Seduction on the Slopes Page 8

  I’m not going to try to change his mind though. Not at the risk of him deciding this whole thing is too much trouble and he’s sick of it. I’ll take whatever he wants to give me, though I’m totally shameless enough to try to get him further inside me. Because if this is on the table, I’m gonna take it, oh yes I am.

  He smiles down at me, that cocky spread of a grin as he works slowly inside of me, adding more lube and being so careful I kind of want to yell at him to get on with it. But I know Miles; no fucking way would he do that. So I grit my teeth, and try to cooperate with his glacial pace without blowing my wad because it feels so goddamn good. It’ll feel better, it will, I know it will.

  Once he’s got the one finger all the way in, he pushes it back and forth, rocks into me before retreating, and the back of my neck is going to be red for how hard I’m digging my fingernails into the skin there. There’ll be agonized little crescents pressed into my skin for hours, if not bruises for days.

  Finally he decides I can handle another one and luckily for me, isn’t quite as cautious this time around. When he brushes my prostate it’s all I can do not to let out a yell. As it is, it’s maybe more of a bark because I’m trying to keep it inside, but there’s only so much I can hold back at one time.

  I manage to open my eyes and the way Miles is looking at me, his dark eyes focused on where his fingers are plunging in and out of me . . . the last couple of times we did this, sure he got hard, but he didn’t look like he wanted to. This time, though, he looks like he wants me. He blinks, and then his gaze is trained on my face instead of my ass. It’s so intense I’ve got a touch of vertigo.

  “Crash?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can I—Would you—” Miles shakes his head, and his rhythm inside me falters.

  Ask me. Ask me. I’ll say yes. Whatever it is. “Ask me.”

  The fire in his eyes that had guttered with the shake of his head seems to flicker and then relight. And with a rock of my hips to meet the press of his finger, his face is ablaze with it again. He wants me.

  “Turn over.” Telling is also good.

  Somehow we scramble until I’m on my stomach and raising my ass up for him, and he’s digging in the drawer.

  Stupid, Crash, not to have asked about protection. But out of the two of us, who’s not going to fuck without it every single goddamn time? Miles. And he doesn’t. How long it takes him to glove up makes me want to die or shake my butt in his face and be all why is this taking so long? But I won’t. I’ll let him do what he needs to, because I don’t want to call any more attention to the fact that this is something he said he’d never do.

  No, I let him part my cheeks, and press his lubed-up cock against my hole. Close my eyes and pray when he hesitates. Please, give this to me. Please let Miles give this to himself. And because apparently it’s the year for my prayers to be answered, the head of his cock slips inside me and then he waits.

  Waits for me to get accustomed to him, and doesn’t press forward until my fingers loosen in my sheets. Then he presses again, using a hand to anchor himself to my hip in a way that makes me feel safe and present, and also so very his.

  I breathe, breathe, and then he slides home, making me feel at once split open but whole. It’s so fucking good. I’ve done this before, but it’s never made me feel so . . . exposed. Vulnerable. Which is how I feel while he’s settled inside me, god, so far inside me. I’ll take as much of Miles inside my body as he has to give, but it’s unnerving and my stomach clenches.

  Miles must notice I’ve tensed, because he rubs the back of my neck, slips his hand down to my shoulder to run his thumb over my trapezius. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” Hard swallow, tight nod of my head, straining not to drop my face into the pillow and jerk my hips back to get as much of him as humanly possible inside me.

  “You sure? Because you feel fantastic, but I don’t want to hurt you. And if you want to stop, just tell me.”

  “I don’t want to stop. I want . . . Jesus, Miles, just fuck me, please? I’m dying here.”

  I’ve surprised a laugh out of him, and then it’s my turn to be surprised when he digs his strong fingers into my hips and thrusts forward so hard I feel his balls knock against me. Dear god, I have died and gone to ass-pounding heaven. And it’s a pounding I get, Miles driving into me in a way that knocks the air from my lungs with each thrust.

  The blood is rushing loud in my ears, like I’m drowning in him, like he’s consuming me, and it’s . . . I can’t even think because he’s taking up all the oxygen in the room, demanding every bit of my attention.

  “You feel so good,” he grinds out, each word punctuated by a thrust. “So tight. You test my control.”

  I press back against him then, feeling brave and gluttonous. “More, I want more.”

  Miles has never been stingy with anything except praise—which he makes me fucking earn—and he’s not tightfisted now. No, that’s not quite the word for it, because he leans over my back and threads an arm under my pelvis so he can grab my dick and give it a few ragged pulls.

  It should hurt, and it does kind of, but it also makes my balls tighten and then I’m coming. Really hard. So hard it’s painful in a blinding kind of way, and I can’t believe how many times the jizz spurts out of my dick. It feels at once like he’s wrung me out, but also like it’ll never stop, especially when he digs his fingers even harder into my hip and lets out this sexy as all hell growl. Like monster roar, and then I feel it, Miles’s cock pulsing in my ass, pumping his own come inside me. The thought makes my eyes roll back in my head.

  Miles

  I’m collapsed over Crash’s back, and while I’d normally feel bad about having my full weight on someone, Crash can take it. And can apparently take a good deep-dicking, too.

  When he’d said he wanted all the things, I’d had no intention of giving him this. But something got the better of me and I let it. That isn’t something I usually do. Most of my indiscretions are reserved for when my parents have been to Europe and bring me back Swiss chocolate and German marzipan. Never have I gorged myself on sex like this, especially not when I’m supposed to be abstaining.

  Thing is, I don’t feel enervated like I’d always thought I would if I had sex before a race. More like replete. I should be sorry, or angry, or disappointed in myself. I try, in fact, really hard to locate those emotions but can’t find them anywhere. If I feel that way later I’ll marshal some of that control I’m famous for and not let this happen again. But I don’t see it coming. Not even far off on the horizon. Maybe I’m wrong because my brains have drained out of me along with my release, but I just feel . . . good. Maybe I should’ve started doing this a long time ago.

  Finally I find it in me to push up on my elbows and knees, and Crash’s ribs expand beneath me with his first real breath in minutes. “I thought you might’ve passed out back there.”

  Not so far from the truth. I feel a little like I’m coming to. “No, I’m fine. How are you?”

  It occurs to me that he’s likely going to be sore. That was a very enthusiastic fuck. He doesn’t seem sorry though, more like smug as I pull out and he rolls over, putting his hands behind his head. “I feel like I could go on Oprah or some shit.”

  Right, of course. That’s why we were ostensibly doing this. So he’d be okay to go on Talk America this morning, which we should really get going for. Any second now, I’ll get up and get in the shower, make myself presentable to go talk to more people. But not just yet. And why not? I’ve fulfilled my obligation, and it’s not like we . . . cuddle after these whatever-they-ares. Services rendered?

  The thought makes me cringe. That’s all this is, and that’s all I am to Crash. And sure, I’m fond of the kid, but this doesn’t extend beyond that, for either of us. Best for it not to, in fact. I’ve always shaken my head at couples who are both SIG athletes, or one spouse who coaches the other. Shouldn’t one of you be a teacher or something? Maybe a postal worker or an accountant? It’s not
a good idea to have two competitive people in a relationship, because someone’s always going to lose.

  Lucky for me, this is only a professional relationship, and our business is winning. I’m just doing my part for the team. And if I like the way a freshly fucked Crash smells, and smiles lazily, well, then, I do, but it’s no big thing. Nope. Not at all. Just a perk.

  So I pinch my perk just under his ribcage where I can barely grab enough skin to do it. “I’m getting in the shower. Get your stuff ready to go, and then we’ll switch. Don’t want all my hard work to go to waste and have you be all worked up again by the time we get to the studio. Chop, chop.”

  He gives me the most indolent salute I’ve ever seen and it makes me want to fuck him all over again, but instead I turn around and head to our bathroom, because I’ve gone above and beyond my patriotic duty for today, and there’d be no sense in any more . . . tom-foolery. Also I shouldn’t get used to this. Or him. Especially him, because it’s going to be my job to thrash him on the course in a few days, and sometimes friendships don’t survive that, never mind obligatory seed-spilling buddies.

  Best to get the job done and move on, pretend I don’t hear him humming in a way that makes my heart squeeze as I close the door.

  Chapter Twelve

  Crash

  This afternoon is the last big press event before the races start. Like, yeah, I’ll have to do more of them, but not one of this size again. Not unless I’m bringing home a medal or two, anyway, and then hopefully I’ll be so happy I won’t even care what the hell they want to talk about.

  We were out on the slopes this morning, learning the course and getting our last few runs in. I felt pretty good about it, and my times were great. But not quite great enough. Miles is still finishing ahead of me eighty percent of the time. Which, hell, I should be happy with that, right?

  Guy’s hands-down the best skier on the planet right now, has been for over a decade, so why should I think an upstart like me could knock him off his mountain? But there’s a little voice inside me saying I could do better.

  Weirdly, it sounds like Miles. Why would Miles want me to do better than him? I know how fucking bad he wants those medals, and I can understand why.

  I feel like maybe it’s not just about the medals? Not quite about proving he’s the best? Which would be reason enough, but I think part of it is that this is Miles’s whole life. Thing is, if I hadn’t made the team or even if I had but was nowhere in the vicinity of medal-winning times, I’d be okay. I have other things in my life. A town I call home, friends, I’ve had boyfriends and I’ll have another one someday, maybe even one who wants to be more than a boyfriend. Who’d like to settle down in a ski town and we’d work as much as we’d have to to make ends meet, but otherwise spend our days on the slopes. That’d be perfect.

  For Miles, though, this isn’t a dream he walked into and that he knows he’ll wake up from. This is his life, and knowing it’s all going to end, and soon, must not feel great.

  After the van drops us back at the village, I stop in the convenience store and pick up some gum. It’s sorta stupid, but I like chewing it just before a big race. Gives me something to do, lets me multitask right up until the last minute when I spit it out and devote every brain cell I’ve got to the million things I need to remember when I race. Of course a lot of it is natural. Muscle memory, instinct, things I’d have to think harder about not doing than doing if I wanted to get myself to stop.

  Some of those habits Ted wants me to break. But honestly, what I do has gotten me this far. Why should I fuck with it, and right before the biggest race in my life?

  When I get upstairs to our suite, Miles is pacing, back and forth, back and forth, his long strides shuttling him across our small room. As I close the door, his head whips up and I want to tell him to chill or he’s going to need a chiropractor. Before I can get it out, he’s pointing at me, shoving an extended finger in my face so close it could go up my nose. Yes, I would like Miles to insert parts of his body into parts of my body, but finger-nostril intercourse is not what I had in mind.

  “You.”

  “Me?” What did I do now? I thought I’d been on good behavior, but Miles gets twitchy about some weird shit. Like me using his towel.

  “Yes, you.”

  I may as well ask. “What did I do?”

  “It’s not what you are doing, it’s what you’re not doing.”

  Well that’s clear as mud.

  “I don’t—”

  “Yeah, I know.” He starts pacing again, his hands held in front of him like he’s carrying a cantaloupe in each or something. I’m calling it. Miles has officially lost his marbles.

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Miles, could you explain this before I call the proper authorities? You’re kinda freaking me out.”

  “I was watching your run tapes from today, and comparing them to the old ones. Your upper body engagement has improved markedly and your balance is better, too. But I think what you’re not doing is . . . You look like you’re still starting your turns with your upper body, your ankles seem kind of floppy, and your skis are coming off the snow too much in the turn.”

  My face must go white because I think all my blood just drained onto the floor. That’s a laundry list of things I’m sucking at, and there’s not much time to do anything about it. My ribcage feels like it’s shrinking, like oxygen is being replaced with defensiveness. “And what exactly do you want me to do about it?”

  “I don’t know. It’s not like we’ve got a lot of practice time left, and this shit takes people years to master.”

  I don’t get angry a whole lot. It’s just not in my nature. People joke about potheads, but I’ve always been laid-back. But now I’m getting mad. “So why are you telling me this? If there’s nothing I can do? So I can feel shitty about it and when I bomb spectacularly out there, I’ll know why? What the fuck?”

  “No.” He shakes his head and looks honestly shocked that I’d suggest such a thing, eyes wide, brows drawing together. It’s not a crazy thought though. Maybe he’s doing this on purpose to fuck with my head so he’ll have a better shot at beating me. But then I feel shitty because that’s a mean thing to think about this guy who’s done nothing but help me, including getting me off so I won’t bark at ants on national television. “No, Crash. I’m sorry if it came across that way. Not at all. I was telling you because if there’s anyone who can pick this stuff up that fast, it’s you.”

  His execution is shitty, but that might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. Miles has faith in me. He thinks I can be taught. He thinks I have potential, and for the long haul, not just as a one-hit wonder. That’s one of the things I admire about Miles. He’s been in this for the marathon. He’s not super flashy, but he gets the job done time and again, and he thinks I can go the distance. That I’m not just some flash in the pan. That’s what I’ve been to so many people, and it gives me kind of a warm squishy feeling inside that he’s not one of them.

  “Thing is, even if you can only pick up one of those things, you’ll be better. And if you managed to get all three?” All of a sudden his face gets tight and severe, like someone grabbed his Miles mask from the back and twisted and now his features don’t have any give. I’m used to him yelling at me, but his face always moves. This is some weird alien - wearing - a - Miles - suit shit. “If you get all three, you’ll be unstoppable.”

  It takes me a second to figure out what he’s trying to say. Unstoppable? I mean, I’m up there already, my chances of medaling are damn good which is what he’s been telling me. But what I think he’s just given me is not some offhand advice to make it even more likely I’ll finish out gazing up at him on the medal platform slightly above mine. No, he’s given me the key to beating him, and he knows it. That’s why his voice got all quiet and he’s not meeting my eyes anymore. Because he probably feels like he just handed his medals, a.k.a. his life, over to me on a silver platter.

  “Miles . . .” W
hat am I supposed to say to that? Thank you seems not good enough and insulting in a way. Doing a victory dance is out of the question. But not acknowledging this at all? Not cool. He’s helped me so much, all the while knowing me improving could be his downfall, but he’s done it anyway.

  “No, don’t. I have to . . .” He looks around, gaze pinging desperately, bouncing off of walls and furniture. I want to hand him something to do. Like knitting needles or a crossword puzzle or some wood to chop. Anything. But I’ve got nothing. Luckily, he finds his own excuse as to why he can’t look at my face anymore. “I’m going to go for a run. See you later.”

  Miles

  When I get back to the room, sweaty and worn out, Crash is sitting on his bed, staring off into space. Which makes me angry—he should be watching tape, or down in the gym. Hell, he should be standing in the middle of the room with his boots and his skis, trying to practice what I told him. Not sitting there like some kind of stoner.

  Through my shower, I get angrier and angrier. I hand you everything, and this is what you do with it? Nothing? You’re not even going to try?

  I don’t know what I’m angrier about. The knowledge that I’ve essentially told him how to take those last two gold medals away from me, or the fact that he might not use that information. Whichever it is, I am not happy, and as much as I try to control it, it won’t go away.

  What is it about Crash Delaney that gives him the ability to get under my skin? He’s like some life-threatening parasite people pick up in tropical climates when they walk in muddy areas with no goddamn shoes on.

  When I finally walk back out to our room—okay, stomp is more likely—Crash is still fucking sitting there and it brings my blood to a boil. I can’t even get my clothes on. I just stand there in my towel and yell, because dignity is my middle name.

  “What the fuck, Crash? What the ever-loving fuck? I know the information I gave you is intimidating, and maybe it won’t help, but aren’t you even going to try? Why are you just sitting here, doing nothing? Even if you don’t give a goddamn for yourself—which after watching you work for the past several weeks, I could’ve sworn you did—what about the rest of us? Your team, your coaches, the people who didn’t get on this team because you showed up out of nowhere, your country? You’ve never struck me as lazy, exactly. Maybe unaware of exactly how hard it is for most people to reach your level. But let me tell you it’s infuriating to watch you sit here and do nothing with the advice I just offered you.”