Page 4 of Fire on the Ice

I suck on her tongue and lick at her in the same way I’d like to do to another part of her anatomy—okay, basically all of her, but a few places in particular—and realize I’m still grasping a fistful of her shirt. And why, when she shouldn’t be wearing clothes at all?

I use that handful of leverage to shove her away after dropping my foot, and we stand there, facing off, breathing hard, like wrestlers who’ve been called off each other but are keen to go at it again. It’s been four years since our last bout and I’m eager for our rematch.

“Clothes off, I don’t want a stitch on you.”

She pulls a face I’m hoping is only a reflection of how much she’d rather be pawing at me than taking even a minute away to disrobe. But who am I kidding, Blaze is a pro at getting naked, and she’s done in thirty seconds flat. Helps that I think she might pick out her clothes with easy removal in mind. If there’s a woman out there more brazen than Blaze, I haven’t met her.

Then she’s there, all skin, and god, her build is incredible. Muscles for days, her abs are carved out of the plane of her stomach, and fucking hell thosethighs.Those thick thighs I have every intention of sinking my teeth into, marking and bruising from how hard I’m going to suck at her skin. Of course, she’s got some bruises already because she wouldn’t be Blaze without giving something her all, and “all” includes her body. She’s probably been practicing hard, and like mine, her sport involves a lot of involuntary contact with ice. Not exactly a soft landing, especially when you’re going at the velocities we are. At least the boards are padded on the short track. Not so in figure-skating, but we’re unlikely to smash into them, whereas for short track competitors, it’s a fact of life.

All those bruises—they’re badges of honor, evidence of playing hard, and if she’s like me, she probably looks at them in the mirror, savors them. She’s one of the few people I feel comfortable telling precisely how much I admire those marks that turn from red to purple to blue and then fade into a greenish yellow before melting away entirely. I don’t think many people understand how much they satisfy. But Blaze gets it, might enjoy them more than I do.

She’s so gorgeously muscled, a powerful woman who is so not afraid of being “too bulky.” What the fuck even is that? She looks badass and like she could bench press two of me, and . . . maybe I’ll ask her to later, for kicks. I love her bulk, enjoy how brawny she is. And I’m in awe of her big attitude made flesh and how unapologetic she is about it.You want me to do what I do? This is how I do it, and I’m not even sorry. How dare you suggest I should be? I am hot shit and you should be so lucky as to get even a piece of this.

I am lucky.

“Look at you.”

It could be my imagination, but I could swear the faintest flush lights up the rise of her cheeks. Blaze Bellamyblushes? I think not for everyone, though. Only for me. The thought is . . . exciting, and turns up my desire for her to eleven.

With a jut of my chin and a placement of my hands on my hips, I tell her, “Turn around.”

She does as she’s been bid, and as she does it, I get to see a profile of that cut torso, her ridiculous ass, and yeah, the contour of exactly how built her thighs are, which makes me want them around my head while I taste her and make her scream, because you better believe Blaze is a screamer. Nothing is quiet about her, except right now. Right now, she’s my puppet to be told what to do and she gives me her back in silence.

Her powerfully built back, proud shoulders, heart-shaped ass, and well-developed legs. I stare at her for a minute because I can, and finally she looks at me over her shoulder. “Get your fill?”

“Of looking at your incredible body? No. But I can do it some more after you’re lying comatose in your bed because I’ve fucked all sense and reason or even upright mobility out of you.”

Surprise jolts her expression but only until she smooths it out, and then she gets that look on her face. The one that tells me sass is coming. “Are you secretly an agent from South Korea?”

“No.” I make my vowel broad, a caricature of what people think of as a Canadian accent. “I’m from Canada. Born and bred.”

Instead of repenting, her eyes narrow and she cocks her head. “You sure you haven’t been hired by the Dutch?”

“Positive. Ca-nay-dee-enn. Maple syrup, moose, hockey, poutine, Mounties. Canadian, eh?”

“Okay, but speaking of Mounties . . .”

That earns her a laugh.

“Fine, impatient one.” I walk by her, my boots clacking on the floor, and smack her ass on my way by. “Get over here.”

Chapter Three

Blaze

Maisy. Maisy Harper. Maisy in my room, Maisy in my bed, and so goddamn soon, Maisy in my mouth.

She’s stalked over to my bed, but not like a giant or a dude would stalk. More how a leopard would stalk its prey. But she’s better than a leopard, and she knows it. It’s as if she’s a leopard who is so damn certain she’s going to get what she wants, she turns her back on her prey and is waiting for it to follow her—which I do, oh yes, I fucking do. She wants to rake me with her claws? Sink her teeth into my throat? By all means.

Maisy gestures me onto the bed and I go without comment or complaint. It’s nice, in a way, even as it’s frustrating. I don’t need to impress her, I don’t need to mouth off, I don’t need to beg for attention because I already have it, but sometimes that leaves me wondering what exactly I can do for her. She doesn’t want me for the reasons so many people often do.

Which is made blindingly obvious as she turns her back on me to strip, ignoring the alluring pose I’m in. After so many photo shoots, you bet your ass I know how to show off my body to its best advantage. I look like a fucking cover model, because I’ve been one. She pays me no attention at all as she strips off her sweater, the shirt underneath, and goddamn her, a completely unnecessary bra.

Yes, it’s been four years, but I remember Maisy’s body like I was with her yesterday. Possibly because I totally got myself off while thinking about being with her yesterday. Have most days since our binge on debauchery four years ago. Her tits are small, but delicious, with these tight brown nipples I could lick and suck, and yeah, bite all frigging day if she let me. She wouldn’t, because Maisy likes people to have some goddamn control, herself most of all.

Did she wear a bra because she always wears a bra and she can’t imagine going out in public without one? Or did she wear it because it’s pretty, a lacey thing in pewter grey? Regardless, she doesn’t do a strip tease with it, doesn’t fling it at me, though I’d fucking put it to my nose and smell it because it’s been lucky enough to be against her skin for hours. It’ll have that sweet satsuma smell, be warm from her body heat. Thinking about it is making my mouth water.

She bends down to zip off her boots and then straightens to shimmy out of her jeans, and then she’s standing there, all slim and strong and perfect except for a bruise blooming on her thigh. She fell. I can’t be worried about it. If athletes freaked over everyday bruises like that, we’d never put aside the coddling long enough to fuck. Or to do what it is we were meant to do. Skate. The skating’s for later, though. Right now it’s the sex.

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