Page 10 of Fire on the Ice

“Yeah. It’s longer than you usually keep it, and clearly those extra few inches really slowed you down.”

Blaze narrows her eyes, and it makes my heart thump to have her attention focused on me so intensely. “And what do you propose I do about that?”

I have an idea, and it’s a really good one, but I don’t know what she’s going to say. Worth a shot. Besides, she owes me. I’ll make her a deal. She doesn’t seem like the kind of girl to turn down a bargain. So I shrug. “I could do it.”

“You?”

“Yep. I’m not a butcher, I promise. And then you can make good use of those gloves and that lube. I want your whole hand, Bellamy.”

It’s then I realize I should’ve put the fisting on the table first because there’s no way she’d say no by the way she’s looking at me now.

“Deal.”

Blaze is still in repose while I wipe off the edge of the desk. Don’t need poor Kristie finding some sort of mystery fluid on any of the surfaces of our suite.

“So . . .” I would have been perfectly content to let Blaze relax for the next ten minutes until she needs to get to work, but probably not talking is more work for her than it is to talk. “How did you know how long I’ve been keeping my hair, anyhow?”

Fuck. Definitely not because I follow her in the press, have a Google alert set up, buy any magazine that has an article about her. Nope. But it wouldn’t be entirely unreasonable for me to have picked up one of the latest mags about the SIGs in general. Which would be—shit, which was it? I fumble in my brain while blinking blankly, and I’d best come up with something before she realizes the embarrassing truth.

“I saw you inMaxOut.”

“Oh yeah?” Blaze gets that look on her face, the cocky, shit-eating grin. How is the woman so very infuriating? Is she like this with everyone or is this a special treat for me? “You like the titty mags?”

“MaxOutis not a—” Argh. I will not say titty, because that’s precisely what she wants, and I can feel my cheeks get warm even thinking about it. “That is not the point. The point is that you were practically naked! Why would you do that? No one reading that magazine respects your athleticism, none of them give a shit about how hard you work. All they care about is—”

“My tits?” Blaze has tipped her head at this angle that is maddening. Who knew such a small thing could dig so deep inside and drive me so absolutely crazy at the same time it makes me blush so hard I can feel the red heat of embarrassment creeping all the way to the tips of my ears.

I cross my arms and have to restrain myself from tapping my foot because I’m that twitchy. “Yes. And your ass, and your abs, and your legs.”

Blaze’s smile seems to curl around her face, making her look smug as anything. Forget tapping my foot, I want to stomp it. With my skates on. On her foot. That’s even before her eyebrow quirks up, and that thin strip of hair mocks me. “So you didn’t see the one dirty picture and slam the magazine shut? Sounds like you looked at those pages for a long time.”

She bats her eyelashes at me in faux wide-eyed innocence. Patently ridiculous is what that is. Even though I know she’s fucking with me, I can’t help my physical reaction. If I thought my flush had been bad before, it’s nothing compared to the wildfire humiliation of being caught that’s spreading up the back of my neck. Dammit. “I—”

But I’ve got nothing. Fuck yeah, I’d looked at that magazine. A hundred times at least. It’s possible there’s a significantly worn copy under my bed back at home, one that I’ve fingered with one hand so many times I’ve been tempted to get the pages laminated so they don’t disintegrate, but who the hell laminates the porn in their spank bank? Not as though that would be out of character. I may be a degenerate, but I happen to be a tidy one.

I splutter a few more starts to sentences I have no intention or ability to finish, and all the while, she’s standing there grinning. I hate her. A lot. But I also want to get in her pants. A lot more.

“Look. I am a hot piece of ass.” Don’t I know it. “I work hard for this body and I’m not afraid or ashamed to show it off. Any publicity is good publicity, and if that spread got even one more person to tune into the event, then I did my job. Also, I decided a long time I ago I was going to do whatever the hell I wanted and fuck the people who made me feel shitty for it. If that also means I’ve got a bunch of people beating off to my pictures, what the fuck do I care? Masturbating is awesome. More people should do it more often.”

She gives me a meaningful look, one of those purse-lipped, wide-eyed, tilted-head things that insinuates I might be less uptight if I got myself off more often. Newsflash: I rub one out quite frequently, thank you very much, and I’m still so uptight I may as well be laced into a corset otherwise.

Glaring at her from under my brows, I put my hands on my hips and cock my own head. I do not have to tolerate this mockery. “Do you want a haircut or not? Because I have things to do.”

“Like do a one-handed read of my spread inMaxOut? You can totes google it if you left your copy at home.”

God fucking dammit.

“No.” I turn up my nose and pitch my voice to prissy. “I believe I was promised a fisting and I intend to collect. If you don’t want me half falling asleep with scissors in my hand while I chop your hair—and hopefully not your ears—you probably want to do that after I’ve finished styling your hair. I know you like media attention, but landing onCelebrinewsbecause I’ve done a hack job on your famous hair probably isn’t what you’re in the market for.”

Blaze perks up at that, the offending bangs bouncing low over her forehead. “You think my hair is famous?”

“Blaze. You have hair that is so vibrantly red, that shade is unknown to nature. I’m surprised people haven’t been blinded by it. Even if people can’t remember your name—which is unlikely—if someone says ‘You know, the skater with the hair,’ everyone knows who they’re talking about. Yes, your hair is famous.”

She looks pleased as punch. “Excellent. Then you better make it look good. Hair-cutting first, fingerbanging second.”

“Whoa, whoa. Fingerbanging? That’s not what I agreed to. Fingers are not going to cut it.”

“And you call me greedy? Fine, whatever, you can have my whole hand if you want.”

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