Fire on the Ice Page 5

  “Try again. And FYI, every time you sass me, you getting fucked gets further away by five minutes.”

  She looks meaningfully at the clock on the wall over my shoulder, and I pinch my lips together. God, so tempting, but she’s not one of those people who just says shit. She will honest-to-god make me wait and I’m not down for that right now. I’m frustrated by my performance today. It’s not so much the losing. That happens and I wasn’t counting on a big win today. My best events are later—the ones that require stamina, not short bursts of speed. But if I can’t win, if I have to get disqualified, I could at least do it in style, in a way that’s going to get me some attention, not in some boring-ass way no one gives a shit about. If I can’t be victorious, I’d like to be notorious.

  So do I have the patience for Maisy to dick me around? Or rather, not? The answer under the best of circumstances is probably not, and right now I am uninterested in foreplay. Walking into this room was foreplay, taking off my clothes was more, and the minute she outfitted herself with that cock I was a goner. So do I need more than that to get ready for her? No, and I don’t want it.

  “Fuck me, please?”

  Maisy nods once, crisp and determined, and grabs the lube to squeeze a bit into her palm, then slicks it on her dick, leaving it glistening in a way that makes my mouth water and my cunt clench.

  “On your back, knees bent.”

  I get into the position she’s asked double-time. Leaving my fingers curled around the edge of the desk, I tuck up my feet so they’re bracketed by my hands, and lean back, my legs spread wide. I don’t think I could issue a more obvious invitation than being splayed out for her like this. She must be able to see how slick I am between my own legs, how ready I am for her.

  In only a few steps, she’s between my legs, and I can see why she wanted me here; the desk is the perfect height for her so she doesn’t have to be on tiptoes to screw me, she’ll be able to put her weight into it, use the leverage of the desk to thrust hard. Clever girl. And how many places did she imagine us banging before she settled on this one? Did she make a list?

  Maisy grips one side of my waist while using a hand to steer herself inside me. Between the lube and my own copious wetness, it’s not a difficult slide until she’s fully inside me, and fuck all, does that ever feel amazing. Satisfying in a way that also makes me greedy. Maisy has excellent taste in cocks—one of the perks of it not being factory-direct is that you can vary the dimensions with ease. The thickness and weight is good, and it’s long enough to feel full but not so long that she won’t be able to give me a good pounding because she’s worried about punching my cervix—I like a lot of things, but that’s not one of them.

  Once she’s inside, she uses her other hand to grip my waist as well and starts to rock, keeping her gaze locked on me.

  “Is that what you wanted, Blaze? Happy now?”

  “I will be, when you fuck me harder.”

  She smiles, and I let out a gasp as she does as I’ve asked and drives hard into me. Yes. She doesn’t let up, either, but snaps her hips again and again while I hold on for dear life. I wouldn’t be surprised if the desk started moving across the floor because of the force she’s using. Luckily, the energy she’s putting into her thrusts doesn’t get wasted, but stays right inside me so I get this really satisfying pounding. Every time she pushes inside me, there’s an impact that steals my breath and I love it. Don’t even bother trying to rock toward her because my position makes that tough, but also because I think she likes looking down at me, having my body at her mercy to be pummeled, making my tits bounce on my chest. Yeah, she likes that a lot. As do I. Adds to the feeling of impact, of being outright fucked.

  The more she drives into me, the higher I go, the feeling of satisfaction looming on the horizon, getting closer with every hard thrust. The pressure, the tightness, everything builds, and it doesn’t hurt that I get to watch her body above me, her abs working in these perfect contractions, her biceps tight as she grips me with her hands. It’s not so long until I’m not approaching anymore, but have finally reached the place where everything comes together, and I’m in the center of it. I knew it would be good, but not how good, not how explosive—the initial blast followed by an even more powerful second pulse like the canopy of the mushroom cloud rising up as I cry out. It’s so goddamn good, and she doesn’t stop.

  I don’t tell her to, either, because if she thinks she can give me more? I’ll take it. Ride this wave of rolling aftershocks, see if I can’t get all the way to the next horizon. Turns out with her encouragement—Give it to me, Blaze, come on. Come for me again, I want to hear you again—and a bit of patience, I totally can.

  If my first climax was good, this one’s better. Like it’s standing on the shoulders of the first so the drop is farther, the release bigger, my brain left more scattered, and my body rendered a puddle of twitching, clenching, raw nerves.

  I’ve been shouting, mostly inarticulate noises, and a whole lot of filthy words, but trying not to say her name because the walls around here have a reputation of not being particularly soundproof. Now I’ve got to beg her to stop. I might be able to get another orgasm out of this, but I’d rather enjoy the glow, not press my taxed body into service again. At some point, believe it or not, coming stops being fun, and I don’t think Maisy would enjoy it enough to make another one worth the tradeoff.

  “Mais, oh my god, you’ve done enough. More than enough. Any more and you might put me out of commission for the rest of the week. I . . . Fuck, that was good.”

  She smirks at me, and I love the haughty look on her face. I’m sensitive, but not so much that it’s painful while she continues to glide in and out of me. Feels good, as if she’s trying to give me something to anchor myself to, give me a surface to slide down instead of free fall. I mean, I like that weightlessness as much as the next person—who am I kidding, I like it so much more, but at the moment, I’m grateful for the soft landing. Enjoy it even more as she covers my hands with hers and gently unpeels my fingers from the edge, weaving our fingers together before she turns my hands over and uses her thumbs to ease the tension out of my wrists, forearms.

  “You’re going to need these in a bit, don’t want you to be sore.”

  Oh, the things I would like to do with my hands to her. “I am here for that. Just give me a minute.”

  Her expression is fond, indulgent as she continues to stroke my forearms, my hands, gently pulls at my fingers and presses the pad of her thumbs into the heels of my hands. Considerate, affectionate. Though that’s not usually something I look for in lovers—don’t really mind the whole wham, bam, thank you ma’am thing—I like it. If this is included in the cost of fidelity, I’ll pay the price.

  “No rush, I want you at your best for this. You can have fifteen.”

  Jesus fuck, this woman.

  Chapter Five

  Maisy

  I lead Blaze over to my bed and let her lay down while I get out of the strap-on. I wasn’t kidding when I said I’d give her fifteen minutes to recover. That should be good enough for a girl like her, and then we can make use of the other things I’d pulled out: gloves and lube? Hell yeah.

  While I’m cleaning up and she’s lounging like a mermaid on a warm rock, her phone makes a sound from her bag, and unlike some of the other sounds she’s ignored, she gets up only long enough to retrieve it and then collapses back on the bed, actually checking her message. Must be something really good, and I try not to let thoughts of someone really good who might be texting her get to me. There’s no way in hell Blaze has the time to see anyone else. Unless she doesn’t sleep . . . does she sleep? Ugh, of course she sleeps, self, knock it off.

  To shush my insecurities, I try to figure out something to say. She didn’t seem keen on talking about her races, but I want to make her feel better about it somehow. I’m guessing even if she’s not showing it, she’s gotta be kind of torn up.

  Whatever else I know about Blaze, she definitely has a sense of
humor about herself, so, giving my trusty purple dildo a good wipe down before I tuck it back in the drawer, I tell her, “I think I know what was holding you back in the thousand.”

  That gets her attention, and she gives me the side-eye from where she’s reclining on the bed. “Oh, yeah? And what’s that?”

  “Your hair.” Yep, I toss it out, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Lucky for me, it gets her to crack a smile.

  “My hair?”

  “Yeah. It’s longer than you usually keep it, and clearly those extra few inches really slowed you down.”

  Blaze narrows her eyes, and it makes my heart thump to have her attention focused on me so intensely. “And what do you propose I do about that?”

  I have an idea, and it’s a really good one, but I don’t know what she’s going to say. Worth a shot. Besides, she owes me. I’ll make her a deal. She doesn’t seem like the kind of girl to turn down a bargain. So I shrug. “I could do it.”

  “You?”

  “Yep. I’m not a butcher, I promise. And then you can make good use of those gloves and that lube. I want your whole hand, Bellamy.”

  It’s then I realize I should’ve put the fisting on the table first because there’s no way she’d say no by the way she’s looking at me now.

  “Deal.”

  Blaze is still in repose while I wipe off the edge of the desk. Don’t need poor Kristie finding some sort of mystery fluid on any of the surfaces of our suite.

  “So . . .” I would have been perfectly content to let Blaze relax for the next ten minutes until she needs to get to work, but probably not talking is more work for her than it is to talk. “How did you know how long I’ve been keeping my hair, anyhow?”

  Fuck. Definitely not because I follow her in the press, have a Google alert set up, buy any magazine that has an article about her. Nope. But it wouldn’t be entirely unreasonable for me to have picked up one of the latest mags about the SIGs in general. Which would be—shit, which was it? I fumble in my brain while blinking blankly, and I’d best come up with something before she realizes the embarrassing truth.

  “I saw you in MaxOut.”

  “Oh yeah?” Blaze gets that look on her face, the cocky, shit-eating grin. How is the woman so very infuriating? Is she like this with everyone or is this a special treat for me? “You like the titty mags?”

  “MaxOut is not a—” Argh. I will not say titty, because that’s precisely what she wants, and I can feel my cheeks get warm even thinking about it. “That is not the point. The point is that you were practically naked! Why would you do that? No one reading that magazine respects your athleticism, none of them give a shit about how hard you work. All they care about is—”

  “My tits?” Blaze has tipped her head at this angle that is maddening. Who knew such a small thing could dig so deep inside and drive me so absolutely crazy at the same time it makes me blush so hard I can feel the red heat of embarrassment creeping all the way to the tips of my ears.

  I cross my arms and have to restrain myself from tapping my foot because I’m that twitchy. “Yes. And your ass, and your abs, and your legs.”

  Blaze’s smile seems to curl around her face, making her look smug as anything. Forget tapping my foot, I want to stomp it. With my skates on. On her foot. That’s even before her eyebrow quirks up, and that thin strip of hair mocks me. “So you didn’t see the one dirty picture and slam the magazine shut? Sounds like you looked at those pages for a long time.”

  She bats her eyelashes at me in faux wide-eyed innocence. Patently ridiculous is what that is. Even though I know she’s fucking with me, I can’t help my physical reaction. If I thought my flush had been bad before, it’s nothing compared to the wildfire humiliation of being caught that’s spreading up the back of my neck. Dammit. “I—”

  But I’ve got nothing. Fuck yeah, I’d looked at that magazine. A hundred times at least. It’s possible there’s a significantly worn copy under my bed back at home, one that I’ve fingered with one hand so many times I’ve been tempted to get the pages laminated so they don’t disintegrate, but who the hell laminates the porn in their spank bank? Not as though that would be out of character. I may be a degenerate, but I happen to be a tidy one.

  I splutter a few more starts to sentences I have no intention or ability to finish, and all the while, she’s standing there grinning. I hate her. A lot. But I also want to get in her pants. A lot more.

  “Look. I am a hot piece of ass.” Don’t I know it. “I work hard for this body and I’m not afraid or ashamed to show it off. Any publicity is good publicity, and if that spread got even one more person to tune into the event, then I did my job. Also, I decided a long time I ago I was going to do whatever the hell I wanted and fuck the people who made me feel shitty for it. If that also means I’ve got a bunch of people beating off to my pictures, what the fuck do I care? Masturbating is awesome. More people should do it more often.”

  She gives me a meaningful look, one of those purse-lipped, wide-eyed, tilted-head things that insinuates I might be less uptight if I got myself off more often. Newsflash: I rub one out quite frequently, thank you very much, and I’m still so uptight I may as well be laced into a corset otherwise.

  Glaring at her from under my brows, I put my hands on my hips and cock my own head. I do not have to tolerate this mockery. “Do you want a haircut or not? Because I have things to do.”

  “Like do a one-handed read of my spread in MaxOut? You can totes google it if you left your copy at home.”

  God fucking dammit.

  “No.” I turn up my nose and pitch my voice to prissy. “I believe I was promised a fisting and I intend to collect. If you don’t want me half falling asleep with scissors in my hand while I chop your hair—and hopefully not your ears—you probably want to do that after I’ve finished styling your hair. I know you like media attention, but landing on Celebrinews because I’ve done a hack job on your famous hair probably isn’t what you’re in the market for.”

  Blaze perks up at that, the offending bangs bouncing low over her forehead. “You think my hair is famous?”

  “Blaze. You have hair that is so vibrantly red, that shade is unknown to nature. I’m surprised people haven’t been blinded by it. Even if people can’t remember your name—which is unlikely—if someone says ‘You know, the skater with the hair,’ everyone knows who they’re talking about. Yes, your hair is famous.”

  She looks pleased as punch. “Excellent. Then you better make it look good. Hair-cutting first, fingerbanging second.”

  “Whoa, whoa. Fingerbanging? That’s not what I agreed to. Fingers are not going to cut it.”

  “And you call me greedy? Fine, whatever, you can have my whole hand if you want.”

  I do. Want her attention for as long as it’s going to take her to work inside me, want the pressure and the stretching and the fullness of that invasive and filled-to-bursting sensation. There’s nothing like it.

  “Get in the bathroom, bring a chair.”

  Blaze

  A few minutes later, I’m leaning back in the chair I dragged in here, my head resting on the edge of the sink. I’d been ready to lean against the cool porcelain, but Maisy had tutted at me, insisted I sit up so she could put a folded towel between my skull and the hard surface. Of course it feels better this way. She’s good at that stuff.

  Maisy must’ve put the stopper in the drain because the hot water creeps up to the level of my scalp, and she uses a cup to douse my head with scooped-up water. It feels really good, and the view’s not bad. She has to lean over me, which means I get an eyeful down her shirt. A blousy thing that hides her shape except for the low neckline that’s now giving me a view of her chest which is covered again by one of those lacey things. Nice.

  She hums as she works, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard that before. She’s got a pretty voice, I can tell from the few bars. I’d like to hear her sing, but if I ask, she’ll refuse and then I’ll probably lose the humming, too—
I don’t know if she realizes she’s doing it.

  After she’s got my head good and soaked, she flips open the cap of a bottle, squirts what I’m guessing is shampoo into her hand, and starts working her fingers over my scalp, bringing up a luxurious lather and using the pads of her fingers to massage my scalp. It’s heavenly, and I say that as an expert on hedonism. I know about things feeling good, and I’d trade a lot of things for this simple pleasure.

  I groan to let her know precisely what kind of effect she’s having on me and then have to locate something more articulate. “How’d you learn how to do this?”

  There’s the slightest pause of the circular kneading motion. If I weren’t paying attention, I wouldn’t have noticed it. She continues as she answers. “My mom owns a salon. I’ve been shampooing since I could reach the sinks. I had to work a certain number of hours per week as part of my chores, but anything above that, and she’d pay me. That’s the money I used to use to buy my skates.”

  “You must have washed a lot of hair.” Figure skates don’t come cheap, especially as you get more serious. At some point, you even have to buy the boots and the blades separately and have someone attach them for you.

  She laughs. “I sure did.”

  “It shows. You’re really good at this.”

  With that, Maisy digs into my scalp with the pads of her fingers, and I moan again, letting my eyes close because I want to focus everything I have on the way she’s touching me. Yes, I have a lot of sex, and yes, I flirt a lot, and basically touch other people as much as I can because I enjoy physical contact, to feel wanted and liked. But no matter how much I touch, fool around, and fuck, this is something else. It’s simmering instead of boiling, and a really . . . pervasive feeling instead of something that flashes hot on the surface of my skin. I don’t know what to do with that. So for once, I shut my face and stay quiet while Maisy works.