Page 14 of Seduction on the Slopes

“You okay?”

“Yep.”

His clipped off word is an answer, but it doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.

“If at any point you change your mind, say the word and we’ll stop. This is supposed to be helping you, not stressing you out even more.”

His head bobs as he nods, his wet hair plastered to his scalp and reaching partway down his neck. Never realized exactly how fluffy and curly it must really be until now. But back to the more important things at hand. Or rather, in my hand.

If this were a romantic thing, I’d A, kiss the back of his neck because it’s just begging for it, B, murmur filthy sweet things in his ear, and C, press into him from behind. But it’s not even vaguely romantic even if my erection thinks there’s potential, and there will be no kissing involved in this ridiculous scheme, and I don’t want him to get the wrong idea. From my dick. So I keep my distance—except for my hand wrapped around his erection, obviously—and start to stroke. Which brings on more gasps, more shudders; even a bitten off moan. But I can do better.

It’s probably messed up, but even in bed I find myself being competitive. I want to be the best they’ve ever had, make them come the hardest, torment them the longest, scramble their brains so hard they forget their own names and cry out mine. Not as good as a cheering crowd, but having some good-looking guy gasp your name during an incredibly intense orgasm? The most fun you can have not on skis.

I stop long enough to squeeze some shower gel into my hand and then go back to work, slicking from the base of Crash’s cock all the way up to the head and doing a double-pump right around the crown that makes him set his forehead against the tiles, and mutter what sounds like a prolific stream of curses.

“That’s it,” I urge, although he hardly seems to need any encouragement. But the sooner this is over the better, for everyone involved. I won’t be having inappropriate thoughts about my much younger teammate—god, I’m a perv, and even if Crash has agreed to this, and seems into it, this can’t be the most fun for him either. I mean, the reason I’m doing this isn’t something that’s going to fuel his wet dreams. “Give it up, Crash. I want you to come for me.”

As far as dirty talk goes, that’s barely making the scale, but it seems to do something to Crash because with my last stroke, I feel it. The extra stiffening and the throbbing that seems to go from the base of his dick all the way to the tip, and then I get what I asked for: the first spurt is accompanied by a shout and hits the wall, dripping down from where it’s hit. The second also makes the tile, although the third viscous rope falls short and drops right to the floor. The fourth pulse is significantly weaker, and most of it ends up on my hand where I’m still holding him. Not stroking, because ow, but grasping firmly, waiting for him to ride out the way he’s shaking.

Finally he shifts and I let go, reaching again for the shower gel because I definitely have to wash my hands after that. Crash has still got his forehead against the tiles, and when he stands he turns to look at me. Seems dazed.

“Okay?”

“Oh, yeah.”

He smiles at me then, this big goofy thing, and I can’t help but chuckle as my heart warms in a way I’m not entirely comfortable with. Hopefully this will do the trick.

Chapter Nine

Crash

A little hard to believe, but it actually worked. Miles Palmer jerking me off kept me settled enough that though I felt like I might yak, I never actually did. It wasn’t fun, but even when they started picking at those old sore spots, I didn’t lose it. Never thought I’d be so proud of not vomiting in my whole life. I mean, yeah, I’m at the SIGs, but whatevs. Not chumming before I have to talk in front of some people, though? That’s the real accomplishment.

We’ve got another press event this morning, though not nearly as big as yesterday’s, and my stomach’s started churning. I get out of bed to hit the head, and when I’ve finished up washing my hands, there’s a knock.

“Just a sec.”

But when I open the door, it’s Miles standing there in those pajama pants that show off his sick hip cuts, and no goddamn shirt. I’d been cold when I got out of bed, but now I feel flushed. “I’m done, you can—”

“Oh, no, I thought we were going to, uh . . .”

Right.

I size Miles up. He doesn’t seem exactly eager, but he’s here, right? He couldn’t have been all that disgusted. I wish though, that he’d get even a fraction as hard as I’m getting right now thinking about it. I hadn’t felt a damn thing on his end last time. But on mine? Holy shit tarts, and it’s starting again. How can I not when he’s got those super dark eyes, that ridiculous body and a smile like fresh powder on the slopes? Being that attractive seems rude somehow.

“I guess?”

His mouth tightens slightly, his eyes flicking over me and I wish to god it were his tongue instead. What would I give to have Miles kiss me? Lick me? But this isn’t romance, there’s no room for foreplay. It’s a bare minimum kind of deal.

“Do you not need to . . . today?”

My hands go to my hips, which is not even voluntary, and I stare at the tiles at my feet. Could this be less embarrassing? Because that would be awesome. I need something to hold onto while I say this, so I take a couple of steps back, grip the edge of the countertop, enjoy the way it bites into my palm. “I do.”

I look up at Miles, and he’s studying me. Hard. Brings to mind the way people are going to be staring at me in a couple of hours and a mass forms in my throat. I’m expecting a crisp nod and a go-ahead shooing motion to get me into the shower, maybe a condescending pat on some innocuous part of my body, just to press my humiliation buttons a little harder. But what I get is Miles’s narrowed eyes digging into my very soul.

“What are you so afraid of anyway? That’s what this is, isn’t it? You’re worried about what’s going to happen when you get up there. And I don’t think it’s just about press in general. I’ve seen you give interviews after big races and you’re fine. So what is it about this that makes it different?”

I swallow hard to keep the lump from making its way further up my throat. Do we have to talk about this? Isn’t the fact that we’ve temporarily solved the problem of how to get me not to upchuck before every single press event good enough? What does he want from me?

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