Page 20 of Fire on the Ice

“My hair?”

“Yes, your hair, and make it sexy.”

“You want me to touch my hair and make it sexy?”

“Yes, I do, and don’t look at me like that.” Her features are all crumpled up as though she can’t possibly fathom how on god’s green earth a person could make that happen. “Wasn’t it hot when I cut your hair? Didn’t I make you feel good?”

Tell me I did.

“Of course. I think I remember pretty clearly jumping your bones right after.”

“Then show me how I made you feel. Make yourself feel that way.”

Her mouth wrenches to the side, and she’s glaring at me as though she’s really not so sure about this nutty plan of mine, but with a shake of her head and a roll of her eyes, she gives the impression that she’s going to do it anyway. Good girl.

She starts by spreading her fingers and running her open hand up the side of her face and into the hair that I cut only days ago. Blaze is milky-pale, which makes sense given she spends most of her life in a box of ice, and her turquoise-tipped fingers running through her unnaturally red hair is a sight to see. This . . . might have been a bad idea, because with that one simple gesture, I can fast forward in time and see where this is headed. It’s a place called Sexy-as-fuck-istan.

She curls her hand, making it cup her neck, and then her fingers are drifting toward her collarbone. My eyes are riveted to her, and as much as I’d like her to keep going down, down, down toward her breasts, her washboard stomach, and yes, god, yes, her pussy that’s already got a sheen of desire slicking it, I think not. She agreed to this, and I’m going to hold her to it.

“Your hair, Bellamy. Hell, I’ll even give you from the neck up, but that’s it.”

She scowls, her eyes narrow and her full mouth pinched. “You are no fun.”

“I am a shit tonne of fun, and since I’m Canadian, that’s a metric tonne.”

She snorts a giggle, and then sighs. “Ugh, fine.”

And then she’s back, using both her hands this time, fingertips sliding over her sharp cheekbones, the hollows of her temples, and up into her hairline. It makes her tits jut forward, and as sure as dominoes, my mouth drops open, which is when I think she realizes she can drive me crazy with this performance, too. Which makes her far more inclined to go along.

She makes a show of combing her fingers all the way to the back of her head, stretching out her arms, and putting her full chest on display, and it makes my mouth water. I think she might pose that way, crack open an eye to see if I give in already, but no. She rolls her head to the side, glides her hand sensuously over her neck until I’m about to tell her to stop, and she reverses direction. Sends one hand back to her hair, while one trails over her jaw until her finger meets her mouth, and she uses a single fingertip to draw her bottom lip down. Seeing her teeth shouldn’t be erotic, but it makes a wave of sudden desire overcome me. I could drown in her.

And will, because now she’s taking her finger into her mouth, sucking it lightly to get it wet before she releases it and draws the slick digit across the seam of her mouth. She toys with her mouth, her jaw, her neck, her hair for another five minutes, and I’m mesmerized. From a woman touching herself in a way that isn’t particularly scandalous.

“Lower.” Yeah, that was my voice, croaky as a frog. I expect her to hurry, but she doesn’t. Finishes up her finger-fellatio routine, and then does as I’ve requested, caressing her collarbones, shoulders, and god help me, drawing a single finger down her throat before resting it momentarily in the divot of her suprasternal notch. Then she inhales before sliding her other hand down and finally, god, finally, cupping her breasts and squeezing, kneading.

Her mouth is open, her eyes are closed, her chest is rising and falling, and I want her. Want those to be my hands, want to touch her myself. But I won’t, I’ll watch. She moves to circling her areolas, teasing herself until her nipples pucker into peaks like berries—moreover, I know they taste that way, too, mostly sweet with a hint of sour. When they’re good and teased, and I’d imagine aching to be touched, she cups her breasts and takes her nipples between thumb and forefinger and squeezes, teases, and rolls as she licks her lips.

Blaze

I am here for exhibitionism any day of the week. Sex in public? Sure. Orgies? Bring them on. God knows I don’t mind being photographed with as little clothing on as the publication can get away with. But somehow, some way, Maisy has made a relatively innocent exercise into one of the most sexually exciting things I’ve ever done in my life. Sex magic, that’s what she has.

All the while I’m touching myself for her pleasure—and who are we kidding, mine—I’m thinking of that goddamn fluorescent pink egg in front of me. I’d teased her about it, but now I’m glad she didn’t put out a sex toy buffet. She doesn’t need it. Also, it’s weird, but I like feeling this close to her, even though we’re not touching. This is way more intimate than some of the most . . . accessorized sex I’ve had. Not that I don’t love a good kinky romp, because I sure as fuck do, but with Maisy in particular, I like that she’s controlling me so directly, wielding her power in such a subtle way. She’s not even touching me for god’s sake.

The direct line of communication between my nipples and my pussy is on fire, signals being sent south until every pinch, every tug, each squeeze is reminding me of exactly how empty I am, how good it would feel if she would give me that kind of satisfaction. She will, but in her own goddamn time. Frigging Maisy and her lack of urge to careen headlong to the finish line. Her goddamn artistry. But that’s what I feel like right now, if I can stem the frustration long enough to piece two thoughts together: Maisy’s work of art.

“Pick it up.”

Her soft command crashes through the near-silence of the suite like cymbals, and I don’t have to ask what she’s talking about. I stop toying with one of my tits and grab the egg that’s been mocking me with its presence for the past twenty minutes.

I look at her, awaiting my next instruction, even though I know it’s not going to be to crank it up and hold it to my clit until I blow. That would be too easy. Maisy’s meeting my gaze, her dark eyes intense, and then she brings her thumb to her mouth, bites the pad while she considers. I almost die. I would much rather she be biting me. After a minute’s thinking—or dreaming, maybe she’s fantasizing about what she could make me do even as she sits here?—she releases her thumb and tips up her chin.

“Touch yourself with it. Don’t turn it on. Yet.”

Despite what I’d like to do, I know she doesn’t want me heading straight for my clit that’s pulsing with want. No, she wants to tease me. Double tease me since she’s not even touching me. And she thinksI’mfrustrating . . .

I do what she wants because I do have a small amount of self-control, and using it to gear up for a mind-blowing orgasm seems a better reason than most to use it. The touch of the egg is strange, intimate and yet not.

“Now,” she says, and I twist it slightly to start the gentle buzz, putting it back against my skin. It draws my focus and my desire, my thoughts and feelings following where I’m dragging the sphere over my collarbones, between my tits, around and finally over my nipple in a way that gives me chills. When I think she’ll be satisfied, I draw it down the center of my stomach, hesitate slightly when I’ve reached the space between my hipbones, but Maisy doesn’t tell me to stop. She stares, waiting for me.

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