Page 6 of Fire on the Ice

No time for regrets, though. What it’s time for is sinking my fingers into her and attempting to make her come half as hard as she’d made me.

“Head that way, hips in my lap.”

She gives me awutlook, but doesn’t ask for clarification, merely scrambles to do what she thinks I want when I cock an eyebrow at her. Smart girl.

For someone so adept at using her body, she’s not graceful getting into the position I’ve asked her to, but it’d be hard for anyone in the best of circumstances. Finally, she’s got her legs spread over my lap, her ass snugged between my thighs, and her fingers laced behind her head.

I shake my head because she’s so damn exquisite. How does a girl get abs like that? I mean, I know the answer: hours upon hours, days heaped upon days, month after month, year following year of busting her ass, but I suspect even if we followed exactly the same training regimen that I could never shape my body into something like this. Not that she’d seemed to mind earlier.

Resting my hands on either side of her waist, I stroke the muscles, steel under the silk of her skin. They clench under my touch, rippling with power and her legs tighten in a grip around my thighs.

“That tickles.”

“Don’t care.” I do, very much, and if she’d asked me to stop, I would, but she didn’t. I think she enjoys being toyed with some. She lies there with about as much patience as she can muster while I touch her, sliding my hands over her stomach, up her ribcage to thumb and pinch her nipples before gliding back to those ridiculous thighs of hers, all the way down to cup her calves and caress behind her knees with a couple of fingertips, a move that makes her mewl and squirm. I could be nice, get it over with, but I don’t want to be nice right now. I’ve been waiting for this, and if she changes her mind tomorrow and decides she wants to fuck half the SIG village, well then, I’d like to know I took my best shot at getting my fill.

Up and down, up and down, touching her wherever and however I please, making her muscles bunch and flex, her hips bucking and rolling, pleading with me to pay attention to the promised land between her legs.

Not. Yet.

I can tell by the swell and strain of her biceps that she must be gripping her hair in fists behind her head. That or digging her short nails into the back of her skull, and yet she keeps them there without me even having asked. I like it.

I like, too, her breathlessness, the way she pants and gets red high on her checks. Nowhere near the shade of her hair of course, but edging closer with every minute I torment her. Her eyes—when they’re open—are a brackish greenish-blueish-brownish and glossy with frustrated desire. Which might explain her reaction when I finally deign to slip a finger over her clit.

She jerks as though I’ve electrocuted her and her eyes fly open, and out of her mouth comes this incredible noise. Not quite orgasmic, but damn close. My touch is both a reprieve and a foil, and the sounds she’s making seem on the verge of sobs. Music to my ears, making this incredible woman feel this much, and having her beg me to make her feel more. Always more. Blaze is a bottomless pit, and I’m suddenly struck by worry that I’m not up for the weeks of this I’ve signed up for. What if I’m not enough for her?

For as much as I’ve been told I’m too much—to quiet down, to not draw so much attention to myself, to keep bits of myself under wraps entirely—I’ve also been told I’m not enough. If I insist on making a spectacle of myself, at least I could have the decency to be the best. Trophies and medals line the walls of my parents’ house, but notthemedal. Maybe this time?

But that’s a worry to have later. For now, I’ll do my best to fulfill the promise of the teasing I’ve been doing for the past half an hour, and break open the dam that I’ve been building the tension behind.

I edge my finger back to gather up some moisture, slick it back over that swollen and sensitive part of her until she’s clenching her eyes closed and biting her lip, pressing her hips toward me because she wants more, so much more.

“Greedy thing,” I say, and it breaks her.

She smiles, arching her back. “You know it.”

Which is when I move from teasing her with the slick glide of my fingers over and around that tight bundle of nerves to the entrance to her very core, which is so tight, hot, and wet that I can’t help but shudder. Heaven. That’s what Blaze Bellamy’s cunt is like. Christ. Makes me want to bury my head between her legs right now, but I’ll save that particular pleasure for later. Don’t want to be a copycat, and besides, I know how Blaze feels about penetration. She feels damn good about it, evidenced by the way she’s thrusting her hips toward me, trying to get my fingers deeper inside her. Two’s not going to cut it so I add a third, and she makes one of thosesexy-as-hellnoises that’s a heady mix of you’re-giving-me-untold-pleasure andI-want-more.Lucky for Blaze, I’ve got two hands.

With the one I’m not using to thrust into her, I place the heel on her mound and apply pressure.

“You fucker.”

I should be insulted or at least chastise her, punish her by taking the contact away, but I don’t feel like it, so I laugh.

“You think it’s funny?” she gasps, working herself on me, and it’s really . . . aggressive. I want to fuck her harder and I’ve got some ways how, but we’re in this too deep—heh—so an epic fingerbang it’ll be. Next time I’ll plan better.

The way she’s writhing on my lap is unseemly, and the rudeness of it makes me hot for her all over again. I’d thought she’d burnt all the desire out, but it’s stoking again.

“I fucking hate you.”

It’s a funny thing for a girl to say when she’s working herself on my fingers, but I don’t think she’s entirely lying. I might hate me, too, if our position were reversed. They’re not, so I get to tease. “Pfft.Darling, I’m the best you’ve ever had.”

“Which is . . . part of why. I fucking hate it when people are better at getting me off than I am at getting myself off.”

I could tell her to add her own hands, because four hands are better than two, but I want to prove myself, show her exactly how right she is. I can blow her mind, and I don’t need any help at all. All I need to do is turn my hand until my palm’s spread over her pubic bone, and I can circle her clit with the pad of my thumb, and then her head is pressing back into the mattress, her abs working, working, and Jesus. She’s an outright cacophony. Loud, brash, insistent, the colors of her, and her language. If a person could work more F-words into conversation I’ve never heard it.

“Fuck, Maisy, fuck. God, yes, fuck. Fuck me like that. No, harder.”

Next time, next time. But seriously, I’m going to have frigged her so hard for so long I’m going to give myself carpal tunnel. Awkward to explain to my trainer . . .

---