Mine had texted me from the road yesterday saying they were sorry to miss the race, but something had come up. I’m guessing that means the owner of the campsite where they were staying wanted to get paid. Again. It had bothered me, yes, but I can’t say it was unexpected. It warms my heart to see that Miles’s people showed up for him, because I know where he gets that from. It’s in his blood, and if I can get him to stay, I can have some of that for myself.
Miles’s dad has got his standard flag, and his mom has her usual “Miles Can Go the Distance!” but then she flips it to the other side, and of all the things for it to say, it reads “‘And Burn’ is Not Crash Delaney’s Middle Name!” So, we’re going to have to work on her signage, but in that moment, I get the feeling that Miles and I are okay. Or at least we’re going to be okay. I will make us be okay even if he doesn’t like feelings. I’ll teach him how to deal and he’ll learn he doesn’t have to be afraid of the squishy feelings he has for me. I can be patient. He’ll come around, and it looks like I’ve got an ally in Mrs. Palmer.
There’s no way Miles’s mom would’ve made me a sign if she didn’t think he’d be okay with it. And if he’s okay with that, I think we really do have a shot. He said as much just now. Sure, he’s threatened murder, but in a nice way? Because he cares about me, he cares about my success, and if I do anything to put that in jeopardy ever again, he’ll kill me. I’ll take it. I’ll take him.
I say my hellos to Mr. and Mrs. Palmer, and then we’re getting dragged off to talk to the press. We stay as close as we can without making it blatantly obvious that’s what we’re doing, and in between talking to various media outlets, we murmur things to each other. Teasing mixed with death threats, sprinkled with filthy suggestions about what’s going down now that our events are over. While we’ve got a breather because Ted’s waxing philosophical about how he managed to have two of the most dominant skiers in alpine on one team, and the tensions that must have created on the team, we stand shoulder to shoulder and Miles tips his head to put his mouth closer to my ear.
“You’re a better person than I am.”
I want to hug him and punch him at the same time, take his cock in my mouth at the same time as I want to make him repeat kindergarten to learn what really matters. But all I can do is turn my head, and marshal every ounce of control I have not to grab him by his stupid stubborn face and kiss him full on in front of all these people.
“Not better. Different. Yes, you need some improvement, but I can help you with that. I’ll trade you for some ski pointers. Deal?”
“If you’ll still have me.”
“Anytime, Palmer. I will take you on any time.”
Then there are more cameras on us, more microphones getting shoved in our faces, more questions to process. I’ve done the right thing in the best way I know how and while Miles wouldn’t have done the same thing, I think that’s partly why we fit so well. We’ll make each other whole. We can make each other better whether that’s through pushing or reining in, we’ll do it together. Like facing this new crush of press who are starting to ask the same old, same old questions.
How does it feel to be a two-time SIG medalist after growing up in a van and with no formal training until you made Team USA? What’s it like to race with the world’s most advanced equipment after learning how to ski with mismatched gear you sometimes had to steal from resorts?
The questions aren’t any easier to answer, and I still feel the burn of humiliation rising in my cheeks though I’m comforted some by the knowledge everyone’s looking a little worse for wear because of the wind, and the flush could be mistaken for windburn. But better is that my stomach is steady, and even more satisfying, so is my heart.
Epilogue
Miles
“You know, the first time I saw you ski, I was completely horrified.”
“If this is your idea of pillow talk, you’re doing it wrong.”
It actually is. But I am not, in fact, doing it wrong. Crash, as per usual, just needs to be patient.
We’re lying side by side in my cramped bed in our SIG suite, late the morning after the closing ceremony. I’ve got him trapped between my body and the wall. We’ve just had a rather energetic fuck, and we’re both still naked as can be, resting comfortably, half under the sheet. Our body heat keeps us warm, but I’m prepared to pull the blanket from the foot of the bed over us should we get chilled. So far, though, I get to enjoy his slim, strong body pressed against mine, and the fine lines of him. Skin clinging to muscle, bone, and tendons, still too skinny.
I grab his chin, the skin rough under my fingertips, and kiss him hard. “Stop being fresh.”
He kisses me back, nipping at my bottom lip, and that thing, that indescribably delicious sensation, curls in my belly, starts heading even further south, because he’s delectable. “Would you rather I be rotten?”
My. The things I could do to him if he gave me that kind of excuse . . . “Try me.”
“Sometime. Right now I just want you to fuck me.”
“And I’m the one who’s doing romance wrong?”
There’s a rise of pink on his cheeks above that sandy scruff. “Maybe I’m just really horny.”
I roll my eyes before I lean in, take his earlobe first between my teeth and then suck on it gently before murmuring in his ear. “You’re always horny.”
There’s a hitch in his breath and I double it by skimming a finger from where the sheet’s draped around his waist, up to the hollow of his throat and back. But it doesn’t stop him from talking, because what does? I’ve only found one thing.
“You’ve probably forgotten what it’s like, to be so young and spry, but my dick is non-stop.”
I snort a laugh into that comfortable space between his neck and shoulder. “Oh, I’m well-aware. You’re lucky I can get it up at all, what with how ancient and decrepit I am. I’m practically dead.”
At my words, there’s a punch in my gut, and not from Crash. Pulled, so not full force and not as bad as it’s been, but still there. That kind of queasy, falling feeling of losing my entire livelihood. I could try for another, but the way my knees are killing me, there’s no way I’ll be skiing like this in four more years. I don’t want to embarrass myself. I want to go out on top. Besides, I’ve got sort of a second life with Crash. I have a feeling he’s just getting started. That I can help him get even better. If I could do that . . . well, we could have a whole heap of medals sitting on a mantelpiece. Our mantelpiece. And now he’s got no excuse to bring home anything but gold, that selfless and wildly irritating man.
The scamp has the nerve to grin at me. “Eh, you do all right for an old man. And if I wear you out, there are ways to keep going.”
Jesus. So many ways to toy with him, torture him. I want to discover them all. How better than to satisfy my greedy urges first and then make him wait, and wait, until I’m ready to go again? “You are going to be so sorry that you’re giving me ideas.”
“Maybe. But I kinda like it when you make me sorry.”
“Good. I like it, too.” I want him on his knees with how goddamn sorry he is. That’ll be fun. “And hey, you didn’t let me finish my story.”
“I don’t know if I want to hear a story that starts with how horrified you were the first time you saw me do the thing I think I’m best at.”
I sift my fingers through his floppy, sandy hair. It looks like it should be kind of coarse, but when I touch it, it’s soft. Just like the rest of Crash, I find his softness in the most surprising places. He is so surprising, and I want to know what else he’s got hidden under those layers of his. The idea that I’ve got so much time to find out is dizzying.
I don’t think I’ve earned the right to say such things to him and be believed after I hurt him the way I did. So I’ll keep the thought to myself, share it with him someday when he’s gotten more comfortable with the idea that I’m not going to leave, and that I think he’s wonderful. Just the way he is, but I think there’s an even better Cra
sh waiting to be carved out. At least a better skier. I think I’ve got the big blocky parts off—and the mistakes I’ve made won’t ruin him forever—and now it’s time for the finer work. What did the great masters use? Tiny hammers and delicate chisels? How did they make stone look like living, breathing flesh? Lucky for me, Crash is far more forgiving and resilient than marble.
What he can take is a joke. “I wasn’t talking about blowjobs, I was talking about skiing.”
He blinks at me, those big hazel eyes round with surprise and then the edges crease with amusement. Gotcha. I’m rewarded with a face full of goose-down pillow. Fucker. Two can play at that game, and we do, until I wrestle him to his back and pin him there, hands on either side of his head, dick at attention and rubbing against mine that’s a little lazier to get up to speed. He’s like a goddamn puppy.
But when he’s figured out I’m not going to let him get away so easily, he settles and looks up at me, almost shy. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat on a swallow. Nervous. He shouldn’t be. Well, maybe a little, but I’m going to make him listen anyway, and then I’ll fuck his worries away. His eyes are round and glossy, full of faith and expectation. I won’t make you sorry for trusting me.
“So, back to my story. The first time I saw you ski, I was horrified. You had mismatched skis, mismatched poles, shin guards that looked like they were for playing soccer, you were wearing a goddamn parka for god’s sake, and your helmet was the size of Rhode Island. When you lined up at the start gate, I could barely watch, because I have this thing about second-hand embarrassment, and hell did you look like you were going to bite it.”
“I thought you said this was a nice story.”
“It is, I’m getting there.”
I summon the image in my head, of this kid who everyone was pointing at, laughing at, and how he stood there, cool as anything. Like he couldn’t hear the mocking. Now I know he could and he was probably dying inside, but he didn’t show it. Just stepped up to the gate, and when it was his turn . . .
“Your technique wasn’t all that much better than your gear, but holy shit you were fast. I couldn’t take my eyes off you. I wanted to watch you . . . all day.”
I can’t bring myself to say ski, because that is not what he was doing. I don’t even know what to call it. Whatever it was, it hurt my brain. And my soul. My skier’s soul, the part of me that had been drilled with technique, artistry, and style.
“I wanted to figure out how the fuck it was that you were doing just about everything wrong, and yet you were killing it. Just absolutely murdering that course. When you finished, and I saw your time, I could believe it because I’d seen you, but I didn’t know how it had happened. What you were doing, it was actually kind of offensive. The rudest magic I’ve ever seen.”
“Rude Magic. That’s going to be the name of my reggae band.”
“You can have a reggae band in . . .” I check a watch I’m not wearing, and he rolls his eyes. “Twelve years. Anyway, my point is that you were like a goddamn wizard, and my fingers practically itched with the need to touch you when you’d finished. I wanted to make sure you were real, and more than that, I wanted to take this raw lump of talent—that’s you—and shape it. I knew you could be better. I just knew it. Have you ever seen an uncut diamond?”
He gives me this look like, Don’t be a turd blossom, Miles. Who the fuck has seen a raw diamond?
“They look like clear rocks. Nothing special. Kind of lumpy, unappealing.”
I can see it then, the kind of ring I’ll give him when I ask him to marry me. Because I’m going to. Not any time soon, because I want to be a choice he makes and not just an obligation he feels like he has. He’s so young. He needs time to figure out what he really wants, and I’ll do my damnedest in the meantime to make him sure that’s me. But when I do, ask him, it’ll be with a band of hammered gold with an inset of diamonds—some cut and polished, others left raw. Perfect.
Crash opens his mouth, probably to make another crack. “Would you just hush for another minute? I’m almost done.”
He rolls his eyes yet again and sighs, but gives me the go-ahead with a jut of his chin.
“You were already a diamond, Crash. Already a better skier than most people will ever be with all the training and fancy equipment in the world. And you’d done it all with no help. I don’t want to take that away from you, and neither does Ted, or anyone else you should work with. They should have nothing but admiration for everything you did yourself. But you know what? With a little cut and polish, you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen on skis. That . . . technique you used?”
“That was hard for you to say, wasn’t it?” I silence that goofy grin with a kiss, and a rock of my hips against his, rubbing our cocks together in a way that makes him gasp, and his lids fall closed.
“Yes. Technique is a strong word for you falling with style. But the thing is, it fucking worked. So we’ll cherry pick from everything you know about yourself, and then we’ll just make use of a few more standard ways of doing things, and you’re going to be unstoppable. You’re going to dominate these mountains for the next twelve years if I have anything to say about it. And I want to.”
Here’s where the stomach-clenching comes in. I’ve seen Crash boot about a hundred times, surely I’ve earned once? All the same, hopefully it won’t come to that. “I was thinking about buying a house.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“In Greenwich?”
“No.”
“Oh.” There’s a tiny frown that turns his chin scruff into these funny little ripples, like a grassy knoll that could use a mow. “Then where?”
Don’t vomit, don’t vomit, don’t vomit. “I was thinking Cast Iron Peak.”
He blinks at me, face immobile except for that owlish movement for a long moment. Then his nose wrinkles and my stomach drops. “You know that’s where I live, right?”
Luckily what bubbles up my esophagus is a laugh and not puke. “Uh, yes. Yes I do. That’s, um, that’s why I thought I might buy a house there.”
“Because you want to live near me?”
Oh, god. Blood rushes to my face, and I’m glad I’m holding his hands down, because if he were to touch me right now, surely my skin would feel like it was on fire. “I was thinking maybe closer than that? You don’t have to, of course, you can do whatever you want, and I don’t want to pressure you, and it won’t change my decision, and I’ll coach you no matter what, but I was hoping maybe you might want to live with me? Like I’d buy a house, and you could live there. With me. If you wanted.”
Apparently my brain is going for verbal diarrhea instead of literal vomit. Cool. Thanks.
“Oh my god. You’re asking me to move in with you?”
“Yes.”
“You, like, for real want to keep doing this?”
“I really do.” When did my throat get so tight? I can barely breathe. I hope he says yes before I pass out on top of him, because that would be embarrassing.
“And you want to be my boyfriend?”
I want to be your everything. “Yes, I would.”
“I’m going to drive you crazy, you know that, right?”
“Counting on it.”
The look on his face is priceless. Wary, but like he so badly wants to give in to hope. Give in, Crash. Just fucking fall. I will catch you time and again, I swear.
“Sure you don’t want to rent first?”
I have to roll my lips between my teeth to contain my laugh, but I shrug. “I think it’s time to have a home base that’s not my parents’ house. Cast Iron Peak is supposed to be pretty nice. I mean, the locals are bat-shit crazy, but I hear they can shred like no one else. Thought maybe some of them might want some old fuddy-duddy to show them a thing or two, help them take the world by storm. I’ve heard about this kid, Crash Delaney? He’s supposed to be the next big thing, and I want in on that action.”
Something inside him breaks. I can tell, because i
t spills out through every pore. Delight. That’s what’s seeping out of him, making him practically quiver underneath me. Maybe it’s that glass jar of reluctant thrill he keeps tucked safe in his heart, away from people who would hurt him, betray him. I’m not going anywhere. I want to help you make your dreams come true. But it’s only another second before his joy comes spilling out of his mouth.
“You want to coach me and be my boyfriend? And you want me to live in your house?” Crash’s voice is rising in pitch and in volume, and I wonder if the guys in the suite next door can hear. Won’t be the worst thing they’ve heard over the past several weeks if so.
“I would really prefer to think of it as our house. I mean, I’m not going to have like hemp furniture or anything, but I thought we could pick things out together. It’s not like I have any furnishings. Just hardware.”
He grins at me, knowing what I’m talking about. Goddamn are all of our medals going to look so shiny bright hanging next to one another. And I want to help him add to that collection. He can do it, I know he can.
“Can I say yes? Or do you want me to be all mature and grown-up and shit and say I’ll think about it?”
“I will happily take a yes right now. Might make my stomach stop trying to eject its contents.”
“Then yes, you stodgy bastard. Yes. Yes, I want you to coach me, yes I want to be your boyfriend, and yes I want to live with you. Have a life with you.”
Oh thank god. I’d wipe the sweat that’s no doubt gathering on my brow, but he’d probably take the opportunity to do something bratty like start a tickle fight, and tickling is not what I have in mind.
“Okay, cool. Can we fuck now, because that totally stressed me out?”
He rocks his hips and tips up his chin, asking for—begging for—a kiss. “Yes. And it will be romantic as fuck. I love you, Miles.”
The small, simple words shouldn’t mean so much, but the truth is, I’ve never heard them before. Not from a lover. Not from a man who’s wormed his way not only into my bed but deep into my heart. It makes my chest tighten and rocks the world that’s always been so steady under my feet. It’s frightening in a way, but exhilarating at the same time, and there’s only been one other thing I’ve been so certain of in my entire life. I feel the same way about skiing as I do about Crash. “I love you, too, Crash.”
Seduction on the Slopes--Snow & Ice Games Page 15
