Page 18 of Seduction on the Slopes

We’ve got yet another morning show interview today. One of the weird things about being at the SIGs in the US is that some stuff actually happens live. When you’re in Europe or Asia, the networks can’t do that, as much as they’d like to pretend to. Live on tape-delay? What the hell does that even mean?

I’m half hoping Crash will wave me off, say he’s fine and he doesn’t need my special brand of, uh, help this morning. Maybe he’s got it covered? No, that wouldn’t actually help much. I’d just be lying in my bed, cock hard thinking about him beating off in the shower without me, and that would do nothing for my blood pressure or my focus. Christ.

The other half of me is hoping he’ll beg for it. Tell me he needs me, he wants me, and not just in theserviceable-jerk-offway, but in theI-want-you-inside-mekind of way. Because to be honest? This celibacy thing before a race is so much bullshit, and despite my heaps of control and dedication, I’ve been seriously considering giving it up.

Would it be more distracting to be fantasizing about fucking Crash when I haven’t, or perhaps after I have? Though no one’s ever been so good a lay I couldn’t put it—them—aside when I’ve been called to. It should be fine, right?Right?

I’m screwed.

Crash is still asleep and I can tell because the kid is the worst fake-sleeper in the history of sleeping. Like, fooling no one, not even small children, bad. I lie there on my back, waiting for him to wake up, waiting for him to give me some hint of how to proceed. If he’s good, then we’re good, and we don’t have to . . . do what we usually do.

When he stirs though, something doesn’t seem right. His noises sound more fatigued, more worn-out than usual. Yesterday’s training wasn’t all that hard, since Ted doesn’t want us enervated by the time we get to the runs that actually matter. Is he sick? Did he sneak out last night after curfew and he’s hung-over? My mind is vacillating wildly between wanting to soothe him and wanting to shake him.

“Miles?” His voice is kind of croaky, and I can’t even help it. These stupid heartstrings that have started tying me to him yank me out of bed and across the few feet of floor between our twin mattresses. It’s presumptuous, but I sit.

“Yeah? You okay? You don’t sound so good.”

“I’m fine, I just . . .”

My imagination is sometimes too active. I come up with a million possibilities. Maybe he’s already feeling so sick he needs help getting out of bed, maybe, maybe . . .

“Could we maybe do our, uh, thing, here? Instead of in the shower?”

I pull the duvet that’s still covering up most of his face, and there he is, pink-cheeked and crazy-haired. Bastard, making me worry. “Feeling lazy, are we?”

“Not so much lazy as warm. It’s cold out there.”

“Yes, I know. I also used to be in bed, and now I’m not. Because someone made me think he needed me.” I try to locate a piece of Crash to pinch under his blankets, but he’s started squirming, so instead of getting an arm or his side, I think I get his ass. What’re you going to do?

There’s a gasp from where he’s burrowed back under the blanket which I take as an invitation. “On your back.”

He doesn’t bother arguing or even asking questions, just does as he’s told, and when he has, there’s an obvious tenting of his bedclothes. I see.

Crash’s fingers curl over the top of the duvet and inch the fluffy white covers down over his face until it’s just below his chin. “I do need you.”

I raise a teasing eyebrow.

“Did you wake up like this, Crash?” Just in case he’s not crystal clear on what exactly I’m talking about, I palm the bulge in the sheets.

He lets out this delightfully indescribable noise, somewhere between a moan and a squeak. “I mean, uh, yeah. Yeah, I did.”

“And why is that?”

I’ve never noticed that before. Not that it means anything; some dudes just always have morning wood. But I’d like to think it means he’s been thinking about me, about what we’ve been doing, as much as I have been. I hope it’s made him as horny and cocked on a hair-trigger as I have been. That would be difficult though, since he’s the one who’s been allowed to come, and I’ve just been sitting here with my balls heavy and aching because not only am I a guy, and hey, sex, but also . . . it’s not just about the sex anymore. I like Crash? Yeah, question mark, because I don’t quite know how this happened. What I do know is that is has, and I want him more than I would if I were just jerking off some rando.

Part of it is that he’s responsive and receptive in the sack, and so goddamn forthright about what feels good and how good it feels. Which in general, is really fucking good, and he’s not afraid of that at all. Not like me—I always feel awkward about letting too much slip. I also maybe—just possibly—don’t like not being in control of all things at all times.

Eventually he gets ahold of his heavy breathing well enough to say, “Because I was thinking about you. I’m hard for you.”

His gasping confession makes me hard for him, too. Since we’re apparently doing this, I don’t wait anymore. I slide a hand under the blanket until I find his dick, hard through his sweats, and I stroke it. Thick and hot in my hand, I can’t help but think about what it would be like to clasp and jerk him while I pounded into him from behind.

Could I get him to come as I did? Would I have to hold him tight at his base to make him hold off while I thrust into his tightness?

My brain’s begun to look like some pornographic Dali painting because it’s melting. Jesus would that ever be hot. But I’ve got to get my mind off that, because sex isn’t an option for me. I told Crash that, and apparently I need to remind myself. Not acceptable.

To distract myself, I tear the covers from Crash’s body and just as surely wrench his pants off. “Hands behind your head.”

He dutifully does as he’s been told, but he can’t stop moving his hips. Those lean, muscular hips and yeah, his cock that is standing at attention. Wanting. Needing. Practically begging. And what’s a guy to do when faced with something like that? I’ve got a few ideas, but only one I really want to make reality.

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