Yeah, my face heats up a bit. Curse the breakdown between my filthy mind and my prudish mouth. But the thing is, I could never get reprimanded for my thoughts, only for my actions, and especially those anyone else saw, so maybe this is my release valve. We don’t need to talk about my strange relationship with sexuality and showmanship and modesty, nope.
“To be fair, you would look absolutely droolworthy in a fedora, but yes, that’s what I meant.”
There’s a squeeze around my middle.
“Say it, Maisy.”
Oh, please, no.
“I don’t think that’s necessary. You know what I mean, so what’s the point?”
She squeezes me tighter, and her fingers curl, as if she’s getting ready to tickle me, and if that starts, well, I am a goner.
“I want to hear you say it because it’ll be fun. It will make my entire day. Please? Please, Mais, with a cherry on top? I’ll do anything you want.”
“I don’t think I could handle anything else right now.” My grumble is met by a nip of my ear, and a suck at my lobe, and Christ, how is it this woman can infuse me with desire so easily? “Besides, it’s your turn, right? Wouldn’t you rather get off than hear me say”—sex toys—“that?”
“Pfft. Not a chance. I can stroke myself off no problem, and after your performance, it’s not going to take me long. But hearing Maisy Harper the ice princess talk about sex toys? Once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
If she were someone else, I’d think she might be lying, but she’s Blaze. She totally would shove me off her lap and play with herself until she climaxed. I wouldn’t have any part in it, and it would only be my own damnable fault. Which gives me an idea, because there’s now something I want badly. Very badly.
“Fine. I will make you a deal.”
“I like bargains.” She says this as she runs her lips and her teeth over my shoulder, and it’s enough to make me want to drop my head back and let her pleasure me again. And again. And again. But sadly, I don’t have all the time in the world, and now there’s something I want more than another orgasm.
“I think you’ll like this one a lot. How about, if I say it—”
“Say it, say it, say it!” Her exuberant chant is accompanied by tickles to my sides while she holds me fast, and I squirm on her lap.
“You better cut it out, or you’re not going to get anything.”
God, she’s like a puppy sometimes. But it works, and she stops her torture.
“If I say it, then you’ll show me your collection, and then you’ll do whatever I say.”
“I say yes!”
At which point she dumps me off her lap and stands bouncing on the balls of her feet in front of me. That was easy.
I get myself into a slightly less licentious pose, my ankles crossed in front of me with my tucked up legs hiding my breasts, and then primly demand, “Blaze, won’t you be a dear and fetch your . . . your. . . .”
Her eyes light up and you’d think she was on the podium about to get a gold medal instead of hearing me say some slightly off-color words. She’s practically dancing on her toes, which is a hilarious picture. Ugh, fine No use prolonging the agony. Get it over with, Harper.
“Your sex toys. Get your goddamn sex toys, okay?”
Blaze breaks into a victory dance, arms in the air, whooping and calling out while I bury my—on fire—face in my hands. Look at what this woman does to me. Probably a good thing I only see her every four years because any more than that, she’d surely be the death of me. Or would she? I’ve really been enjoying her, and in a way I don’t think I’d be likely to tire of quickly.
The shouts of conquest stop, so I peek through my fingers, and there she is, grinning like a shark in full bloodlust. And then she curtsies. Of all things for her to do . . .
“Yes, ma’am.”
I toss a pillow at her retreating ass as she hustles over to what is apparently her dresser. I hope anyhow. “Don’t ever call me ma’am again, or no more orgasms for you.”
Her grin is wicked, and I can tell the words are on the tip of her tongue, but she also knows I’m not kidding, so she bites it back. Then she grabs an armful of stuff from the drawer and tosses it on the bed in front of me. And here I thought I was traveling in style with a strap-on and a few dildos . . .
There’s a veritable sex toy smorgasbord in front of me, but I don’t want anything fancy, just something that’s going to make my infuriating lover get her rocks off. While I watch. Yep, this is all about the watching.
So I take up a relatively harmless-looking egg. Twist it at a seam about two-thirds of the way down, and yep. It starts to vibrate in my hand. As I turn it more, the sensation intensifies. This will do nicely.
I flip it off and toss it to her. She snatches it out of the air easily, making me think that if she weren’t a speed skater, she could’ve made a decent hockey goalie. She’s got the reflexes, the complete and utter lack of fear, is seemingly unaffected by pressure, and actually enjoys objects flying at her face—sticks and pucks equally, as far as I can tell.
She weighs the neon pink thing in her hand and then looks at me from under her heavy brows. “This is it? I give you a porn set’s worth of sex toys and you want me to use this?”
“Yep.”
Blaze shakes her head. “Okay, dude, it’s your call. But if you get bored, feel free to pick something else off the pile. I’m well-versed with the use of everything.”
“Yeah, yeah. Now shut up and come sit over here.”
I gesture to the head of the bed that’s pressed up against the wall, and unlike mine, the ceiling’s not at an angle. She’s got plenty of room to sit up straight. But that’s not precisely what I have in mind. While she’s taking the few steps over, I swoop in and pile up some pillows for her to lay back against.
“You know how I was sitting earlier?”
“Sprawled out on my lap with your pussy on display like a Georgia O’Keefe painting? Yes, I do.”
Okay I’m impressed with her allusion, but not with her sass or reminding me of precisely how wanton I must’ve looked. “Yeah. That’s how I want you up against the pillows.”
She doesn’t hesitate but climbs up, leans back, and spreads her legs. Just like that. Christ, this woman is . . . Does it make my admiration for her less pure, or make my father’s assertion that I’m only a lesbian because I’m a narcissist true, that I think she’s maybe what I would’ve turned out like had I not had all those messages drilled into my head? Not to worry now, I’ve got my very own puppet to make her do as I will, or perhaps as I would.
“Put the egg in front of you, within reach but so you can see it. I want you to think about it. What I’m going to make you do with it.”
Her eyes go delightfully wide, and she sets the toy down in front of her almost gingerly. Aha, I got her. “Okay. Now what?”
“Now I want you to touch yourself.”
Her hands go immediately to her full breasts, but I tut at her. “I don’t think so, not yet. Start with your hair.”
“My hair?”
“Yes, your hair, and make it sexy.”
“You want me to touch my hair and make it sexy?”
“Yes, I do, and don’t look at me like that.” Her features are all crumpled up as though she can’t possibly fathom how on god’s green earth a person could make that happen. “Wasn’t it hot when I cut your hair? Didn’t I make you feel good?”
Tell me I did.
“Of course. I think I remember pretty clearly jumping your bones right after.”
“Then show me how I made you feel. Make yourself feel that way.”
Her mouth wrenches to the side, and she’s glaring at me as though she’s really not so sure about this nutty plan of mine, but with a shake of her head and a roll of her eyes, she gives the impression that she’s going to do it anyway. Good girl.
She starts by spreading her fingers and running her open hand up the side of her face and into the hair that I cut only days ago. Blaze is milk
y-pale, which makes sense given she spends most of her life in a box of ice, and her turquoise-tipped fingers running through her unnaturally red hair is a sight to see. This . . . might have been a bad idea, because with that one simple gesture, I can fast forward in time and see where this is headed. It’s a place called Sexy-as-fuck-istan.
She curls her hand, making it cup her neck, and then her fingers are drifting toward her collarbone. My eyes are riveted to her, and as much as I’d like her to keep going down, down, down toward her breasts, her washboard stomach, and yes, god, yes, her pussy that’s already got a sheen of desire slicking it, I think not. She agreed to this, and I’m going to hold her to it.
“Your hair, Bellamy. Hell, I’ll even give you from the neck up, but that’s it.”
She scowls, her eyes narrow and her full mouth pinched. “You are no fun.”
“I am a shit tonne of fun, and since I’m Canadian, that’s a metric tonne.”
She snorts a giggle, and then sighs. “Ugh, fine.”
And then she’s back, using both her hands this time, fingertips sliding over her sharp cheekbones, the hollows of her temples, and up into her hairline. It makes her tits jut forward, and as sure as dominoes, my mouth drops open, which is when I think she realizes she can drive me crazy with this performance, too. Which makes her far more inclined to go along.
She makes a show of combing her fingers all the way to the back of her head, stretching out her arms, and putting her full chest on display, and it makes my mouth water. I think she might pose that way, crack open an eye to see if I give in already, but no. She rolls her head to the side, glides her hand sensuously over her neck until I’m about to tell her to stop, and she reverses direction. Sends one hand back to her hair, while one trails over her jaw until her finger meets her mouth, and she uses a single fingertip to draw her bottom lip down. Seeing her teeth shouldn’t be erotic, but it makes a wave of sudden desire overcome me. I could drown in her.
And will, because now she’s taking her finger into her mouth, sucking it lightly to get it wet before she releases it and draws the slick digit across the seam of her mouth. She toys with her mouth, her jaw, her neck, her hair for another five minutes, and I’m mesmerized. From a woman touching herself in a way that isn’t particularly scandalous.
“Lower.” Yeah, that was my voice, croaky as a frog. I expect her to hurry, but she doesn’t. Finishes up her finger-fellatio routine, and then does as I’ve requested, caressing her collarbones, shoulders, and god help me, drawing a single finger down her throat before resting it momentarily in the divot of her suprasternal notch. Then she inhales before sliding her other hand down and finally, god, finally, cupping her breasts and squeezing, kneading.
Her mouth is open, her eyes are closed, her chest is rising and falling, and I want her. Want those to be my hands, want to touch her myself. But I won’t, I’ll watch. She moves to circling her areolas, teasing herself until her nipples pucker into peaks like berries—moreover, I know they taste that way, too, mostly sweet with a hint of sour. When they’re good and teased, and I’d imagine aching to be touched, she cups her breasts and takes her nipples between thumb and forefinger and squeezes, teases, and rolls as she licks her lips.
Blaze
I am here for exhibitionism any day of the week. Sex in public? Sure. Orgies? Bring them on. God knows I don’t mind being photographed with as little clothing on as the publication can get away with. But somehow, some way, Maisy has made a relatively innocent exercise into one of the most sexually exciting things I’ve ever done in my life. Sex magic, that’s what she has.
All the while I’m touching myself for her pleasure—and who are we kidding, mine—I’m thinking of that goddamn fluorescent pink egg in front of me. I’d teased her about it, but now I’m glad she didn’t put out a sex toy buffet. She doesn’t need it. Also, it’s weird, but I like feeling this close to her, even though we’re not touching. This is way more intimate than some of the most . . . accessorized sex I’ve had. Not that I don’t love a good kinky romp, because I sure as fuck do, but with Maisy in particular, I like that she’s controlling me so directly, wielding her power in such a subtle way. She’s not even touching me for god’s sake.
The direct line of communication between my nipples and my pussy is on fire, signals being sent south until every pinch, every tug, each squeeze is reminding me of exactly how empty I am, how good it would feel if she would give me that kind of satisfaction. She will, but in her own goddamn time. Frigging Maisy and her lack of urge to careen headlong to the finish line. Her goddamn artistry. But that’s what I feel like right now, if I can stem the frustration long enough to piece two thoughts together: Maisy’s work of art.
“Pick it up.”
Her soft command crashes through the near-silence of the suite like cymbals, and I don’t have to ask what she’s talking about. I stop toying with one of my tits and grab the egg that’s been mocking me with its presence for the past twenty minutes.
I look at her, awaiting my next instruction, even though I know it’s not going to be to crank it up and hold it to my clit until I blow. That would be too easy. Maisy’s meeting my gaze, her dark eyes intense, and then she brings her thumb to her mouth, bites the pad while she considers. I almost die. I would much rather she be biting me. After a minute’s thinking—or dreaming, maybe she’s fantasizing about what she could make me do even as she sits here?—she releases her thumb and tips up her chin.
“Touch yourself with it. Don’t turn it on. Yet.”
Despite what I’d like to do, I know she doesn’t want me heading straight for my clit that’s pulsing with want. No, she wants to tease me. Double tease me since she’s not even touching me. And she thinks I’m frustrating . . .
I do what she wants because I do have a small amount of self-control, and using it to gear up for a mind-blowing orgasm seems a better reason than most to use it. The touch of the egg is strange, intimate and yet not.
“Now,” she says, and I twist it slightly to start the gentle buzz, putting it back against my skin. It draws my focus and my desire, my thoughts and feelings following where I’m dragging the sphere over my collarbones, between my tits, around and finally over my nipple in a way that gives me chills. When I think she’ll be satisfied, I draw it down the center of my stomach, hesitate slightly when I’ve reached the space between my hipbones, but Maisy doesn’t tell me to stop. She stares, waiting for me.
Which is when I finally get the contact I’ve been aching for, circling around my clit, teasing myself for a few more delicious seconds, and then . . . The breath leaves my lungs in a rush and my head drops back as I close my eyes, because fuck, yes. I don’t hold back the groan of relieved frustration because I think Maisy wants it. Or at least expects it. Wants, too, the way my hips rock up to add the motion, seeking even more satisfaction.
“Turn it up. Don’t come.”
Is she toying with me? I don’t care. All I have to do is follow her instructions, and I know no matter how roundabout the path, it’s going to lead to the promised land. A slight twist turns up the vibe, and I take another circle, widening it to explore how it feels on all the surfaces of my intimate flesh—labia, that thin strip of skin between the entrance to my pussy and my asshole, and Christ, yes, where I’d like for her to be inside me. And yeah, my clit because it’s a demanding thing, wanting so much attention for its externally small size, but I’ll give it because it feels so fucking good, and that’s all that’s swirling around in my head right now. Pleasure, feeling, the extraordinary things my body can do in a bed instead of on the ice, behind closed doors with only one other person instead of in an arena with thousands of screaming fans.
The quiet makes this more intense somehow, because I’m the only thing drawing Maisy’s attention, and god knows I feed on that. Her focus is modest, reserved, and yet all the more powerful for that. Concentrated in each soft word, each small movement of her lips, every swallow in her delicate throat. All of it is mine, belongs to m
e.
My desire has hit a high that I’m not used to because for all the debauchery I partake in, it’s usually one after the other. What about now? How about now? Again, again, again. But Maisy’s focused all that arousal that usually comes in peak after peak, and built into one big slope. She’s driving me absolutely fucking crazy.
“Turn it up. Put it inside you.”
Oh. Oh, yes.
I’m so wet, it doesn’t take much to work the egg inside myself until it’s sitting in my core, making the sensations radiate out through my whole pelvis, pinging that entire wishbone shape of my clit. My god is that a marvelous organ. The pleasure is echoing through my whole body in a way I think I might be imagining, but it doesn’t fucking matter because I feel it. Pulsating, throbbing. In my tits, in my throat, in my mouth, my cheeks, my lungs. She’s invaded me and I surrender.
There’s a shift on the bed and I don’t bother to open my eyes—when did they fall closed, anyhow?—but they snap open when there’s a single lick of a tongue over my clit, followed by a lavish suck that makes me fall over the edge of the mountain I’ve been climbing up. My whole body shudders and shakes, and the words leave my mouth in an uncontrollable stream.
“Maisy, fuck. Fuck, Maisy. I—I—Yes, yes, suck me.”
And she does. Gentling the way she’s using her mouth on me when it’s clear I’m on the downslope of my epic climax and not stopping until I’m a twitchy puddle of post-orgasmic contentment.
I let her slip the egg out from inside of me, and then move my barely functional limbs, arranging me against the pillows until she’s managed to snuggle under my arm, and then we both rest. Drowse, cuddle, like sleepy kittens until Maisy’s phone makes a noise from her heap of stuff on the floor.
She makes a sound like “merf,” and rubs her nose on my shoulder before sitting up and rubbing her eyes.
“Team dinner in thirty. I gotta go.”
Fire on the Ice Page 9
