Page 7 of Fire on the Ice

For all her long and rowdy trip, nothing compares to when Blaze reaches her climax. She comes like she’s in a movie. If it were anyone else, I’d worry it was fake, but with her, it’s not out of character. Everything about her wants to be first-page, above-the-fold, so why shouldn’t that include announcing to the SIG village at large that she’s having the world’s most epic orgasm? Pieces of me war over how to feel about this.

On the one hand, there’s the pride, pleasure, and satisfaction to be found in the fact that it’s me giving this to her. Me, Maisy Harper. On the other hand, I can’t help the embarrassment flooding me, a secondhand flush of my cheeks because, oh god, people can hear her and what are they going to say about me.

Keep your head down, do your job, fit in, and don’t call attention to yourself. Don’t be different, and for the love of god, if you have to be exceptional—please don’t be exceptional—then make up for it in all other things.When I’d told my parents I was queer, that I liked girls, my father had accused me of wanting more attention, and of being a narcissist. So I’ve kept the whole thing quiet, only escaping into self-indulgent debauchery in the safest of circumstances and not letting it leak into the rest of my life. That effort to be reserved is what earned me the title of Canada’s Ice Princess because the press thinks I’m frosty for not answering any questions about my personal life. Really, I don’t want to suffer for it. I try, in fact, to make up for it by being quieter, more polite, more proper, ever more modest in some kind of penance.

After this, I’m going to have my work cut out for me. The soft footfalls of walking might call too much attention to myself. Breathing, for god’s sake, because Blaze has finally freed her hands, and is using one to push my fingers even harder, farther inside her, and the other scrabbling at my knee and thigh, attempting a grip she can’t quite find as she rocks out the rest of her orgasm.

God is she hot, but also . . . like looking at the sun, and here I’ve forgotten to filter her in any way.

Finally her kinematic body has come to a rest, except for her heaving torso and the hand that’s flopped above her head. I give her clit one last soft stroke that makes her shudder, and then withdraw my hands from her, resting them on her thighs. I’d like to get up, go hide in the bathroom, make myself scarce, not only from her but from the world at large. Can’t do it here, though, because this is her room, and can’t really do it at all for the next several weeks because being on the SIG team requires a certain amount of public engagement. When the voices start to get too loud, I can silence them by saying it would be far more noticeable, bring way more attention, if I deliberately avoided all media and all public appearances. The press and the public have learned anyway that getting anything beyond the most basic engagement out of me is akin to squeezing blood from a stone.

Blaze scoots herself back, her butt settling onto the mattress, and closes her legs, dropping her knees to one side and then curving around like a comma until her head is resting by my knee. She doesn’t touch me, but lies there, quiet for once in her life. My legs have started to feel the fact that they’ve been tucked under me for a good long while, so I stretch them out, lean back against the wall. The games have begun.

Chapter Four

Maisy

One nice thing about Blaze being so focused on publicity and fame is that one day at the SIGs is much the same as another day, regardless of whether she’s racing or not. I missed out on this the last time because we’d only been together after everything was over. It entertains me—and makes me a titch green with envy—that she’s so chill about competition that I have to check my schedule to see when she’s skating.

We’ve been here for about a week, but the true madness started a few days ago with the opening ceremony. In addition to all the practices and team meetings we both have (a lot), and all the sex (even more), we’ve managed to sneak in being spectators at a few events. Men’s luge, some long track speed skating, and even some cross-country skiing. If people are going fast, Blaze wants to see it.

Today she had heats for the 500 meter and the 1,000, and I know from maybe, possibly, sneaking glances at my phone during my own ice time that she’s not having a good go. She didn’t qualify for the finals in the 500, and got disqualified for some call in the 1,000 for something that looked like a whole lot of bullshit to me. Watching the clips after I got back, it sure didn’t look like interference to me, more like how the hell do these people not crash into each other all the time, and yet that’s kind of the nature of speed skating.

It’s tricksy in that you could have an epic skate, think you’re totally in the clear, and then get stripped of your medal or your spot in the next round because of some tiny movement one of the officials think they see on the tape. Figure skating’s not perfect, but at least you’ve got a pretty good idea of when you’ve fucked up and won’t be passing Go or collecting two hundred dollars.

I texted her a while ago that she could come over when she was finished with all her stuff, but I haven’t heard back. Clearly she doesn’t have the superstition about banging before an event that a lot of people have, but I don’t know if things will be different now that she’s in the middle of her races. Although since she’s out of the 500 and the 1,000 meter, she doesn’t have another race for a week. It doesn’t matter, really. Whatever it is she needs, I’ll try to give it to her because I’ve still got over a week before my programs start—this year the ice dancers are up first, followed by the men, and the pairs, and then finally us. I’m not crazy about being last, but what’s a girl to do? Suit up and skate when they tell you to, that’s what.

I’m about to click onto a sports site where they have all the events in their entirety and also in abridged versions so I can catch up on the women’s curling matches. I’ve got tickets to the next round, but somehow I don’t think curling is really Blaze’s speed. Mostly because it’s not scorchingly fast. Before I can, though, there’s a knock at the door, and then a thumping sound, as if someone assumed it would be unlocked and tried to bust on in. That’ll be Blaze then, because Kristie would quietly slip in her keycard.

There’s a pause and I wonder if she’s decided I’m not here because the only reason one might lock a door is that one isn’t there. Wrong. Before she can walk away, I open the door, and there she is. Showered, but toting her giant bag of stuff. Part of me glows that she didn’t bother dropping off her gear because she was so anxious to see me, even though her building is literally on the way here from where she would’ve gotten dropped off. Of course, another part of me is shaking her head because how impractical can a single person possibly be? Science should study Blaze. For a lot of reasons. Including how exactly she embodies sex. For example, what is it about the curl of her mouth at the corner, the intent look in her brackish eyes, and the way she moves that connects with such a precise part of my brain? A part which is now nudging me and at a stage-whisper, telling me I’m about to get lucky.

“I’m sorry about your events, I—” I have a whole speech prepared, life lessons and platitudes gleaned from the coaches I’ve had over the years who could actually make me feel better about having lost, but not better enough that I didn’t want to go out the next time and kick some serious bedazzled ass. Coaching is an art, and I’m lucky that Zelda has taken me on.

Blaze, with no regard whatsoever for all the work I’ve put in, cuts me off with a drop of her heavy bag to the floor—some of her red, white, and blue American team wear spilling out on the imitation wood—a couple of big strides in my direction, and then a press of her lips to mine. She threads her fingers into my hair, which is down for the moment because after a while my head starts to ache from the tight buns and all the bobby pins I’ve managed it into. It feels good to have her mouth on me, to have her push her tongue past my lips to where I can suck on it.

The small motion makes her moan, and it drives me crazy in a good way how the woman can go from zero to sixty in about 3.2 seconds. If this is how she wants to seek comfort, solace, and gather herself up for her next competitions, I’m sure not going to argue. I am however going to make sure the door is shut and locked, because I wouldn’t put it past her to have forgotten in her haste, not to mention her lack of giving a shit, if people saw us.

I envy her not-giving-a-shittedness, but I’m not there, so not there. And while I’d like her to take that into account, I don’t have any actual expectations. Maybe if we were together for longer, but I’m not going to impose my own neuroses on her when I can manage without reining her in.

Without separating us, I walk her back to where she came in, and while slipping a hand into her pants to cup and squeeze her ass, get my other hand on the door. It is not, in fact, closed, but almost. I don’t totally relax and enjoy until I hear the click of the latch and the thunk of the lock. After that, my brain lets go a bit and I can concentrate on the woman in my arms and what I’d like to do to her.

I break us apart long enough to ask, “What do you want?”

“Everything. I want everything you’re prepared to give me.”

We’ve been fucking for about a week and have gotten relatively creative, but it sounds as though she’s ready to level up and I’m happy to come along for the ride. Amongst all the practices, team meetings, press obligations, ceremonies, and everything else, we’ve managed to see each other—and yes, fine, get each other off—every day since that first night in the bar.

“Glutton.” I chase my admonishment with a bite to her bottom lip. She grins at me because she’s not sorry in the least. I don’t think she takes greedy or insatiable as insults. I doubt they’re even in her vocabulary, because for Blaze it doesn’t seem as though there’s such a thing as “enough,” never mind “more than enough.” It’s probably how she’s managed to work her way up to the upper echelons of her sport despite giving the impression that she doesn’t have much in the way of an attention span.

“If you’ve got any tricks up your sleeve, now might be a good time to try them.”

Oh, do I like that invitation. Because the fact is, I’d packed a few things with her in mind, and though I wouldn’t be shy about using them, I wanted to wait for an invitation. A moment when they wouldn’t just be fun but perhaps necessary. They seem that way now, although the sleeve thing makes me snicker. “I think I can help you out with that.”

I push her away and make a stay motion, turning my back on her because I believe she will. If she wants what’s coming to her, she will, and I don’t think Blaze is likely to turn down that kind of invitation. She’s the one who was begging for it after all, and I aim to please. Please and make her writhe and scream, which seems to be one and the same for a girl like Blaze.

Deep in one of my drawers under about a hundred pairs of tights because you can never have too many at competitions, I find the things I’m looking for and bring them back to the bedside table. As I lay them out, Blaze’s eyes are glued to me, and she may very well start to drool. Perfect.

“Well,” I say, gesturing to the lube, gloves, strap-on, and condoms I laid out. “Pick your poison.”

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