Page 12 of Can I Tell You Something?
“Sure,” Cameron says, lifting his goggles up to the front of his helmet. His cheeks are pink, a faint line already visible at the top of them.
“You’ve caught the sun,” I say, unable to stop staring.
“So have you,” he says, but I know I slathered on factor 50 sunscreen this morning, and what he’s seeing are my blushes.
We slide over to the front of the restaurant and push back our bindings to step out of our skis. I show Cameron how to clip them together and stack them carefully in the rack.
“Won’t somebody steal them?” he asks.
“It’s pretty rare, and we won’t be far. You find a table and I’ll be back in a sec.”
Inside, I visit the bathroom quickly before washing my hands and fixing my sweaty helmet hair. Carefully, I climb back up the rubber-lined stairs that are wet and laden with clumps of snow from ski and snowboard boots.
At the counter, I order and pay for two crepes with chocolate and banana, and decide to double down and order hot chocolates for us both too. They make everything fast and fresh here, so I watch Cameron through the cafe windows while I wait.
Maybe stopping was a mistake. What if he uses this downtime to bring up my messages? Even the thought of him broaching the subject has my stomach churning.
He seems relaxed though, his elbows on the table as he watches other skiers make their way down the mountain. His hair is a sweaty mess from wearing his helmet all morning too, and all I want to do is run my fingers through it. In the time I’ve followed him online, he’s always kept it this way, and while most of my fantasies are sexual, there’s a sweetness I crave from him too. I wonder what it would be like if I could take my seat next to him and reach out to touch him freely.
Mac’n’Pleasehas a few BFE audios, or Boyfriend Experience, and they’re popular for good reason. Those are the ones I listen to on weekend mornings when I want to pretend I’m waking up with him. I dream of spending the day together, curled up on the sofa reading, stopping every now and then to make out and feel each other up.
He is the master of edging and I love to imagine him teasing me all day long, building me up, and stopping every time I get close. In my dreams he’d start at breakfast, with oral on the kitchen counter, then stop right before I came and tell me it’s time to go shop for groceries. In the car he’d tell me to touch myself on the drive but‘don’t you dare come. If you come, I’ll fuck you where everyone can see who your orgasms belong to.’
I’d be his good girl, always doing as I’m told. Back home we’d unpack, and while preparing lunch he’d touch me constantly, but never where I need him most. We’d shower together, and he’d stroke his cock until he came in his hand, but he’d never let me touch him, and he wouldn’t let me touch myself either.
In the evening, we’d go out for dinner and drinks. He’d pin me to the wall before we left the house, drop to his knees, rake his nails up underneath my skirt, and tug my underwear to the floor. He’d give me one slow lick, and my fingers would dig into his hair as my hips pushed against his face. But he’d push me back, and stand, laughing as he’d loop my damp knickers over his thumb, pull on the elastic and catapult them up the stairs.
‘You won’t need these,’he’d whisper, and I’d almost come on the spot.
He’d tease me all night. Fingers on my thigh. Taunts in my ear. It would be torture, but I’d love it. The anticipation, the longing, the knowledge deep down that he would fuck me eventually, but I’d have to be good and patient just a little longer.
By the time we get home, I’d be aching and soaked, practically shaking with need. Drunk on my desire to have him all over me. He’d sit on the end of our bed, make me strip for him, then lie me down and spread my legs. He’d take his time, teasing while I squirmed and begged beneath him.
And I would beg, happily, not just driven wild by lust, but because I know how much he loves to hear how desperate I am for him. When he’d finally let me come, I’d get there in seconds, but that would only encourage him. He’d never let me come once and then stop. He’d barely let me catch my breath. He’d make me count. I’d lose count. Orgasms rolling back to back, crashing through me before I’d had a second to recover from the last.
It would be one of many perfect days in our perfect life. My perfect, deluded little world.
“Deux chocolat et banane, et deux chocolat chaud,”the woman behind the counter calls and I sigh, wishing I’d had a couple more seconds to daydream.
“Oui, merci beaucoup.”
I carry our tray outside, grabbing cutlery from the stand by the door, and stomp my way across the wooden decking. There’s no attractive way to approach a man while wearing ski boots.
“That was awesome,” he says when I take the seat beside him. “But my legs are killing me.”
My own legs feel like jelly, but that’s nothing new around him. I kneel in front of him, tug up his ski pants, and flip open the clips on his boots.
“That should help.” It’s only then I realise where I’ve put my hand to balance myself, and the words are out before I can stop myself. “Woah, your thighs are solid.”
Cameron looks back and forth between my face and my hand, somehow still dangerously high on his thigh, and nowsqueezing?
I’ve lost my mind.
“I work out. A lot of squats. And I used to rollerblade,” he says, in a sort of trance of his own.
I finally come to my senses and pull away. “That explains it. I think skiing and skating use a lot of the same muscles, the same core balance.”
“I say‘used to’. It’s been years since I’ve used those muscles.”
