Page 15 of Seduction on the Slopes

“After races, I have something to talk about.” How I raced. That’s all they care about. My time, how I did on my run. I could get in, give them a few positive soundbites and then get out before they could dig any deeper, and figure out that yeah, those were indeed soccer shin guards I had strapped over my pants because real slalom ones cost a fortune. For a reason; those shin guards didn’t do shit against the poles whipping against my legs in every turn. I’d come home with my legs striped with bruises.

“You’ve got an awesome story. People love to talk about it, they can’t—”

I glare at Miles from under my eyebrows, shoving my hair out of my eyes so he’ll be able to see exactly how hard I’m warning him off. He takes the hint, snapping his mouth shut. But only for a second.

“That’s it, isn’t it? You don’t want them asking about—”

“No, I don’t, and I don’t want to talk about it with you, either.” I shove away from the counter and back out to the bedroom. Fuck it. I’d rather blow chunks than have to talk to Miles about this. He wouldn’t understand, fucking rich kid. He wouldn’t get it at all.

But he’s hot on my tail, catching up to me but not touching me. “Hey, Crash, I’m sorry, all right? We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. We’ll just . . . do the thing.”

Sometimes I thought spending my childhood as a nomad living out of a van would be the weirdest thing that would ever happen to me. I mean, after I realized living out of a van was, in fact, weird. Which took longer than you might think. But no. Turns out getting hand jobs from Miles Palmer so I don’t boot all over reporters might be numero uno.

“Whatever.”

Miles tips his head back toward the bathroom and that’s my cue. I could tell him to fuck off, but the truth is, it’s helped. Even if Miles doesn’t really want to be doing this—and why would he? Guy could have anyone he wants but he’s in a bathroom with me—he is, and I can fantasize myself into the rest.

I can fantasize that he’s madly in love with me, that we’re going to go live on a ski slope in a quaint lodge somewhere and when he gets old, he’ll get hip replacements so he can still ski. We’ll work on getting him settled into a world he hasn’t lived in since he started skiing competitively, and he’ll learn how to cook because he’d look pretty great in an apron and nothing else. Miles would totally wear an apron. I’ll show him how recreational weed can increase a person’s enjoyment of life exponentially. I bet Miles would be awesome if I could get him stoned. Or would he just be lost?

Is he always like this? So tightly wound and scheduled to within an inch of his life? Or is this a SIG thing? A competition thing? Suddenly I desperately want to get a peek into his sock drawer to see if he pairs his socks and folds them, or just throws them all back in the drawer. I bet he folds them. Maybe makes them into those little balls. Something in me wants to shake him, loosen him up, see what he’s like outside this life, but it’s possible he doesn’t know that himself. He’s going to be staggering around trying to figure it out in a few weeks.

No time to worry about that now, because we’re going into the bathroom, a.k.a. the Whack-A-Crash Spurtarium. That would be awesome. If on those plaques they have at historical sites they included where famous people had blown their loads? It would be hilarious. “On this spot in 1779, Alexander Hamilton busted a nut.” Sure as hell would’ve made fieldtrips more interesting.

When we get into the bathroom, I strip and head for the shower, but Miles has something else in mind. He lets me get naked, but before I can turn on the water and duck under the spray, he herds me over to the door, and backs me up against it, bracketing his elbows on either side of my head.

He’s standing . . . so close. So goddamn close, it takes my breath away. Almost as if he were actively pressing against me, crushing me into the door instead of carefully keeping his body from touching mine. I want him to. But when I go for him, he shakes his head from so damn close and tuts at me. “Ah. No. No touching.”

“But—”

“I said no touching.” His tone is stern in a way that makes my breath catch yet again and my cock fill. Fill faster anyway. Whenever I get near Miles and think even vaguely sexy thoughts, my dick is half hard. And when he gets all . . . bossy? Yeah. Not that I willevertell him that, because he’ll use it against me in ways that I don’t want him to be bossy. But in this case, my shoulders drop from where they’ve been climbing up to my ears, thinking about all the cameras and microphones and lights and people and questions, so many fucking questions—

“Hey. Knock it off.” Miles still hasn’t touched me but fuck if it doesn’t feel like he’s taken my chin in his hand and forced me to look at him. “You were here, but then you were gone. I want you here. Make this worth my while, Crash.”

Oh. The fact that he thinks Icouldever make it worth his while is maybe one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me. He doesn’t think he’s wasting his time with this head case of a kid. At least he won’t be if I give him my attention, and I can do that much.

So I study his face, his black hair cropped so close to his scalp, his eyebrows that are arched just so, his broad nose, his brown skin. His bottom lip is fuller and pinker than his top one, and even though it’s been about twenty-four hours since he shaved, he’s barely got anything to show for it. I guess I’ve never noticed before, in all my time looking at pictures of him or seeing him on TV, but he’s got this divot in his chin, at the very bottom, like someone was looking at his face, went, “Aw, crap, this one’s too perfect, no one will ever think he’s real,” so took a little nick out. Which, weirdly, makes him even more perfect.

In the face of that, thatface, all I can do is stare.

“Good,” he says, staring at me so hard I’m pinned by nothing but his gaze. Then he leans forward, still without touching me, and so close there’s like a disturbance in the force or something, blows a thin stream of air over my neck that nearly makes my knees buckle.

Miles

Last time with Crash was not anything special. Nor was it supposed to be. It was simply a means to getting him to not be so goddamn uptight about doing pressers that he makes himself sick. And sure, it had been satisfying to watch him spill some of that stress all over the white tiles of the shower, have some of it drip over my hand. While he’d still been nervous when he had to talk, he hadn’t thrown up. Not even a little bit. Unless it was in his mouth. Which would be gross. But, whatever. At least it wasn’t all over, and he’d seemed much more functional.

And okay, perhaps I’d enjoyed it in more than a purely professional way. He was so . . . easy. Not in a like “giving it up” kind of way, because that’s an idiotic way to think about it anyway, but in a “yeah, this is what I enjoy and I’m not going to be secretive about it, because what the hell purpose would that serve?” kind of way. Which was . . . refreshing. Made my job easier for one, that he was so shameless. And what does he have to be ashamed of, that long, lithe frame, and those noises he makes, and Jesus, the way his whole body shudders when he comes?

Crash was made for pleasure. Some people are prettiest when they’re frustrated, some people make you want to rip their clothes of when they’re angry, some actually do coy very well, but there’s something about seeing Crash surrender to the pleasure I was giving him, that was just . . .that.I would like to do that again. But better. Make him crazier. Make him beg for it. Because I bet he’s very pretty when he begs, too.

Instead of just getting him off with a serviceable hand job, tease him. Taunt him. Show him what I can really do, because, yes, okay, I’m a competitive jerk. If it’s worth doing—and Crash is worth doing—then he’s worth doing right. It.Itis worth doing right.

Plus, and maybe this is weird, but I almost don’t mind not coming myself? Yes, I like reaching climax. Who doesn’t? But there’s also satisfaction in holding off. In having a mastery over myself that Crash doesn’t even try for. Did I get hard from jerking him yesterday? Yes, I did. But I didn’t break my own rules, and the gratification from that made the blue balls less painful. Slightly.

He’s pressed up against the back of the bathroom door, and slumping because he trusts me and also because he’s starting to get that intoxicated look on his face. Like I’m a drug he’s taken and I’m already spiking his blood, running through his system, and bringing euphoria to every part of his body.

His neck is so close I could lick him, and, god help me, I want to. But I won’t. I’ll just croon in his ear, blow hot breaths on his skin, watch his hands curl into fists by his side while his dick fills to bursting. It doesn’t take much to make his cock thick and heavy, bobbing away from his body and toward mine, as if it’s seeking its own pleasure because Crash isn’t going after it hard enough. That’s what I have to be most careful of as I get as close as I can without actually touching him.

But I’m careful, controlled, and getting so close, I can not only smell him but taste him. Salt. Musk. Something vaguely sweet I can’t quite name. How close can I get? My tongue, my lips, my cheek, but just as I’m about to brush the tendons straining in his neck, I stop. Laugh.

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