Page 28 of On the Edge

She doesn’t flat out say what we both know—that my not being there caused her crash. That I knew she’d be worried when I just disappeared, and that she never skied well when she was distracted. It wasn’t my intention, but itwasmy fault.

“I ...” I start but the loud and distinctive ring of my cell phone interrupts me. That ringtone is the only one I never ignore. I glance at my phone, sitting next to me on the countertop. “I’m so sorry, but I have to take this call.”

She shrugs, a small lift of her shoulders with her eyebrows slightly raised. I know that look. She thinks our conversation isn’t important enough to me to continue, which couldn’t be further from the truth. But I don’t have time to explain that to her right now.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell her.

* * *

“Talk to me, Jed,” I say as I bring the phone to my ear and shut the bedroom door behind me. Given that everyone involved in this acquisition has had to sign an NDA, this isn’t a conversation I can have in front of Jackson, and the bedroom is the only semiprivate place in this cavernous suite.

“The board of directors met tonight and they agreed to the sale,” my lawyer says, and I let out a relieved breath. “But they have conditions.”

“Of course they do.” The last two decades have seen huge ski conglomerates buying up many of the resorts across the country. Blackstone Mountain, being one of the last independently run ski resorts in New England, are staunchly opposed to “selling out” like so many of the mountains around them. At the same time, climate change is making operating a ski resort more expensive every year and they’ve been struggling financially as long as I can remember.

“As you predicted, Rory Shanahan was the most vocal opponent.”

I don’t respond. I expected Jackson’s dad to oppose this plan, both because he loves the small, independent nature of Blackstone and because it’s me. And his position as president of the board means he has great influence.

“So,” Jed says, “you have until tomorrow at the close of business to either accept or counter their conditions.”

Which means we have to talk about this now or there won’t be time for Jed to get all the paperwork in order tomorrow. I sit down at the desk as Jed walks me through the parameters of this sale, which would have me investing in and owning a majority share of the mountain. As I suspected, developing the backside of the mountain with an additional twelve runs is something they view favorably. But the ski village I want to put at the base, complete with a hotel, condos, indoor water park, and shops, is a sticking point.

When we finish up, I feel good about where we’ve landed, and more confident than ever that we can make this work. I’ll give on some points, but they’ll have to give on others. I hit my phone screen to disconnect the call and sit back, satisfied. Until I see the clock. How can it have been almost two hours? It’s approaching 10:00 p.m., and I’d told Jackson I’d be right back to finish our conversation.Shit.

I rush to the door, but when I open it, the suite is deadly silent.Did she leave?

I take a few tentative steps into the living area and the side of Jackson’s hip comes into view. She’s curled up on the sofa, phone in hand, asleep. A few more steps and I’m towering over her, watching her back rise and fall rhythmically. There’s no way I’m letting her sleep on the couch after I promised her the bedroom, so I bend on one knee and slide my arms under her, lifting and cradling her to me as I stand. She’s dead asleep, doesn’t even move or open her eyes as I carry her to the bedroom and lay her down. But as I lift her weight from the bed to pull the covers out from under her, she reaches out, laying her hand on my arm, her finger tightening around my wrist.

My eyes slide up her body to meet hers and I’m yet again astounded at the desire I see flash across her face. “Thanks,” she whispers, still gripping my wrist.

CHAPTER10

JACKSON

Park City, Utah

My eyes open slowly and I glance around the dark room. It takes me a second to figure out where I am, and another second to remember how I got into this bed.

Heat flashes through my body, as I remember Nate carrying me in here last night. The way he cradled me gently in his arms, the way I grabbed his hand as he turned to leave. My entire body and soul ached for him; I wanted so badly for him to stay, but thankfully I didn’t let my guard down and tell him that. And then, the dream.

It’s been a while since I was plagued by dreams of Nate. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by their reemergence now that he’s back, but I wish last night’s had been less graphic. I can’t remember the whole thing, but flashes of passion are burning their way through my memory—the hot breath on my nipple as his mouth closed around it, the smooth sliding of his fingers over the tender flesh above my entrance, the slick friction of him sliding into me, the trail of wet kisses up my chest and across my collarbone. The feeling of being well loved in the most primal way.

Even now, my core is clenching involuntarily as I remember the feel of his skin against mine. The pulsing is there, just like it was in my dream. I woke up a minute too soon. If I’d stayed asleep, I’m confident I would have orgasmed. That’s never happened to me in my sleep before, but I’mthatclose.

I try to breathe through the aching emptiness, but that throbbing in my center, the need for release, is so great I suspect I’ll come if I even touch myself. As if responding to the thought, my core clenches again and waves of longing roll through me, curling my hips up in need. The vision of Nate over me, pushing into me, has me plunging two fingers into myself at once. It doesn’t feel half as amazing as I know Nate does, but it only takes a few strokes for me to feel my muscles tightening. I roll on my stomach, my face buried in the pillow as I drive my hips down on my fingers and ride wave after wave of the pleasure brought on by imagining that my fingers are Nate.

I freeze, afraid for a moment that there’ll be a repeat of the tub incident. I rolled face-first onto that pillow so I didn’t call out his name. But did I moan it in my sleep? I couldn’t possibly explain that away a second time.

You idiot,I chastise myself as I lie there. This attraction I feel for Nate is bad; absolutely no good can come of that and it has the potential for so much harm. Marco. My job. My heart.

But this insane attraction is how I’ve always felt around him. He was my first, and for years, he was my only. I’ve had sex with that man on five continents, and unlike what I always hear happens, the sex never slowed down, the desire never dulled. Instantly my mind goes to the last time we had sex, in France right before my accident. I can picture clearly my legs wrapped around Nate’s waist, my hands pinned above my head as he fucked me up against the wall of the cabin we rented in Val d’Isère. I can feel his chest rubbing against mine with each thrust, hear the sound of our bodies slapping together, smell the scent of our sex. And, just like that, my clit is aching, my core clenching again. I reach up under my shirt and rub my thumb across my nipple, then roll it between my thumb and forefinger, sending another shiver throughout my body, over and over again. With my other hand I reach between my legs, dipping my finger back into the dampness there and bringing that up to rub over my clit.

I feel both sensitive and desensitized from having multiple orgasms in the past few hours—the need is there, but my clit is too sensitive and the orgasm doesn’t come easily. I dip two fingers back into my folds, curling them to reach that spot deep inside that Nate’s dick always managed to hit in just the right way. Grinding the heel of my hand over my clit, I picture Nate and I in the bedroom of that cabin in France, but this time I picture the way he bent me over the dresser, sliding into me from behind. We watched our lovemaking in the mirror, watched his hips meet mine in a steady rhythm while his hands played with my bouncing breasts before trailing down to stroke between my legs. Our eyes never left each other’s. When he picked up the pace and we were both panting from chasing the edge of our orgasm, he wrapped one hand around my ponytail and gently pulled my head back so I was looking up at him in the mirror.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he grunted between clenched teeth.

My heart ached for him in that moment, my strong, always in control boyfriend who let down his guard long enough to show that he needed my reassurance. “Always yours,” I told him, right as the orgasm slammed through me.

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