your games. I’ve only ever asked you for two things when we’re together, and that’s for you not to be with anyone else and not to mark me where people could see. Now I’m going to ask you for something else. To keep me out of your press stunts and your attention mongering. I don’t want to be involved in them. If you can’t or won’t, then we’re done here because you talk a good game, but I don’t think you actually respect my choices.”

  Bam. I have been hit and hit hard on the track, but this is one of the most painful blows I’ve ever suffered. I’m guessing it’s cut especially deep because it’s true, and I’m finding I don’t like that about myself.

  I take a few breaths, because I owe Maisy. I owe it to her to think this through, to figure out if I can do what she’s asking, because she deserves to be respected as much as I do. I do believe that, fundamentally, but when you start to poke at it . . . No, I do, but I need that minute to set myself straight and to allow for the argument. I’m not proud of it and hopefully I’ll get better, but for now, it takes me conscious thought to get there, and I’m really, truly sorry for the position I put her in and for not giving her choice as much weight as my own. That was shitty in a massive way. And you don’t do that to someone you love, which is maybe how I feel about Maisy. Yep, pretty sure, actually, but I’m not sure if that’s how she thinks of me.

  “I am so, so sorry. I understand why you’re so upset, and I will do my utmost to be as respectful as your choices as you have been of mine. It’s not fair to hoist my baggage on you, and—”

  “Baggage? What baggage? You’re the freest person I know. Most people have got a 747’s worth of luggage they’re hauling around, and you’re that asshole who carries on a bottle of water and a book.”

  Maisy cracks me up. She seems so innocent and wide-eyed, and then she says shit like that. But unlike most of the time, she’s wrong about this. “That is so not true. I mean, I really do believe that people should be able to fuck whomever and whenever and however they like, and look the way they want to, and blah blah blah, but if you think I can’t hear the shit people say about me? If you think that doesn’t make me feel shitty sometimes? It absolutely does, so I’m carrying around some stuff, too.”

  There’s something I should say to her, but I don’t know if I can hack it. I mean, competing in a dangerous sport at an elite level, sure, but telling someone about my deepest insecurities? No, thank you. But I wasn’t lying when I told Maisy that part of what makes poly relationships work is communication. I should—for once in our relationship—set a good example.

  “One of the things I carry is being worried that the people I’m with are ashamed of me. So sometimes when you wanted to keep stuff quiet, it didn’t feel like you were shy and wanted privacy, it felt like you were embarrassed to be with me. Not just anyone, but me in particular.”

  The breath Maisy inhales is audible. I might even call it a gasp, if I wanted to be dramatic. Which I usually do, but not now. Now, I’m trying to be earnest. It’s not easy. Even though it’s killing me not to make a joke and move on, I wait for her to say something. Because I want her to—need her to.

  “I’m sorry I made you feel that way. I am not ashamed of you. You’re marvelous and I admire so many things about you. My parents can be really shitty about me being queer, and I’m still figuring out how to deal with that, so that’s part of it. But part of it is that I’m shy, I like to keep my private life private. I would with anyone, not just you. I swear.”

  She said I’m marvelous. I’m going to turn into one of those cartoon characters whose eyes turn into hearts and beat out of their heads. It sucks that her parents are homophobic wankers, though. I know how toxic that shit can be and that it takes time to work through it. It’s like she said before, but in a way that makes me feel better instead of awful: it’s not all about me.

  “Okay. If you could, maybe, remind me of that sometimes. And we can talk about your parents sometime, if that would be helpful. If you can try to keep my sore spots in mind, too, I’ll do the same and this could be even better.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. But my point is that you might have to smack me upside the head sometimes, but I’ll do my best to smack myself before you have to. If you think you might be willing to deal with me in the future?”

  Hope gurgles inside me like one of those broken water fountains. A trickle, but with volume. It just needs a bit more power behind it to turn it into a pretty arc that a person could actually drink from.

  Maisy eyes me and I try to stand still. She can look at me as long as she likes. “How long are we talking? Until the SIGs are over?”

  Is that what she wants? Is that all she wants? I could do that, but . . . “I was kinda hoping, maybe you might be willing to put up with my loud ass after that? You’re the most incredible woman I’ve ever met, and I can’t say I’m in a big hurry to give you up. I know it’ll be crazy and weird with our schedules, but maybe it’s worth a shot? I don’t know exactly what it’ll look like, but . . .”

  I trail off, because Maisy’s stopped meeting my eyes. Is in fact, looking at her fuzzy-sock-encased feet. Wow, maybe she really does not want to go there. This was meant to be a SIG spouse thing, and we’re supposed to split amicably. Okay. I can do that, even though the idea leaves a hole in my heart.

  But when she looks at me again, it’s not with that super-awkward, it’s-not-you-it’s-me bullshit kind of look. Her eyes are wide and she’s blinking too much, as if she’s afraid. Afraid of what, though?

  “What if I’m not enough for you?”

  My head rocks back on my neck, because what the hell is that even supposed to mean? She said it a few days ago, but I thought I’d made it abundantly clear at the time that she is in fact enough. But maybe her fears are cropping up again because we’re talking longer-term here. On some level, I get it, but I’m not sure that even my answers meant to reassure her will do it. But what’s the worst thing that can happen? Oh, just losing the best thing that’s ever happened to me forever and ever. No bigs.

  “Hey.” I reach out, cup her face in my hand, slide a thumb across her cheek, taking a tear that’s leaked out from between her lashes with me. “This might sound crazy, but . . . no one is? That’s not even something I’m looking for.”

  Her chin trembles and I want to stop it. The only way I know how is to grip her jaw on both sides with my hands and make
her look at me. “I’m not trying to say it’s hopeless, I’m trying to say . . . I know I’m a lot to handle, and I don’t think any one person could. Even if they could, I don’t think I only want one person. I need truly excessive amounts of attention, and god do I need ludicrous amounts of sex. I’m like three average people’s worth of partner.”

  “But do you even want one? Or is your idea of happiness always being with different people and never settling in any way, in any part of your life?”

  I’ve thought about it, sure, have thought some day when I’m not skating competitively anymore that I’d find some nice person who was poly, too, and we’d have a home with a rotating cast of bedmates or however poly happened to look for us at the time, and it’d all be fine. Maybe some cats. The idea of Maisy being that person I share a life with, though?

  “Why are you asking?” Hope is starting to creep up on me, and if it has no business being there, I want to beat it back before it gets any ideas.

  “I . . . I want you to be happy. I would really like it if your version of being happy included me. For kind of a long time. I know since we’ve been here I’ve asked for you to be just mine, but I don’t think it would always have to be that way. I want you to be sated, I want you to have enough, and if . . . if other people could provide some of that, maybe I wouldn’t feel as though I was letting you down?”

  Something sticks in my throat. I’d say it was a reptile, but a spikey one, because I can’t clear it. “You’re not, and you never have let me down. You’re incredible, and it makes me feel good that you like me enough to let me into your world even though I’m so . . . disruptive. I thought maybe this was SIG mania. You know, temporary competition-induced insanity? But if you’re telling me you’d like to be around me longer than that, more than that . . . That makes me really fucking happy. But what exactly are you proposing?”

  “I feel like maybe you’re poly, and I’m not? But it’s possible I’ve been doing some research on this because I clearly had some misunderstandings. From what I can tell, it’s maybe not easy, but people can make this work. There would be some times when I’d want you, need you, all to myself, but as long as I got first dibs, I think I’d be okay with you having other people?”

  Okay, now the hope has climbed up to my shoulders and has wrapped its desperate limbs around my head. Which would explain why I’m feeling dizzy, lightheaded. Definitely not the head injury at all. “That sounds a lot like a question.”

  The corner of Maisy’s mouth tugs up in a smile, and she half-rolls her eyes in that self-conscious way she has. “I mean, it is. I’ve never done this before; I don’t know how I’ll feel about it for real. I might get jealous, but right now, I can see how it might be a relief. I can have you, you can have me and like, bonus sex, or date someone, and if I ask for it, I can keep you for a while. That sounds pretty good to me. I don’t want to change you, and I don’t want to shame you. I want us both to be happy and to figure this out. I love you exactly the way you are, and I’m hoping you feel the same way, and not as though I’m trying to take what I want and ditch the rest.”

  I roll my lips between my teeth and shake my head. “I absolutely do not feel that way. I actually feel like the luckiest girl in the world. Especially because I’m pretty sure you just said you loved me. Was that a thing that happened?”

  Now that she’s not on the verge of tears, I think I can find a better use for my hands. So I slide them down her neck, over her narrow shoulders, and past her shoulder blades, all the way to her waist, which I use to steer her even closer to me, because I want her closer. Close enough to kiss. But not quite. I want to hear her answer in words, not in the language of physicality we’ve always found it so easy to communicate in.

  “Yes. Is that okay?”

  “That is way better than okay. Because I totally love you back.”

  I love how she bounces on her heels and launches herself at me, her hands spearing into my hair that she cut, her mouth sloping over mine, and the nip to my bottom lip that follows. Doesn’t take much to rev my engines, and here she is, starting me up with no more than a kiss. I hope she’s prepared for what she’s started, but a hand suddenly grabbing my ass to grind our pelvises together says yes, and that’s precisely what she wants, too. As much of me as she can possibly handle, and the trust and freedom for me to seek out other sources for the remainder while she rests up to take me on again.

  Epilogue

  Maisy

  Blaze is coming home today. Our schedules have not been playing nice for the past few months, and I feel as though we’re like one of her relay teams, ass-grabbing and all. Not that I mind the drive-by quickies—one of which actually took place in an airport bathroom due to a delayed flight, much to both my delight and mortification—but I won’t be sad to have her all to myself for a bit.

  We’ve figured out a pretty happy medium. We know we’re together, our friends know we’re together. We’ve tried to keep exactly how serious we are out of the press, and in the few times I’ve talked to my parents since Blaze and I moved in together not that long after the SIGs ended, I’ve just said we live together. They can draw whatever conclusions they’d like from that.

  My parents have been on the back burner of my worry stove, though, and my relationship with Blaze on the front. Not because anything’s wrong—to the contrary, it’s perfect—but it’s changing, evolving, and that can be scary. Intimidating.

  Blaze has been on the road, and it’s the first time we’ve really gone whole-hog on the poly thing. I was nervous about how I was going to feel about it, but it’s been better than I’d ever expected.

  I’m the one she calls every day, I’m the one she texts filthy pics to, I’m the one she comes home to at the end of her competitions, and I’m the one with whom she shares a home. And a cat named Captain Flufferbutter. If some other people have shared her bed while she’s away, and she’s gone out with a couple of people a few times on for-realsies dates? I’ve been fine with it. It makes her happy, keeps her satisfied, and I feel good about having given this to her. I like knowing, too, that she’ll be honest with me about all of it, and that if anyone’s unhappy, it’s a problem to be solved, not the end of the road.

  In return . . .

  The tumblers in the lock of the front door thunk as a key is turned, and then there she is, all crazy-haired from travel and road worn, but with a glint in her eyes and a smile curving her mouth that I want for myself. She drops her duffle, unzips her coat, and doesn’t bother hanging it up before striding across the living room of our small apartment.

  We’re hardly here—leaving the Captain with Mrs. Meyers down the hall when we both have to travel—so we don’t need a lot of space. Plus, no matter how much space we have, Blaze sticks to me as though she’s glue when we’re both around. Always touching, cuddling, kissing, groping, biting. I like it.

  I like, too, the way she hikes up her skirt to straddle my thighs and threads her hands into my hair at the nape of my neck, dragging me in to kiss. Sometimes when she’s away for so long, I forget what she tastes like. Now I remember, and I want to gorge myself on her for days.

  Sliding my hands under her bunched-up skirt, I let them graze her thick thighs higher and higher until I find the sorry excuse for underwear she has on. There really isn’t much to them at all, and it makes me want to tear them off, but that takes too much effort and if I ripped away her underwear every time I wanted to, she wouldn’t have any left. Not that she’d probably mind that anyhow. Instead, I grab her ass cheeks on either side of the flimsy material and pull her to me, rocking my hips up to grind against her.

  I’d ask her if she’s tired from her trip, but she’s never too tired for this. Sure, after we fuck, she’ll pass out hard for hours, wake with her hair out of control, and stumble into the kitchen wanting something to eat, but for now . . .

  Blaze tugs at the hem of my shirt, and I raise my arms so she can peel it off. After she’s done, I do the same to her until her sports bra is in
my face, and her hands are fondling my breasts over and under the lacey thing I’ve got on because I know they drive her crazy. Luckily, hers has a zip in the front, and I’m going to take full advantage of that design feature.

  When the zipper’s freed from its tracks, so are her magnificent tits, and I don’t waste any time burying my face in them, breathing in her smell before I cup one and take her nipple into my mouth, sucking hard and using my other hand to press the small of her back. Against my hipbones, her pussy is hot even through her underwear. I can’t even wait anymore. I want inside her. And since she’s mine, I use my free hand to dig into the flimsy fabric, find her clit to rub and circle, delve my finger back toward her core to gather up a bit of moisture to make my path slicker.

  She moans against me, and it’s the best sound. My insatiable lover. I look up at her, her head already thrown back, her mouth open, and ask, “Are you going to come for me like this?”

  “I can.” Her offer’s accompanied by a crooked smirk that makes me grab her hair and pull. She could use a cut, something I’ll do later after I’ve worn her out. For the moment anyhow.

  “You won’t. You’re the one who’s been getting laid regularly for the past month.”

  Her eyes widen, and she draws back, looking stung. No, that’s not what I wanted. I honest-to-god didn’t mean it that way at all. “Hey, babe. I’m teasing. I like you being satisfied. I like you calling and telling me about your exploits. I like that even after getting fucked six ways to Sunday, all you have to do is hear my voice to get horny again and we can have phone sex. I am in no way sorry about our arrangement. What I am is horny as hell, because as good as I am with my hands or a vibrator, it’s nothing compared to your mouth.”

  She kisses me, and it feels like sweet relief. “You can tell me, you know. If it ever feels bad to you.”

  My firebrand doesn’t often look shy, but she does when we talk about these things. Sometimes I have to remind myself this is new for her, too. Uncharted territory even for Blaze, who has experience with every sex act under the sun. Less so with longer-term relationships, and with navigating poly waters with a partner who’s . . . not poly. But I feel as though we’re doing really well. She makes me feel special, and like I come first. And I make her feel safe enough to have us and whomever else she wants.