I could soak in all the stupid sentimental crap flooding my head, but what I’d really like is some answers.
“Then why—”
“Because my parents are here.”
He says it as though that’s the only explanation necessary, as though those five words explain everything. But they don’t. Not to me.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
He blows a breath out, and I shift so that my arms are draped over his shoulders. The fury is draining out of me and taking all my energy with it. I’m practically leaning on him, and he doesn’t seem to mind, just moves his own hands so one is at the small of my back, and the fingers of his other hand curl around the nape of my neck. Heavenly.
“My parents are here, and I went to visit them.”
Well that’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for him skipping a meal with my parents—to see his own. Why didn’t he just say that? I would’ve understood. That would’ve been far preferable to him just not showing up at all and me wondering why. Hell, I would’ve told him to bring them along.
“What hotel are they staying at?” It’s a stupid, inane question—what the hell does it matter where they’re staying?—but I can’t even help myself. Crash laughs.
“They’re not. They parked the van at a camping area and they’re staying there. For now. Anyway, I went to go see them.”
“Oh.” I say that, but I don’t really understand. Hopefully he can read the cluelessness in my tone because I don’t feel like confessing what an idiot I really am.
“I’m sure Mother and Father Palmer drink a nice red with dinner, but my parents roll a little differently. They smoke more than I ever did.”
Ah. They did in fact split a bottle of Malbec over dinner, but I’ll withhold that detail. Crash doesn’t need to know exactly how spot-on he is.
“Anyway, they’re here, and I went to see them, and that’s why I smell like pot.”
“Oh.”
He nips my earlobe because he’s a brat and then draws away so he can look me in the face. “Are you still going to kill me?”
“No.” Killing is not on my mind anymore, not with his body pressed against me like this, and not with how he’s holding me. And not now that he’s given me a perfectly reasonable explanation, and, okay, made me a bit swoony by saying he’d never do that to me.
“Then can we fuck? Because seeing my parents totally stressed me out.”
Crash
Miles kisses me then, which is kind of a surprise. He said he wasn’t mad anymore, but sometimes it’s easy to confuse angry Miles and intense Miles. This was one of those times. But now I can tell he’s not angry. That’s what his lips say, pressed against mine. That’s what his tongue says, prying open the seam of my mouth, that’s what his teeth say when they sink into my lower lip and hold me still while one of his hands finds my ass and squeezes hard.
Hells to the yes.
I would like for him to be bossy right now, to move me around like we’re not basically the same size. Mostly I would like to have him be the same way he always is.
Which maybe sounds boring, and was something I didn’t like about Miles at first. Couldn’t stand actually. It seemed unfair that such a perfect specimen of man would have such a giant stick up his ass. But the more I’ve gotten to know him, the more I’ve come to appreciate that about him.
The thing about Miles is that he shows up. Always, and on time. If I called him, he would come. If I told him I had a problem, I doubt he’d stop thinking about it until he solved it. He’s . . . consistent. His demands are sometimes unreasonable, yes, but at least they don’t change. Also, it turns out most of his demands aren’t unreasonable and he knows it. Even if I don’t believe it, he keeps telling me and telling me until I do it, and then I can’t argue anymore.
It can be annoying as hell, but I’m also grateful for it. Like a kid walking into the ocean for the first time and looking over his shoulder to make sure someone who gives a shit is still there. Miles gives a shit. He also gives me a raging hard-on, which is what I should be focusing on right now. All that woo-woo feelings bullshit can wait.
I rock my hips against him and tilt my head to give him better access to my mouth, which he takes. He lets go of my lip to sweep his tongue through my mouth and the taste of him is just so Miles it kills me. There’s no rational explanation for it, but he kinda tastes like apples? Always, there’s a sweet but not syrupy element overlaying the wet human heat of him. I suck on his tongue because he tastes so fucking good, and he lets me . . . for a minute.
Then he’s threading his fingers through my hair and closing them in a fist that he uses to steer me back toward his bed. Where I saw his face fall, when that look of betrayal came over him.
Not that I ever want to make Miles feel that way ever again, but the way he got so mad made me realize that he cares. Maybe in the way that he doesn’t want to see someone smash the sculpture he’s spent so long molding, but it’s maybe more than that. I hope it’s more than that. Even to be Miles’s masterpiece, though? That’s not a bad thing to be. Probably more than I would ever amount to without him.
The backs of my knees hit the bedframe and I collapse, my shoulders hitting the wall. Miles doesn’t waste any time. He climbs up and straddles me, pushing me harder against the wall and driving his tongue until I can’t taste anything but him because I’m consumed by him.
He’s not subtle, rocking against me, pressing into me. And then he’s gone from my mouth and I try to chase him but he’s got a hand in my hair and holds me fast where I am.
“Ah.” The shit-eating grin on his face is just . . . God it makes me hard. As if I weren’t already, but now I feel like I’m going to bust through my pants. “Tell me how you want it.”
Hell.
My mouth must be gaping open like a fish’s, because I’ve got nothing to say, and he thinks it’s funny. He’s going to tease me, because he can. Not my fault that when he kisses me, it’s like my brain’s a margarita in a cocktail shaker.
“Come on, Crash. Tell me. Tell me and I might even give it to you.”
He punctuates his request—promise? threat?—with another rock of his hips, another bruising kiss that leaves me dizzy and gasping for air.
“That’s kind of what I’m afraid of.”
The bastard chuckles. There’s no other way to describe it. He’s so goddamn pleased with himself, and the corner of his mouth curls up in the cockiest grin I’ve ever seen. “Only one way to find out.”
I drop my head back against the wall and groan. And then think. How do I want it?
Apparently Miles has gotten bored, because he’s started kissing my neck, humming as he does it. How am I supposed to concentrate while he’s doing this? But honestly, thinking about all the ways I’d like to be with Miles isn’t all that hard. For today, though?
“I want to suck you and then I want you inside me.”
He nods against my neck, and then with a sharp bite to my earlobe, makes an agreeable sound. I’ll take that as a yes.
“Take a shower first, because I won’t be able to do my best work with you smelling like that.”
Fair. I don’t want him thinking about it anymore, either. Not how shitty he felt, anyway.
Miles removes the cage of his body and I practically spring to the bathroom, flinging my clothes off as I go, and as I close the door, I hear him laughing.
Chapter Fifteen
Miles
Thankfully, Crash is quick in the shower. He’s not the only one rattled, and having him suck me off is a good way to clear my head. Also my balls, because the kid could probably hoover me dry if he put his mind to it, but he’s asked to be fucked so I won’t let it get that far. This time.
When he comes out of the bathroom, he hasn’t bothered with clothes, or even with a towel around his waist. He is . . . a delight to look at. You wouldn’t think the skintight uniforms we wear would leave much to the imagination, but you’d be wrong. Yes, I had a general sense of Crash’s dimensio
ns, but not the details. It was like looking at a painting through a bag. But with nothing between him and me, I can see how his body’s been put together, how the whole of him is greater than the sum of his parts.
He’s leaner than he probably ought to be, skin clinging too closely to muscle and bone, but he’s beautiful nonetheless. Defined abs, and a trail of light brown hair that leads down to that marvelous hard-on of his. As with everything else about him, Crash’s dick is not subtle. It’s thick, and even from here, it looks so hard it’s practically throbbing. I want to make it worse.
So I gesture him over to the bed. “As you were.”
His eyes are wide and glossy, and he does as I ask without argument. Jesus, if I had known fooling around with Crash would get him to shut up and listen to me, I might’ve started doing it way sooner.
Once he’s situated, head and shoulders resting against the wall with his calves dangling off the edge of the bed, I stand between his knees and take my own clothes off. Make him watch and enjoy how focused he is. The only times I get to see him like this are when he’s hurtling down a mountain or here with me. Gives a little boost to my—okay, already healthy—ego.
Crash starts to lean forward, greedy, hands reaching even as his mouth opens, but I stop him with a hand on his chest and push him playfully back, wagging a finger. “Not yet.”
He’s slouched down some, which means when I climb up and straddle him, not sitting back on my heels but kneeling up on the mattress, we’re just about at the perfect height for him to take me in his mouth. Guy is practically drooling and has completely lost interest in my face. A bizarre fondness creeps into my chest. Fondness is all it is. Is all I can afford for it to be. Because the day after tomorrow, I’m going to have to shred Crash’s ass, and not the way I’m going to shortly.
Don’t think about that now.
While he’s trapped by my wishes, I can do whatever I want, so I reach out and put a hand to his face, use my thumb to trace the line of his scruff across his cheek. That gets his attention, and when he looks up at me, his expression is unguarded and raw. Hungry, yes, but also . . . vulnerable? Hopeful? I don’t know, but it hurts to see it, like looking directly into the sun.
I can’t handle it anymore. That look of reverence makes my stomach flop, and I don’t . . . flop. It’s easy enough to urge him forward, and when I do, he opens his mouth and takes me inside. Not far at first, just his soft lips and a flick of his blissfully wet tongue. He doesn’t need to swallow me down for it to feel incredible. Turns out in addition to being an extraordinary skier, he’s also a phenomenal cocksucker. Jesus, his mouth.
Because I know he likes praise, I tell him how good he’s making me feel, let him hear the sounds I might hide from other lovers because they’re too revealing. The sensations that are coursing through my body come out of my mouth as desperate groans, air hissed out through my teeth. They’re not pretty, but Crash takes my words and uncouth noises as not only encouragement, but a challenge. Oh yeah? I can do better. Can he ever. His tongue swirls around my crown and then he’s taking me deep into the unbelievable tight heat of his throat.
“Christ, does that feel good. But if you want to get fucked after this, I’d recommend backing off.” Because my balls are tightening, and I can already anticipate what it would feel like to spill in his mouth. Jesus.
He swallows first, which, who taught this man to be a blowjob virtuoso? Maybe he’s just some kind of prodigy, but goddamn.
And instead of popping off like I expect, the jackass grips the base of my cock with his hand, and keeps working me over with quick, shallow dips of his head, his lips sealed against my sensitive skin, and using his tongue to give an extra flick on the underside of my head which makes my heart stutter, and I gasp his name when I’m in fact trying to scold him.
I am now bemoaning my agreement to fuck him, because what I wouldn’t give to come just like this. Wouldn’t take much more. I could wrap my own hand over his, and with a few jerks, I could be coming in his mouth. But no. I’ve got self-control. Useful in my profession, and it stuns me anew that Crash has gotten as far as he has, because self-control isn’t something he’s overburdened with.
When I can’t take it anymore, I grab a fistful of his hair and draw him gently away. His knowing smile when he looks into my eyes just about makes me come right on his face. Can’t blame him for being smug, though, dude gives fantastic head. And now I’m going to give him something in return.
“Lie down, on your back.”
We haven’t fucked face to face before—what on earth is possessing me to do it now? It’s very . . . personal, for people who started fooling around as a stopgap measure, a way to get Crash to stop throwing up so he won’t lose weight he can’t afford to and get dehydrated and so he won’t get kicked off the team for being late or completely absent from press obligations. Yes, I am absolutely planning to leave him in my powder dust, but I’d also like for him to do the same to everyone who isn’t me.
His head’s resting on the pillow, hair sprawled on the uniform white linen, and he’s already pink—his face, especially at his cheeks, but splotchy all the way down to his chest, and looking further, his cock is a darker red than it was before. I bet I could get him off with just a few well-placed pulls, but what fun would that be for either of us? None. Well, okay, some, but my way’s going to be better.
The lube and the condoms are in the drawer where they always are—thank you, SIG committee, for your foresight—and I’m so ready for him that I almost fumble them. Luckily, I manage to rip open the packet without ripping the latex even as I’m shredding my nerves. I roll it over myself as he watches, and it’s tight around my swollen cock. I’m aching for him. He’s going to be mine.
I snap the cover of the lube open, and pour a generous amount onto my fingers before I settle myself between his legs.
“Spread.”
His face gets even redder as he does, but he follows the instructions, taking his knees in his hands and pulling them back until he’s wide open for me.
What he’s offering me is beyond anything I ever expected to find with him, and I have to remind myself that this isn’t for keeps. It’s almost over, actually, because we’re not going to fuck once the races have started. So I take a mental snapshot of him like this, bared to me, and tuck it away for when I need an image of a lover to take the edge off or to get me through yet another wank session.
I work a finger into him as gently as I can, taking care because I’m determined not to hurt him. Guy’s tough as nails, but no one wants to ski with their asshole on fire. Makes concentrating extremely difficult. As would the kind of really good fucking I’d like to give him—the kind that makes it hard to sit down or walk for days, never mind be in peak condition to perform against some of the world’s greatest athletes. I may be a competitive jerk, but at least I’m an honest one.
Speaking of, just feeling how tight and hot he is around my finger makes me want to get inside him five minutes ago, but he needs more prep. One more finger, and then two, because I really do want to make this comfortable for him. Then I’m looming over him, pressing the head of my cock which I’ve slicked with the lube still on my fingers, into his hole.
“Relax.”
He nods, but he’s not. Not for real. I can tell by how fast his chest is rising and falling, and how tight he is. It feels amazing, and I’m giving my instructions through gritted teeth because there’s little that I’d like more than to slide right into him and pump away, but . . . ngh, guy’s killing me.
“Crash. Come on. I know you can do it. Relax for me, let me in. You know I’ll make you feel good. Do it now.” After issuing my instructions, I lean down and take his mouth, not scrimping on the teeth for biting his bottom lip, or the tongue I thrust into his mouth like I’d like to be thrusting my dick into his ass. Come on, come on. My patience is wearing thin, but he can’t see that, because I won’t let him.
After a minute of fierce persuasion, I feel it. His hole loosens
enough that I can work my way inside. While he sucks air between his teeth, he doesn’t tense around me again. It helps, too, that I kiss him again. Kiss him until he’s breathless and begging me for more with his whole body.
I’m all yours. For now. At the moment, I can leave all the conditions on the table and just enjoy him, enjoy this. The feeling of being connected to another person, his body encompassing me, his hips rocking against mine, his hands clutching at my ass, and his hoarse voice saying around forceful kisses, “More. More. I want more, Miles. Please. Fuck me like you mean it.”
So I do, until I’m on the edge. Right before I’m about to blow, I lean up and take his cock in my hand and jerk him a few times until his come is spurting first against my stomach and then his own. His head is pressed back into the pillow, tendons in his neck stretched out in taut lines of overwhelming pleasure, his throat bared in carnal surrender. That’s all I need to blow my own load, straight into him, deep into his very core. I hope he can feel the heat, the force of it, but the condom probably prevents that.
Too bad, because I want him to know and I can barely find the words. “I mean it. It’s yours. Take it. Take it all. Fuck, it’s all yours.”
As soon as I’ve spent everything I have into him, I collapse, not worrying that I’ll crush him. He’s tough, and if I’m too heavy, he’ll tell me so. For now, I’ll enjoy the slick evidence of our pleasure sliding between us, and then sealing us together as I rest my head alongside his, taking in a breath of his still damp hair.
Chapter Sixteen
Crash
I have to scoot over in order for Miles to roll off me when we’re done. Half of me expects him to pat me on the head and lope off to the shower, but he doesn’t. He shifts to the space I’ve made for him on this ridiculous single bed and lays an arm over my ribs. Heavy and possessive, it’s almost better than the fucking itself. Almost.
We lie there in silence for a few minutes, staring at the sloped ceiling. I’m . . . not honestly sure what to do next? I’m used to casual sex with other guys where we’d shower one at a time, do a friendly fist bump or an awkward hug, say we’d text, knowing we never will, and then never see each other again. I’m less used to, but still experienced in, having a boyfriend who I’d lie in bed with. Cuddle. Smoke with. Talk to. Maybe shower with.
Seduction on the Slopes Page 11
