Fire on the Ice

by Tamsen Parker

  I could obsess over all the things she doesn’t give me or I could enjoy the things she does. I’ll take the latter because I don’t want to feel stymied.

  “Good,” I say, knowing she doesn’t need my praise, but maybe she’d like it anyway? She doesn’t seem to be weak like me, always seeking approval, affection, attention, reassurance that I fucking matter. Validation. No, she seems perfectly content to be self-contained, only letting people in who she really has to. I will take advantage while she’s willing to let me be one of those people. “Now the fun can really start.”

  I snap the glove on my right hand and take up the lube, slicking some over the latex, and start off a step behind where I left off. Fisting takes a lot of patience, and I’m going to do this—her—right. I want her leaving Denver dreaming about how good it felt having my whole hand inside her.

  Three fingers are easy, four not much harder, and I press my knuckles against her inner walls, stretching and spreading gently, getting her prepared for me to fold in my thumb and keep pressing. It’s in some ways like kneading dough. Her flesh is supple, strong and resilient all at once, and it’s mine to shape, mine to manipulate.

  “Do you want to come before I’m all the way in? After? Both?”

  “Both, of course.” Girl after my own heart.

  I use my other hand to brace her pelvis against the angle of the ceiling, and thumb her clit in the small rough circles she seems to favor. It’s not long before her hands are on my shoulders and her head’s dropped forward, her breath coming in pants. She’s so pretty like this, and sexy as hell as she works her cunt on my hands. Not shy, she’s going to take what she wants from me. Plus, she’ll get wetter when she comes and that’ll be even better than the lube to help get that inconvenient thumb knuckle and heel of my hand into the promised land of Maisy Harper’s hot, slick pussy.

  The angle’s doing its job, too, forcing her to lean onto, into me, and gravity’s bringing her weight to bear on my hand, my wrist. This was a good idea, and I hope she thinks so. Right now, though, she’s consumed with her race to orgasm. Fine with me. She doesn’t need to know my plot, maybe better if she doesn’t, because I don’t know that she’d rest her forehead on my shoulder as she’s doing now. The pressure, the feeling of her breath that wafts through the thin cotton of my tank makes it so that my skin is ridiculously hot, and I suspect if she reached a hand into my leggings, she’d gasp with delight at precisely how wet I am. I can tell with how heavy my pelvis feels that my blood is pooling there, making my labia puffy and swollen, and my body’s getting ready for sex, penetration by slicking the path, practically an invitation: fuck me.

  But the party I’ve RSVP’d to is between Maisy’s legs that are starting to show some strain. Trembling.

  “Let go, Mais.”

  She makes a helpless desperate noise and rolls her forehead against my chest, a gesture I’ll take as affectionate. “Can’t.”

  That single word, reeking of vulnerability makes blood roar in my ears. “Yes, you can. It’s not going to be easy, but it’s not going to hurt because we’re being careful. You’ll be brave for a little bit, and then you can take a break with my whole hand inside you. Won’t that feel good?”

  She nods against me, grips my biceps, her breath coming harder.

  “Then come on. I’m going to make you come right here and again when I’m inside you. Got it?”

  “Yes.”

  She rocks and pitches her hips, working my hand deeper with every buck and I keep up my thumb’s work on her swollen clit. I can tell she’s almost there when her movements become more insistent but erratic. “Yes. Come on. I want to feel you. Hear you. Sink your teeth into me if you want, let me know how you feel.”

  Now she’s making tiny half-moan, half grunts as she sinks onto my hand a fraction of an inch with every push. And with a sound that feels both surprising and inevitable, she’s pulsing around my hand, her teeth clamping around the meat of my trapezius. The noise is muffled by my flesh, but the vibration of it is powerful, the pitch desperate. Christ, she’s hot.

  It’s while she’s rocking out the rest of her climax that my hand slips fully inside her and she gasps before biting me again.

  “Fuck. Christ. That, ngh, I . . .”

  I extract the hand I’d been using to manipulate her clit out from in between us, and wrap an arm around her waist, gathering her as close as I dare, kissing below her ear, inhaling the scent of her. Sweet oranges, yes, but also the things she used to wash my hair, plus an overwash of effort, of human body at work, and yeah, sex. “Told you so.”

  Her laugh shakes her ribcage. “I never had any doubt, but I needed . . .”

  “A little something?”

  “Mmm.”

  She lets me hold her for a while, and I marshal my patience. All I want to do is make her come again. Want to give her more pleasure, make her lose herself for a moment, but this sweeter seeking of my body will do for now. Also, the way my hand feels inside her, even encased in latex. Warm, held, possessed. We belong to each other, even if it’s only for this one moment. That’s what this whole thing is about, though, right? These are the few moments in time that we get, that we cling to.

  After a minute, she leans back, a watery smile on her face. “I’m kind of exhausted, but I’m not done yet. You promised me both, and I’ve only gotten one. Can I brace my hands on your shoulders?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I’d like that, us pressing away from each other while at the same time seeking support. It’s an apt metaphor for whatever it is we’re doing.

  Her legs are shaking on either side of my forearm, and yes she’s stubbornly insisting that she wants more. Is there any wonder I feel as though we’re two peas in a sex pod? Wait, that’s gotta be a thing, right? A sex pod? Should totally google that when this is over. For now, though, she’s ordered something and I’ll deliver. I’m the USPS of orgasms. Rain or shine, sleet, snow, or wind, I will deliver climaxes.

  The color in her cheeks is high, but the exhaustion in her eyes is receding, replaced by the glint of desire. More, more.

  “Could you do something for me?”

  “Anything.” I say it without hesitation, because whatever she asks, she can have with very few exceptions. Like my skates. That might be it.

  “Get yourself off while you’re getting me off.”

  “Can you, if I’m not fingering your clit?”

  She cocks her head, thoughtful, and I have to wonder if she looks the same when her coach asks if she pull a difficult combination. Sure, it’s the same kind of feat. Orgasming with only vaginal penetration and doing a fancy-ass double toe-loop, triple axle thinger, or whatever it is.

  “I think if you angle your wrist . . .” I tip my forearm into her and when she gasps, I think we’re off to a good start. “Like that. Yes, like that. I think I can.”

  Yep, the little engine that could . . . orgasm. To keep up my end of the bargain, I slip my hand under the waistband of my leggings and into my underwear, finding the space between my legs predictably wet. Yes, this has been very hot and is about to get hotter. I use my own middle finger to circle my clit and make eye contact with Maisy once I’ve started the rhythm that’s going to bring me off. She rocks against me in a complementary way, and it’s all bordering on too much, exactly the way I like it.

  I work myself as she works on me, and it’s not so very long until I’m on the edge between the feel, the smell of her, and my own expert touch.

  “I’m close, Mais. Are you?”

  “Mmm.” Her fingers dig into my shoulders, and we’re bracing ourselves against each other while we thrust. Hips rocking, backs arched, so many fingers, so much slick heat, a to-die-for amount of small, pleading noises and the slick sounds of women making love, and suddenly I’ve found it, and my core starts to clench. The rhythm, the pulse of it is strong, and I lean into her hands pressing at my upper arms. It feels aggressive in a way, as if we’re both trying to prove ourselves, but also supportive b
ecause we’re strong enough for each other. Held and challenged all at once, and in the middle of my orgasm, Maisy cries out her own release and instead of fading out, my climax doubles in strength for a few beats with the sound. So sweet, so satisfying, and god yes, so fucking sexy.

  Get bored with her? Not a fucking chance.

  Chapter Seven

  Blaze

  In a minor miracle, our coach let us out of tape review early. Either because she thinks we’re as well-prepared and awesome as we can possibly get and there’s nothing more she can do, or she’s given up. I’m going to go with option B, but that’s pure speculation.

  I’m showered off, and I could head back to my room, maybe head out to the bar or some other place, the dining hall to grab something to eat or the lounge of my building. But the truth is, the only face I want to see is Maisy’s. I cannot get enough of that girl. I think it’s partly because I haven’t been allowed to have her as much as I’ve wanted to? And not because she’s been playing games like people sometimes do. She’s legit busy. Which is hot. She’s dedicated, and in demand because she’s so very good at what she’s set her mind to. I like passionate people, and it doesn’t matter so much what they’re passionate about. Being so diligent also means when I tell her I can’t do something, she believes me, too.

  Which reminds me, I think she said she had practice right around now? I haven’t gotten to see her skate yet, just prance around in her practically naked pants, falling-off-her-shoulder sweatshirts, and leg warmers. I’ve seen YouTube clips of her, but never skating in real life. If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll get a chance to change that even before her events.

  Maybe it’s the distancing lens of the camera, but she never looks blissful in the tapes I’ve seen. Shouldn’t she? I’m not one of those idiots who thinks figure skating is all hearts and flowers, because I’d fall on my ass about a second into any of her programs—fucking toe picks, what the fuck—but at least at the end of a well-executed routine, shouldn’t she look happy? I don’t want her to plaster one of those fake Vaseline-on-your-teeth smiles on her face. I want to see some earnest joy, and I feel like I haven’t. Why is that?

  Maisy takes herself, her sport very seriously—okay, pretty much everything except banging seriously, but that shouldn’t preclude enjoying herself. I mean, hell, speed skating is one of the only things I take seriously, but I still fucking love it. It’s more exhilarating than pretty much anything else a person can do, and one of the only things that could hold my attention to bust my ass the way I do. But Maisy . . . I feel like when we’re not in the sack, she’s constantly holding herself back, trying to make herself smaller, apologizing basically for being alive. Which doesn’t make any sense, even given the whole Canadian thing. I expect her to say “soory” a lot, but not for, like, breathing.

  And the way she works? Yeah, pretty much everyone here works their asses off—have to to get where they are, although I’ve heard that slalom skier Crash Delaney is basically some sort of walk-on phenom and that bugs the crap out of me—but I feel as if she’s trying to prove that she’s worthy of. . . . . . existing. Which everyone is, but even if she weren’t an incredible skater, she’d still be her. Pretty and smart and funny and can give a hell of a haircut under less than ideal conditions. Not to mention that she’s one of the only people who can match me in bed for more than a couple of days. If she has some kind of demons chasing her, she’s never let on, but why would she? We’re more about the sex, and less about the intimacy. Which is fine. Really.

  The short track arena is right next to the one for figure skating, so I hustle on over, hoping I’m not too late. And if I’m not, that I’ll be able to get in. Mostly if you’ve got your athlete pass, people are pretty chill about letting you into spaces, but sometimes they can be super strict, like in places you could potentially sabotage someone. I don’t want to sabotage anyone; I want to see my girl skate.

  My temporary girl. My SIG wife. I’ve heard people joking about SIG spouses before, and I’d never paid much attention because as far as I was concerned, I was competing in a second sport at the Games: fucking. If there had, in fact, been medals awarded, I am confident I would’ve taken home gold in Sapporo. This time around? I may be falling down on the job in terms of numbers, but I am racking up the quality and style points for sure.

  I flash my badge at the entrance to the arena, and they don’t stop me. I swear, some of the people working the venue wouldn’t be able to tell curling from ice dancing or short track from hockey. Which is frustrating in some ways, but I will absolutely take advantage. Inside, the flash of my badge works as well, and I suspect it’s the hair, too. They might stop someone else for a closer look at their badge, but I’ve made it my business to be unmistakable. I belong here.

  Before I duck into the actual rink, though, I yank a hat from my bag and tug it over my head. If she’s in the middle of a workout or practicing her program, I don’t want her to get distracted by me, and my fire-engine hair would be a good way to let her know I’m here.

  The light and the ice at the end of the tunnel are bright, and I can hear the strains of music bouncing off the surfaces. I must have missed Maisy, because there’s no way in hell she’d skate to the sounds pouring down the hallway. Loud, brash, and big, it’s more like what I would skate to if I were a figure skater. It sounds like a rock concert and not the classical melodies that usually provide the backdrop for the figure skating performances.

  I almost turn around because if it’s not Maisy, what the fuck do I care about who it is, but something compels me forward, maybe wanting to know who does have a program to this music. I’ll be rooting for Maisy to take home gold, obviously, even above my fellow Americans—blasphemy!—but it never hurts to have another horse in the race. Especially if that horse has excellent taste in music. Besides, it’ll only add a few minutes until I can get back to the village and see my SIG wife again . . .

  Maisy

  No one had the ice right after we finished up our practice, so I’m taking the opportunity to run through my exhibition piece. It’s silly, because thousands, if not millions, of people are going to be watching this in a few days, but until then, I don’t want anyone to see it. I want to keep it to myself, have something that’s for me, that no one else has a claim over, that no one else has anything to say about. The music is for me, the routine is for me, and I don’t give a shit that I’d get disqualified twenty seconds in if I skated this for my long program. That’s the whole point of this, to have fun, and show off. Not please anyone else.

  When I perform this for real, the medals will have been awarded, the anthems played, and I’ll be hours, perhaps days away from another four years of obscurity. If I’m lucky. If I’m not so lucky . . .

  But what matters now is the music coursing through me, the feel of my blades against the ice, the impact and satisfaction of hitting a jump perfectly. Since this is for fun, it’s more athletic than artistic, and I throw everything I have into as many jumps as I can squeeze into these four minutes. Combinations I might not attempt in a competition, and fuck yeah a triple axel I’ve never tried to land anywhere outside of my own personal ice time. Too much risk, and for what? I’d rather a good, solid, consistent performance where the judges can’t mark off for anything than taking chances on something that could win big, but I could also fuck up and end up on the bottom of the heap, maybe not even qualifying for the free program if I messed it up irreparably in the short. No, thank you. But here, now, with this thing that’s only for me? Yes.

  When the music starts spiraling upwards, I do the same, coming into a layback spin. Between the climbing notes, and the increasing speed of my rotation, I feel as though I could take off. Or maybe drill down through the ice to the center of the earth.

  As the music comes to a close, I make a dramatic stop with my toe pick and throw my arms up like a gymnast who nailed her dismount. I feel . . . victorious. Along with being flooded with delight. This is what I was built for, this is what I was meant to
do, and being able to do it with no censure, no judgment, just letting myself be—it fills my heaving chest.

  And I nearly die of shock when there’s a slow clap coming from behind the boards. I have to bite my tongue on a curse as I spin around to see who the fuck is there. At first I don’t see anyone at all, but then I catch movement out of the corner of my eye, and, unsurprisingly, a shock of red. Blaze shakes out her hair that must’ve been tucked under the toque in her hand.

  “Jesus, Blaze. You scared me half to death. Let a girl know you’re here, why don’t you?”

  There’s a charming-as-fuck smile on her face as she puts a hand on her hip. “But then you would’ve stopped, and I wanted to watch you skate.”

  “You know not everyone wants to be watched, right?” My grumble is met by a look of such utter confusion that I feel as though I may as well have been speaking Greek. Blaze would probably be okay with having an audience for anything, everything she does. Privacy? Modesty? These are things that people desire? All I can do in the face of her incredulity is shake my head.

  “I hate to break it to you, Mais, but you know thousands of people are going to be watching you in this very arena, and probably millions more on TV? I mean, you’ve done this before, so I figured—”

  I skate over to where Blaze has parked herself by the boards, forearms crossed and resting atop them, and punch her, right on her biceps. She flinches, but laughs, and then rubs where my knuckles dug in. “Ow. You’re a vicious little thing. And violence outside of a hockey rink doesn’t seem very Canadian.”