Page 1 of Fire on the Ice

Chapter One

Maisy

The bar in the athletes’ village is already hopping, which is funny, because no one’s competed yet. At a glance, it could be any bar in Denver. But if you look closer . . . All those things that look like gin and tonics? Tonic with limes. Everything that would be a rum and Coke in a regular bar? Just Coke. Mostly, people have water. And yet we’re all still hanging out in the bar. Athletes are weird.

If this were another competition, I likely wouldn’t even be out at the bar. Probably tucked away in my room listening to my programs on repeat and checking my costumes for any loose sequins or rhinestones, fixing any rogue ones with my omnipresent sewing kit.

It’s not another competition, though; it’s the Snow and Ice Games which isthecompetition. It also happens to be the one where I’ll get the chance to see the woman who’s fueled my fantasies for the past four years or so. Of course, everyone else will get to see her, too, and any hopes I have of getting her in my bed again may be for naught. I can’t be the only one who’d like to hook up with her.

And it’s not as though that’s an idle fantasy. No, Blaze actually has quite the rep for being a bit of a libertine. Who can blame her or any of her partners? The woman’s got a body built for sex, she’s insatiable, and while I wouldn’t say she has no standards because that’s not true and also that’s sort of a stupid thing to say anyway, she seems to be able to find the attractiveness in anyone. Men, women, non-binary, they’re all potential partners. The entire world is Blaze Bellamy’s sexual oyster.

I like that she owns her sexuality so very hard, although that’s not really my style. No, that much attention for something as personal, as private, as sex? Makes me queasy. It’s not how the Harpers roll, or so I’ve been told my entire life.

Blend in, don’t make trouble, and for the love of Pete, keep your dirty laundry inside the house. Better yet, pretend you do not even have laundry. There is no dignity in laundry.

I take another sip of my water, conscious of the fact that if they knew where I was, my parents would bristle. Because even going to a bar is asking for attention. I may as well be standing on the corner soliciting sex from passersby. Trying to push the ridiculous notion from my head, I swivel slightly on my bar stool to get a better look at the front door where she’s most likely to make her entrance. Blaze will never use a rear entrance if there’s one that will get her more attention.

Even the thought makes me flush and smile in a nonvoluntary way. Rear entrance. Heh. Blaze actually has no problems with rear entrances . . .

Which is when the door opens, and I see her. It’s hard not to, what with her announcing in her booming, throaty voice, “Let’s set this joint on fire!”

Enough people recognize her that a chorus of hoots and hollers ring out, and then even people who don’t know Blaze get in on it, because that’s the kind of mood people are in.Everyone else is yelling? Cool. I’m going to yell, too.Except I don’t. Prim, proper. I swear to god my indoctrination into the church of politeness has been so complete that I’d stand in the middle of a stampede and apologize to the people attempting to trample me.

I perch on my stool, cross my legs, and lean back against the bar, waiting. Watching. Blaze is getting hugs, kisses, and gropes from all sorts of people—it doesn’t appear to matter to her who—and I follow her with my gaze.

Her hair is longer than last time, although just as unnaturally fiery red. And while basically everyone else is wearing pants because it’s cold outside—not like you can host the SIGs in a tropical location—Blaze is not. Short skirt, really effing short, with a short puffy jacket that emphasizes her narrow waist, her shapely butt, and jeez, those thick thighs that make my mouth water.

Those thighs that four years ago were pressed to the sides of my head while she rode my face and I left bruises on her ass from gripping her so hard. Fuck.

At least she’s had the good sense to wear leggings, although they’re so thin they can’t be doing much in the way of keeping her warm, and—fuck me, hopefully, god, hopefully—cowboy boots, because she can’t even help herself. Who am I to talk? Around her, I can’t help myself, either.

Her smile for everyone else is bright, and her eyes are sparkling with getting so much attention. A true extrovert, she’s fueled by it. Not like me. I tolerate it. It’s part of what I have to deal with if I want to be here, and I do. I’m too reserved to be a media darling by any stretch of the imagination—have, in fact, earned the title of Canada’s Ice Princess from more than one press outlet—but I have handled all the uncomfortable media attention with politeness. And I hope with grace, since my mother has drilled good manners into me and I don’t want to disappoint her. At least more than I already have because I’m an ice skater instead of a doctor or a world-class-research scientist. Something respectable and quiet.

Blaze loves it, though, basks in it, would roll around in it naked if she could. I am in favor of Blaze rolling around naked, but I’d strongly prefer if she did it in my bed. Will she be in my bed? I suppose I could’ve contacted her before now to find out if she’s been harboring the same fantasies I have, but if she hasn’t been—well, I could enjoy the fantasy that she’d say hell yeah for a little longer. Here, if she says no, it’ll be easy enough to find another partner should I want one. You put together thousands of attractive, hardworking people who need to blow off some steam, and you’re basically guaranteed an orgy.

Of course it’s not quite as simple for me as it is for others, what with the whole lesbian thing, but it’s not that hard. There are rumors, and thankfully—in this, at any rate—most of them are true. Even if they’re not, any woman I approach is more likely to be flattered than disgusted. Insofar as people know I have a sex life at all—which I try to prevent knowledge of at all costs—they know I like women.

Another sip of water through my straw. More of my attention riveted to people paying court to Blaze.

It’s funny because the woman isn’t likely to medal, but gets treated like royalty anyhow. Anything,anythingto get attention, and all attention is equal—because all attention is good. She’s good enough to be here, certainly, which puts her at the top of any pyramid, but she’s unlikely to make it into that uppermost echelon. Partly because she’s willing to sacrifice winning for showboating, which I’ve never understood. There is no prize worth winning that you can get for being splashed on newspaper front pages, being a centerfold, trending on social media.

Glory in sport and for your country, I understand. It’s an “acceptable” form of attention. Plus Blaze and I both share an affinity for our sports, a love that most people can’t comprehend. I also, unfortunately, understand not being likely to be on the podium. I do well, consistently very well, haven’t had a finish outside of the top ten since before the last SIGs, and 90 percent of the time I’m in the top six. But the top three? I’ve hit it twice, and both times it was third place. Solid, but short of excellent, that’s me.

I don’t comprehend Blaze’s compulsive need for any and all sorts of attention. What I do understand is an Italian bobsledder’s instinct to take Blaze’s butt in a two-handed grasp. Don’t blame him at all, because it is a very, very fine ass. He releases her with a spank, and heaven above, my hand tingles with want.

She turns to see what else she can see, or probably more accuratelywho,which is when our eyes meet. I don’t bother to wave or do anything else because I know I’ve got her attention. It’s in the way her teeth sink unapologetically into her bottom lip, her eyes get bright and round, and I can see her cleavage rise in her partially unzipped coat.

Yes, Blaze, I’m here. And you know I’m here for you.

Blaze

I’ve been dreaming about this for weeks, and no matter how hot the dreams were—and they were, sometimes I’d wake up with a hand in my pants and I’d have to stroke off before I could get anything else done, like get out of bed—she’s better in real life.

Pretty Maisy Harper with her long shiny black hair and her tawny-beige skin. Shy, sweet, retiring, polite, modest Maisy Harper. Lies, all of it. That’s not fair. Maisy is all of those things out in the world, enough that to people who don’t know any better she can come off as stuck-up or frosty. But behind closed doors? Bossiest, most dominant, and most creative lover I’ve ever had. I’ve had a lot, so that isn’t idle praise.

She’s perched on a bar stool like a delicate bird, all fluffy feathers. Of course she’s dressed sensibly and in a way that’s not at all meant to show off her shape. But I know what she’s got going on under those layers, and I want it. All that smooth skin the shade of topaz, the perfect ripe curve of her tits, her pert ass, and Christ, those legs that look slim but that could snap a person’s neck between them if that person were lucky enough to have their head between her thighs. Yeah, that’s what I remember about Maisy goddamn Harper, and apparently my cunt remembers her, too, because it’s getting wet at the thought of her, those slices of memories from that drunken night and the days that followed.

I could wait, play coy, but . . .pfft.As if I do that. It’s a good look for Maisy, but it would be obvious pretty damn fast that it’s a poor fit for me.

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