Page 13 of Seduction on the Slopes

Cool. So neither of us have any idea what the fuck we’re doing? Excellent.

One side of his face scrunches up, and his mouth makes this weird shape, like an apple left out for far too long. Even so, I’d kiss him. He speaks before I can think much more about that. “In the shower maybe? I mean, we haven’t got a ton of time anyway, so multi-tasking?”

This is crazy messed up. I should say no. But somehow, even though I know it’s wrong, I can’t. It’s not exactly a story I’d tell my grandkids, because ew, but someday I’ll have someone who I can tell this story to and they’ll laugh.

Miles Palmer jerked you off in a shower so you wouldn’t boot before a press conference? For real? Six-time SIG medalist and fucking GQ cover model Miles Palmer? You’ve got to be shitting me.

And whether he believes me or not, I’ll know it happened. Miles will know it happened. That’ll have to be good enough for me. That, and hopefully not honking Smurfs in front of the whole damn team again.

“Sure. Easy clean-up, too. Shower makes sense.” As much sense as any of this does at any rate.

Miles

Following Crash into the bathroom for our assignation, or whatever other kind euphemism could be assigned to this madness, is strange. He looks delicate somehow, which is ridiculous. Guy might be skinny, but he’s strong. Wiry, lean, all sinew and bone covered with the bare minimum of muscle to keep him from looking like a skeleton. There goes that tweak in my head again in that inappropriate region of attraction.Shut that shitallthe way down, Palmer.

How can he look like that and ski like he does? At the very least, I’d think he would’ve frozen to death by now. It’s often freezing on the slopes and it’s not like we’re out there for a couple of runs before we head back to the lodge for a mug of cocoa or a hot toddy, or bundled up like the little marshmallow kids you see bombing down the slopes. Or maybe Crash has been. Who the fuck knows how he trained.Ifhe trained.

Maddening. Yes, it’s possible I resent him for having done essentially nothing and still being able to compete at a world-class level. I’m not the only one. But I don’t need to think about that right now. What I should be focusing on is that Crash is getting naked. He’s pulled his shirt over his head and it’s on the floor, and now he’s shucking his ratty-ass sweats. No underwear. And now I have a chance to look more closely at something I’ve wondered about. He’s got some ink, a small splash of it on his right hip, just below where the waistband of his pants would be.

I’ve seen it in the showers, but never for long enough or close enough to discern what it is. Nor have I wanted to ask about it. No one on the team has ever given me shit about being gay, but I’m not going to do anything that would encourage any closet-homophobe to become less closeted. Asking about someone’s tattoo that’s basically on their ass would be a good way to do that.

Except now I have the time and the proximity and the assurance that Crash is just as queer as I am, so I take my time and lean down to see . . . a bear. A bear with skis and a little jagged collar or bib or something around its neck. Which, what the hell is that? But then it dawns on me.

“Do you seriously have a skiing Grateful Dead Bear tatt?”

I see the flush gather on Crash’s neck before he turns half-toward me. “Yeah, I do. Why, what’s wrong with it?”

His cheeks are pink, and I don’t want to embarrass him. Sometimes I can be kind of a dick, and I should be less of a curmudgeon about stuff that doesn’t matter. Like what Crash has indelibly drawn on his butt. Other stuff I will come down on like a hammer, but not this.

“Nothing’s wrong with it, it’s just a little . . . on the nose. It’s like a fucking self-portrait.”

His eyes get big for a split-second, and it’s possible I’ve done the very thing I set out not to do. It’s supposed to be a joke. Ted likes to tell me I’m not funny, but I know better. It’s just that not everyone gets my sense of humor. Instead of turning some crimson shade of humiliated like I’m worried he might, Crash laughs.

“You know I never thought of it that way? But you’re right. Man, I am an asshole.”

Which in turn makes me laugh, and this whole thing seems less awkward. By a little bit. Fundamentally, I will still be jerking off a dude who I’m neither dating nor hooking up with so he doesn’t throw up before a press conference. In theory. We don’t even know if this will work. Because sure, what the hell else do I have to do on a Thursday?

Crash runs a hand through his hair and then turns on the shower, the spray coming down hard and flattening his hair as he steps in. My turn to strip. All I’ve got are my pajama pants and my tee, so off they go. It occurs to me while I’m stepping into the shower that the logistics of this are less than ideal. It’s weird that the architects of the village didn’t optimize for having two people in the shower at the same time . . .

We both wash our hair, muttering apologies as our elbows bang against each other and we have to switch places to get under the stream, and then soap up our bodies. Soap’s a good idea. I’ll be taking advantage of that.

When it’s clear we’re both clean and really have no excuse to be hanging out in the shower anymore, we just stand there. Awkward glances and shuffling movements pinging between us, because seriously? Are we really going to do this? Though I don’t see any alternative because if there’s another way, I haven’t thought of what it is, and neither has Crash. At least that he’s let me in on.

Since I’m allegedly in charge here, what with being the team captain and older and wiser, and so on and so forth, etcetera, I guess it’s up to me to get this thing started. Lucky for me, dudes aren’t difficult.

“Hands on the tile.”

Crash blinks at my snapped out command and his cock—which I’ve noticed has been at least semi-hard for our entire shower though I’ve tried to ignore it—jerks. And doesn’t go down, not in the least. Gets thicker, harder, more erect.

Like that, did you?

Fucking A, it’s not just a ping like the single pure note of a triangle sounding in my head anymore. It’s more like a gong.He liked that. A lot.That is not the point. This is a . . . transaction, nothing more.

He hesitates for the barest second before he turns his back and his taut, rounded ass to me, and does as he’s been told, putting his hands on the tiles and standing with his arms bent comfortably at his sides. I could tell him to step back until his palms and fingers just barely pressed into the wall, but what for? Yes, I like to play those kinds of games—and from what little I’ve seen, Crash does as well—but we’re not here for games, we’re here for getting this done and dusted. Besides, this gives me more room to maneuver.

I stand behind him, my dick more interested than I would like for it to be, and reach around. He’s hard. Really hard, and hot. When I wrap my hand around him, he sucks in a breath and a shudder runs through his body. If the circumstances were different, I’d step in behind him, cover the back of his body with the front of mine, lend him the heat of my body and the hardness of my cock against his crack in hopes that it would make him relax. But I’m not his boyfriend, not even a date, so I’ll stick to formalities. As formal I can be when I’m standing in a shower about to jerk off a near-stranger at any rate.

How the hell did this get to be my life? I took a very wrong turn somewhere, but backtracking isn’t an option anymore. The only way is through.

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