Page 21 of Fire on the Ice

Which is when I finally get the contact I’ve been aching for, circling around my clit, teasing myself for a few more delicious seconds, and then . . . The breath leaves my lungs in a rush and my head drops back as I close my eyes, because fuck, yes. I don’t hold back the groan of relieved frustration because I think Maisy wants it. Or at least expects it. Wants, too, the way my hips rock up to add the motion, seeking even more satisfaction.

“Turn it up. Don’t come.”

Is she toying with me? I don’t care. All I have to do is follow her instructions, and I know no matter how roundabout the path, it’s going to lead to the promised land. A slight twist turns up the vibe, and I take another circle, widening it to explore how it feels on all the surfaces of my intimate flesh—labia, that thin strip of skin between the entrance to my pussy and my asshole, and Christ, yes, where I’d like for her to be inside me. And yeah, my clit because it’s a demanding thing, wanting so much attention for its externally small size, but I’ll give it because it feels so fucking good, and that’s all that’s swirling around in my head right now. Pleasure, feeling, the extraordinary things my body can do in a bed instead of on the ice, behind closed doors with only one other person instead of in an arena with thousands of screaming fans.

The quiet makes this more intense somehow, because I’m the only thing drawing Maisy’s attention, and god knows I feed on that. Her focus is modest, reserved, and yet all the more powerful for that. Concentrated in each soft word, each small movement of her lips, every swallow in her delicate throat. All of it is mine, belongs to me.

My desire has hit a high that I’m not used to because for all the debauchery I partake in, it’s usually one after the other. What about now? How about now? Again, again, again. But Maisy’s focused all that arousal that usually comes in peak after peak, and built into one big slope. She’s driving me absolutely fucking crazy.

“Turn it up. Put it inside you.”

Oh. Oh, yes.

I’m so wet, it doesn’t take much to work the egg inside myself until it’s sitting in my core, making the sensations radiate out through my whole pelvis, pinging that entire wishbone shape of my clit. My god is that a marvelous organ. The pleasure is echoing through my whole body in a way I think I might be imagining, but it doesn’t fucking matter because I feel it. Pulsating, throbbing. In my tits, in my throat, in my mouth, my cheeks, my lungs. She’s invaded me and I surrender.

There’s a shift on the bed and I don’t bother to open my eyes—when did they fall closed, anyhow?—but they snap open when there’s a single lick of a tongue over my clit, followed by a lavish suck that makes me fall over the edge of the mountain I’ve been climbing up. My whole body shudders and shakes, and the words leave my mouth in an uncontrollable stream.

“Maisy, fuck. Fuck, Maisy. I—I—Yes, yes, suck me.”

And she does. Gentling the way she’s using her mouth on me when it’s clear I’m on the downslope of my epic climax and not stopping until I’m a twitchy puddle of post-orgasmic contentment.

I let her slip the egg out from inside of me, and then move my barely functional limbs, arranging me against the pillows until she’s managed to snuggle under my arm, and then we both rest. Drowse, cuddle, like sleepy kittens until Maisy’s phone makes a noise from her heap of stuff on the floor.

She makes a sound like “merf,” and rubs her nose on my shoulder before sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

“Team dinner in thirty. I gotta go.”

I think she must be still half-asleep because when she’s gotten out of bed, she leans down and drops a kiss on my forehead before turning to pull clean clothes out of her bag. I’m not sure what it says that of all the things we’ve done, that shocks me the most. But I don’t have time to process it because I’m already falling back asleep as she’s softly closing the door behind her.

Chapter Nine

Maisy

Practice was less than great. Yes, I’m nailing all my jumps, but I feel like a wind-up toy while I’m doing it. Or maybe one of those ballerinas who pop up when you open a jewelry box. Pretty but soulless, and it annoys me that Blaze is right. So very, very right. But what’s more important? Landing a triple lutz into a double toe loop or doing it half as well while looking as if I won a trip to Disneyworld?

At the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter. My job isn’t to win gold; that’s not something my coach expects of me. Bronze, perhaps, but gold is an overreach for a journeyman like me. I show up, work hard, ace my routines, but there’s nothing particularly special about me. Not at this level anyhow. I fill out the roster, give our team a solid base, a way to take a chance on other more mercurial skaters.

Which would explain why I’m climbing up the stairs to Blaze’s suite. I want a distraction from the program I’ll be skating tomorrow. I don’t want it running through my head on an endless loop because routine is not something I lack. No, that, sadly, is what we would call passion.

Although as I make the turn onto the last landing before her floor, I have to wonder if being with Blaze is going to make me feel better or if I’ll only feel more ordinary next to all her pomp and circumstance. I adore the girl, but sometimes I feel as though she’s even competing with me, as if there’s a chance in hell I could win. At anything when she’s involved.

At last I make it to her floor, and down the hall to her suite, where there’s a . . . seriously? There’s a motherfucking sock on the door.

I stand there, stunned, the breath knocked out of me. I asked her for one thing. Okay, two. But even so, how hard should this be? If she wanted to get it on with someone else, all she had to do was tell me and we’d be over. Not hard. But Blaze isn’t known for her impulse control. Maybe she got made an offer she couldn’t refuse and decided I’d probably never find out, so it was okay. Who the fuck knows, maybe she’s been meeting up with other people every time I’ve had practice or a team meeting. I wouldn’t know.

I’ve long since recovered my breath from practice, but my chest feels tight again, and not from the effort of climbing the stairs. Fuck. This was not a thing I was supposed to have feelings about. Get in, orgasm—repeatedly—get out, easy-peasy. That was the idea. Indulge myself with someone who wasn’t going to make me feel as though I was too much and then move on before I couldn’t live with myself anymore.

The thing is, it’s not so much the sex that’s making me feel all hot and squirmy and like I have rage snakes slithering throughout my body. It’s the betrayal. She looked me in the face and lied, promised me a thing and then took it away.

Hell, maybe if she’d said she wanted to fuck someone else, I would’ve given her the okay. Maybe, just maybe, depending on who it was, I might’ve liked to . . . be involved? Watched? Heard about it? It’s never occurred to me that I’d be okay with such a thing before, but something about Blaze might let me enjoy that. Or maybe not, because letting someone I don’t trust into this private part of my life makes me queasy, but maybe I could’ve given her my blessing. That might’ve made this okay. Or not, but at least I would’ve had a choice.

Who is it in there with her? Could be anyone. Literally, anyone. Are they better than me? At anything? Everything? Willing and able to be seen with her in public? Haven’t been shamed to within an inch of their lives about having wants and desires and wanting attention any place off the ice?

It takes me a while to gather my thoughts, to come up with a plan, and in the meantime, I’m standing there, stupidly, outside her door, looking at the sock, a symbol of her infidelity. There’s some melodrama for you. Will socks forever remind me of heartbreak? That would be unfortunate, although at least it’s not tights. That would be far more problematic.

Finally I get my shit together enough to put my feet in motion and get the hell out of there before Blaze comes spilling out of her suite, because she doesn’t do anything without bluster, without making a scene.

Head down, bag slung over my shoulder, and puffy boots plodding down the stairs I walked up minutes ago, I’m trying to get the fuck out of Dodge. I’m so mired in my own unhappiness that I almost run into someone who’s coming up the staircase.

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