Page 3 of Seduction on the Slopes

Including the way he’s skulking around the locker room and dawdling. He was first into the showers, last out. Can the man not do anything quickly except ski? He’s like an arthritic sloth that ate too many pot brownies. I should probably wait until my temper cools off, but I don’t have that kind of time on my hands. Apparently he’s got all the time in the world, though, because he’s toying with his phone before he notices me approaching and drops it.

“You were late. Again.”

“Yeah, sorry.” But he doesn’t look sorry. I know what contrition looks like, and this isn’t it. His shifty eyes are more pleading to get this over with, as if he’d say anything he has to to make it stop already. Which cranks up the heat on my anger again, and maybe makes it spill over. Little bit.

“What the hell is your problem?”

He flinches at my tone and my volume, and a small, primal part of me finds a sadistic satisfaction in it. “Nothing is wrong with me. I’m doing the best I—”

“Fuck you, man. You are doing no such thing.”

“What do you know about what I’m capable of?” There he is. Guy’s young, but not so young he should still be carrying this mantle of adolescent impertinence.

“Anyone who can ski like you do ought to have enough control to get where you’re supposed to be when you’re supposed to be there. It’s not rocket science. Use a goddamn clock.”

Crash is flushed, probably with embarrassment and awareness prickles at my conscience. I look around to make sure the other guys have gone, which they have, so at least I’m not stepping that far over the line. What I should do is step all the way back over. I should let it go, but I just can’t.

I back him up further against the wall with a finger at the center of his chest. “What do you have to say for yourself? I put my ass on the line, took responsibility for you, and you seem to have this intrinsic need to screw up. You’re not only making yourself look bad, but me, too. So what do you have to say?”

He looks to the side, his mouth tightening, and it makes the rage bubble up inside of me. I shouldn’t, but I can’t help shove him in the chest with a hand again. Maybe getting physical will help get my point across. Nothing else has. “You owe me, Delaney. Maybe not an explanation because the truth is I don’t care what your problem is as long as you show up where you’re supposed to be when you’re supposed to be there, but you owe me something.”

For a second, I don’t think he’s going to say anything. He’s still got his face turned away, his wet hair falling in limp waves around his face, his jaw tight. But then he turns to face me, eyes fever bright, and his hands come up. I brace for the inevitable shove and for him to no doubt tell me to get out of his face, but what I get is the most surprising thing in the world.

Crash’s hands come up, but not for a blow. He grabs me by the face, his fingertips digging roughly into my jawline and his thumbs pressing into my cheeks, and then he . . . kisses me. The fucker kisses me.

What the fucking fuck?

Crash

Whoa.

I am kissing Miles Palmer. Miles Palmer, six-time SIG gold medal winner. Miles Palmer whose picture graced my childhood bedroom. Miles Palmer who is possibly—in addition to being the most dominant downhill skier in the world for the past twelve years—the sexiest man on the planet, and I am kissing him.

At least for a few seconds. Then he’s got a hand around my throat, and my dick goes from chugging to a chubby to barreling toward a full-on hard-on. Jesus, don’t tell me this man likes it rough. Because I needed another element to add to my fantasies of him. But that’s not a sexy hand, that is a righteously pissed-off hand. Which I can only tell because of the wrath sparking in his dark brown eyes.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“I thought you were—”

“Gay? I am. Everyone knows that. It’s the worst kept secret in downhill, partly because I’ve never really bothered to keep it a secret. But just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I want to fuck everything with a dick in my general vicinity.”

He hasn’t loosened his hold on me, and what I’d really like to do is close my eyes, sink into that grip and just forget about everything for a while. That’s not an option with him grinding out more words in my face, his already deep voice gravelly with restrained rage.

“I don’t appreciate being mocked.”

Mocked? Does he think this is some whacked-out strategy to get out of trouble? I mean, I’m pretty good with my mouth, but even I’d need more than a kiss to make someone not angry with me. Drop that towel and let me get on my knees and I might have a shot, but that’s not what I was going for. At all.

“Dude, I’m not mocking you. This isn’t a straight kid trying to get out of trouble by seducing the gay guy who’s ripshit at him. I . . . I am gay. I like the D. I fuck dudes. I’ve had boyfriends.”

Miles drops his hand and some of the fury has burnt out, but it’s still stoking underneath what I’m going to go ahead and say is shock.Yes, dude. For reals.I know I don’t look like the dance club twinks, or the guys who bought brownstones in bad neighborhoods where they’re now pushing around obscenely expensive strollers, or the leather bears, or probably any other gay guy he’s ever run into, like those wax-chested other athletes he’s probably banged at every single goddamn SIGs he’s been to. Not my fucking fault.

“Still not okay. Just because we’re the two gay guys on the team doesn’t mean we’re automatically going to sleep with each other. That’s messed up. I’m not saying a person needs to outright ask before they kiss someone, but maybeyoushould since you read a situation for shit.”

Dammit, because I need Miles to think I’m more of an incompetent fuckup. Now he thinks I can’t even hit on someone properly? “Hey, I will have you know I am awesome at hitting on people. That just wasn’t my best work, because I wasn’t hitting on you.”

“Then what the hell was that, if it wasn’t a creepy way of trying to distract me from being pissed off with you and you weren’t hitting on me?”

Okay, so maybe kissing Miles wasn’t the worst idea I’ve ever had, because now he’s distracted by the kissing and me being gay instead of being laser-focused on being ticked off with me. Also, even if I go home empty handed, feeling like a let-down because of course some kid from Nowheresville in the Rockies couldn’t hack it alongside people who’ve had their whole lives and ridiculous amounts of resources to hurtle down a mountain just a little bit faster, at least I’ll have that.

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