Page 14 of Fire on the Ice

It’s while she’s rocking out the rest of her climax that my hand slips fully inside her and she gasps before biting me again.

“Fuck. Christ. That,ngh,I . . .”

I extract the hand I’d been using to manipulate her clit out from in between us, and wrap an arm around her waist, gathering her as close as I dare, kissing below her ear, inhaling the scent of her. Sweet oranges, yes, but also the things she used to wash my hair, plus an overwash of effort, of human body at work, and yeah, sex. “Told you so.”

Her laugh shakes her ribcage. “I never had any doubt, but I needed . . .”

“A little something?”

“Mmm.”

She lets me hold her for a while, and I marshal my patience. All I want to do is make her come again. Want to give her more pleasure, make her lose herself for a moment, but this sweeter seeking of my body will do for now. Also, the way my hand feels inside her, even encased in latex. Warm, held, possessed. We belong to each other, even if it’s only for this one moment. That’s what this whole thing is about, though, right? These are the few moments in time that we get, that we cling to.

After a minute, she leans back, a watery smile on her face. “I’m kind of exhausted, but I’m not done yet. You promised me both, and I’ve only gotten one. Can I brace my hands on your shoulders?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I’d like that, us pressing away from each other while at the same time seeking support. It’s an apt metaphor for whatever it is we’re doing.

Her legs are shaking on either side of my forearm, and yes she’s stubbornly insisting that she wants more. Is there any wonder I feel as though we’re two peas in a sex pod? Wait, that’s gotta be a thing, right? A sex pod? Should totally google that when this is over. For now, though, she’s ordered something and I’ll deliver. I’m the USPS of orgasms. Rain or shine, sleet, snow, or wind, I will deliver climaxes.

The color in her cheeks is high, but the exhaustion in her eyes is receding, replaced by the glint of desire. More, more.

“Could you do something for me?”

“Anything.” I say it without hesitation, because whatever she asks, she can have with very few exceptions. Like my skates. That might be it.

“Get yourself off while you’re getting me off.”

“Can you, if I’m not fingering your clit?”

She cocks her head, thoughtful, and I have to wonder if she looks the same when her coach asks if she pull a difficult combination. Sure, it’s the same kind of feat. Orgasming with only vaginal penetration and doing a fancy-ass double toe-loop, triple axle thinger, or whatever it is.

“I think if you angle your wrist . . .” I tip my forearm into her and when she gasps, I think we’re off to a good start. “Like that. Yes, like that. I think I can.”

Yep, the little engine that could . . . orgasm. To keep up my end of the bargain, I slip my hand under the waistband of my leggings and into my underwear, finding the space between my legs predictably wet. Yes, this has been very hot and is about to get hotter. I use my own middle finger to circle my clit and make eye contact with Maisy once I’ve started the rhythm that’s going to bring me off. She rocks against me in a complementary way, and it’s all bordering on too much, exactly the way I like it.

I work myself as she works on me, and it’s not so very long until I’m on the edge between the feel, the smell of her, and my own expert touch.

“I’m close, Mais. Are you?”

“Mmm.” Her fingers dig into my shoulders, and we’re bracing ourselves against each other while we thrust. Hips rocking, backs arched, so many fingers, so much slick heat, a to-die-for amount of small, pleading noises and the slick sounds of women making love, and suddenly I’ve found it, and my core starts to clench. The rhythm, the pulse of it is strong, and I lean into her hands pressing at my upper arms. It feels aggressive in a way, as if we’re both trying to prove ourselves, but also supportive because we’re strong enough for each other. Held and challenged all at once, and in the middle of my orgasm, Maisy cries out her own release and instead of fading out, my climax doubles in strength for a few beats with the sound. So sweet, so satisfying, and god yes, so fucking sexy.

Get bored with her? Not a fucking chance.

Chapter Seven

Blaze

In a minor miracle, our coach let us out of tape review early. Either because she thinks we’re as well-prepared and awesome as we can possibly get and there’s nothing more she can do, or she’s given up. I’m going to go with option B, but that’s pure speculation.

I’m showered off, and I could head back to my room, maybe head out to the bar or some other place, the dining hall to grab something to eat or the lounge of my building. But the truth is, the only face I want to see is Maisy’s. I cannot get enough of that girl. I think it’s partly because I haven’t been allowed to have her as much as I’ve wanted to? And not because she’s been playing games like people sometimes do. She’s legit busy. Which is hot. She’s dedicated, and in demand because she’s so very good at what she’s set her mind to. I like passionate people, and it doesn’t matter so much what they’re passionate about. Being so diligent also means when I tell her I can’t do something, she believes me, too.

Which reminds me, I think she said she had practice right around now? I haven’t gotten to see her skate yet, just prance around in her practically naked pants, falling-off-her-shoulder sweatshirts, and leg warmers. I’ve seen YouTube clips of her, but never skating in real life. If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll get a chance to change that even before her events.

Maybe it’s the distancing lens of the camera, but she never looks blissful in the tapes I’ve seen. Shouldn’t she? I’m not one of those idiots who thinks figure skating is all hearts and flowers, because I’d fall on my ass about a second into any of her programs—fucking toe picks, what the fuck—but at least at the end of a well-executed routine, shouldn’t she look happy? I don’t want her to plaster one of those fake Vaseline-on-your-teeth smiles on her face. I want to see some earnest joy, and I feel like I haven’t. Why is that?

Maisy takes herself, her sport very seriously—okay, pretty much everything except banging seriously, but that shouldn’t preclude enjoying herself. I mean, hell, speed skating is one of the only things I take seriously, but I still fucking love it. It’s more exhilarating than pretty much anything else a person can do, and one of the only things that could hold my attention to bust my ass the way I do. But Maisy . . . I feel like when we’re not in the sack, she’s constantly holding herself back, trying to make herself smaller, apologizing basically for being alive. Which doesn’t make any sense, even given the whole Canadian thing. I expect her to say “soory” a lot, but not for, like,breathing.

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