Page 24 of Seduction on the Slopes

I climb off him, barely able to stand on my own two feet because I’m lightheaded with the possibilities. “Stand up, take off your clothes, and then lie on your stomach.”

His irritatingly perfect eyebrows go up, but he doesn’t argue, just does as I’ve asked. But in a challenging way. LikeYou asked for it, now let’s see if you can handle it.Well, newsflash, I can handle the fuck out of Miles.

When he’s lying on the bed with the curve of his ass rising so perfectly I have to wonder why I didn’t ask for this before, I take off my own clothes. I tap the insides of his thighs just above his knees and he spreads his legs some, but not enough, so I wedge myself in between them while kneeling, and press his legs out with mine. That’s better.

The view from here is pretty sweet with how sculpted his ass is, just like every other inch of him. I can’t even help myself, I have to grab it, and it’s everything I dreamed it would be. Like, lip-biting degrees of firmness, but also not so hard that he seems like a statue. Flesh and blood, and skin. I want to work my way inside of him.

So I grab the lube and the condoms from the drawer, trying not to fumble in my excitement, and get my fingers slicked up as he’s done for me. Despite his earlier labored breathing, Miles’s ribcage is rising and falling at a slow and even pace. I could be tweaked, but I catch myself. Of course it is. He’s willing himself to relax, and he’s got so much control over his body that he’s done it.

Relaxed for me, and I’m not going to make him sorry. I do my best to work my fingers inside him slowly and surely but gently, pausing whenever his breath catches and checking in, but soon enough he’s ready for my cock, pressing his hips back toward me, asking for it.

And what’s a guy to do but give it to him? My eyes roll back in my head as I press inside him, the tight heat nearly doing me in, and his gasping moan when I’ve slid in to the hilt doesn’t help matters any. But I will take my time, coax his pleasure from him with long, slick strokes until his fists are clenched in the pillow under his head.

“Crash?”

I let my hands glide over his shoulders, down his back and clutch his hips. “Yeah?”

“I need more. Give me more, and I’ll come for you.”

Is it possible to choke on your own tongue? Because I think that might be happening. To me. But before I die of suffocating myself, I will, on my honor, give Miles Palmer the orgasm of his life. I dig fingers into one side of his ass with one hand, and reach my other hand round to circle his pulsing hard dick, and then give it all I’ve got. Drive into him while I stroke him, matching the rhythm so he can imagine how fucking awesome it feels inside him. I hope I make him feel this good.

Just as I’m about to lose it, I feel it. Feel Miles come. His body contracts around me and snaps that last cord of any control I had once I slid inside him, and the hot, sticky come dripping onto my fist isn’t helping matters any. Yep, I am coming really fucking hard inside my childhood idol, and hell does it feel good.

I don’t collapse on him like he does to me, but roll off to the side and drape an arm around his shoulders. “I do okay?”

There’s a muffled response from the pillow, and I laugh. Miles turns his head, looking as relaxed as I’ve ever seen him though he’s giving me the fake stink eye for laughing at him and how fuck-stupid he is. “You treat the snow like that, it’ll be begging for more.”

Which is a ridiculous thing to say, but damn if it doesn’t make pride bang around inside my head. And I’m really sorry when my phone rings. Especially when it rings with a tone I don’t hear often. Maybe a time or two per year?

It’s the only thing that could drag me out of bed from where I’d like to be cuddling with this man. Instead, I drop a kiss on his close-cropped hair and gesture to the bathroom where I hustle with my phone, turning on the water for I don’t even know what reason. I guess I just . . . don’t want to talk about it with Miles. Not yet.

“Hey, Mom.”

Chapter Thirteen

Miles

Of all the team traditions, this might be my favorite but also the most embarrassing. They’ve been doing it since I was a kid, and just never stopped. Twenty-something years of team dinners, and my parents still love to hold court. My mom sits next to me, my dad sits next to her, and Ted sits next to him. The seat on my other side is noticeably empty.

It’s supposed to be for Crash, because as he hastily beat a retreat from our suite earlier, I’d reminded him about tonight. The time, the address, told him to text me if he forgot. He hadn’t, hasn’t, and now I’ve spent a good part of dinner looking toward the door, waiting for him to spill into the place, red-cheeked and crazy-haired because he’d gotten waylaid by some fans or run into an old buddy of his, or just plain old got lost. None of that would surprise me.

Maybe I shouldn’t be, but I am a little surprised that he’s not here, and there’s no sign he will be, and no messages on my phone. I might have checked. Twice. Okay, eight times.

There’s a nudge to my shoulder and when I turn my head, my mom’s looking at me with that half knowing smile she gets. “What are you waiting for, baby?”

“Nothing.” I know I sound like a surly teenager but I’m embarrassed. It’s bad enough Crash is blowing me off, but to have to tell my mother? That is a bridge too far.

“It’s that Crash, isn’t it? Are you worried about him?”

Truth is, yes, a little. Which is insulting to Crash. Guy’s made it on his own since he was sixteen. He doesn’t need life advice from a thirty-one-year-old trust fund baby who still lives with his parents and has no earthly idea what he’s going to do with himself after the SIGs are over. At least Crash has a goddamn clue what he’s doing with his life once he’s done here. No matter the outcome, the only way his fortunes could go is up, whereas mine will just be . . . over.

I shrug. “Not really. He’s a resourceful guy.”

“Something’s bothering you.”

Why must she always be able to tell? The bangles on her wrist clank together as she rubs my shoulder, and she takes a sip of her wine while she waits for me to spit it out. Except I take too long, so she starts in on one of her other tried-and-true Yvonne Palmer methods to crack her reticent son wide open, same way she’d crack eggs over the skillet one-handed on Sunday mornings while she read the Arts & Leisure section of the paper: looking effortless and stylish.

“Are your knees hurting?”

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