The Winter Games Box Set

by Rebecca Sharp

  Stripping down, I stayed on the side of the bed and watched her gaze take in my long, thick length. Abercrombie model with a giant cock. I probably qualified for some fucking study or a goddamn medal for how I managed to not be able to find a girlfriend.

  My hands gripped her legs and spread them wide, her pussy leaking in excitement. Climbing up her body, I rubbed my length against her slick folds as I bent my head to her ear.

  “You think this is gonna hurt?” I rasped into her ear, biting into the soft skin of her neck. My cock bumping at her wet and waiting entrance.

  “I think I want it to,” she whispered.

  With a roar, I slammed into her and the split second that her body revolted against the invasion was washed away in the next when it begged for more, her strong legs wrapped around my waist.

  Maybe I should have indulged in more one-nighters. Maybe then this wouldn’t have been so mind-blowing.

  Fat fucking chance.

  Nothing would have made this feel less earth-shattering than it was.

  She was hot and tight and so fucking slick around my cock. I pushed up, my hands forcing her knees closer to her chest so that I could drive all the way into her, admiring the way her pink cunt ate me up and her body begged for more.

  Over and over I rammed into her, watching her small tits with their little silver studs bounce each time, watching all the expressions her mouth made as I owned her body.

  Right then and there, with her body gripping my cock like she was trying to choke one more thing tonight, I swore that this wasn’t just going to be one night. Whoever she was, whatever her deal was, I was going to find out and then I was going to make this last.

  Her body began to seize beneath mine, her chest sputtering, forgetting how to breathe in air, as another orgasm came for her, the one that would completely destroy her.

  Knowing that she was succumbing to me, again, my cock swelled and my balls tightened, ready to explode.

  “Come for me, Cinderella.”

  My words fell between us as I reached down and pinched her nipple the way I’d learned quickly made her insane.

  “Kyle!”

  She screamed my name as her pussy clamped down around my cock, pulling my orgasm from me with a loud shout. I kept pushing into her seizing muscles, letting them milk every last drop of my desire from my pulsing length.

  Minutes later, I slid out of her with a groan, not giving her any choice before I pulled her into my arms. Yeah, I needed to clean up, but fuck if I wasn’t afraid that if I left the room right now she’d be gone before I got back.

  So, I held her. And it took another minute, but the stiffness of her body finally softened, like it was too hard for her to keep up the fight not to feel anymore. She relaxed, fitting perfectly against my chest as I lazily traced my fingers along her arm.

  “If you won’t tell me your name, Cinderella,” I rasped softly. “At least fucking tell me that you felt it, too. That nothing has ever been like that before.”

  She wanted to fight. I saw it in her eyes. She wanted to hide behind that cool exterior—the one that played this off as just two strangers indulging in their connection—their lust. She wanted to, but her plan backfired. She couldn’t fuck me out of her system any more than I could ignore her from mine.

  “Tonight was… magic,” she admitted thickly.

  Something had happened in that very first look. Something that was worth fighting for. I may have sucked at finding forever, but I wasn’t going to let a fairytale walk away.

  I RUBBED THE TOWEL OVER my hair again even though it was so short it was mostly dry by now. I was trying to scrape away all the bullshit excuses for my actions last night.

  Thankfully, Marissa still wasn’t home when I walked through the door this morning. Then again, it had been four-thirty, before even the sun was up.

  And there is only one reason you come back after a hook-up at four-thirty in the morning—because you’re running away.

  I wasn’t running, I justified. I was simply just not getting attached—not letting the situation spiral into something that led to more. It had already spiraled to far more than I’d expected. Far too much.

  Grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, I strolled naked back through my second oldest friend’s condo to the spare room she was letting me crash in. Her place was in one of the ritzy communities in the Aspen area, and the amenities and location told me she paid a pretty penny for it.

  I almost insisted on staying somewhere else, but since she was still recovering from a knee injury last season and wouldn’t be competing, I’d feel guilty if I didn’t take her up on her offer. But then, staying with her was hard because too many little things reminded me of so many big things that were better off staying buried under the snow.

  I rubbed my head again.

  It wasn’t her fault that this place hit too close to home, leaving me cracked and vulnerable. It wasn’t her fault she’d melted over some guy who she’d met coming back from the bathroom at the bar last night and abandoned me with an excited apology. She’d even offered her car, but I didn’t want to leave her stranded with a stranger, so I told her I’d call a cab.

  Neither the drunk douchebag approaching me nor the fact that I’d had to put him in a cross-collar choke because he wouldn’t take no for an answer were her fault. And the gorgeous stranger who appeared in front of me, like Thor’s hotter cousin, itching to defend me—Kyle—he definitely wasn’t her fault.

  No. Prince Charming didn’t have a fault.

  I knew what I came off like—nonchalant, independent, and just looking to hook up. I wouldn’t say it was completely or even remotely close to being false. I was the Tin Woman: hard as steel wrapped in a pretty satin bow and, characteristically, missing a heart.

  I only ever did one nights—or a few nights if it was really good. Nothing long term. Nothing that left even a breadcrumb to give them a taste of wanting more. However, I hadn’t done this in a while—and definitely not during the weeks leading up to one of my biggest competitions of the season.

  The ski season was like sacred ground—like lent—only instead of giving up one thing, I gave up everything else in order to win.

  But last night, when I looked into his aged whiskey eyes and saw just how violently he was ready to step in to help me, something inside me shifted. Like a foreshock that warned of an impending earthquake, it was small enough to barely vibrate through me but it came from a place so deep inside me that I knew what it warned was coming could break me.

  No one had ever looked at me that possessively—and certainly not like they were willing to fight for me. That was how I’d learned to take care of myself.

  I shivered again, remembering how his gaze hadn’t changed, no matter how I pushed him. Taking a deep breath, I could still smell him: an addicting sensual mix of amber and ginger topped off with laser-sharp notes of chivalry.

  It would have been easier if he had either disappeared or taken the bait too easily. Then I could have written myself off once again as either not important enough to care or only important enough to fuck. But he didn’t. He fought for that white knight status like white was more valuable than gold.

  And that made me weak.

  I couldn’t give him more, but I needed him for one night. So I pushed and pushed and threatened and teased. I walked along the edge between ballsy and foolish, praying that the lust I saw swirling in his stare was the same, consuming monster that lived in my bones.

  I hated how I wanted someone so badly who clearly would want much more than one night. I hated how I wanted something so dangerous.

  But that was the rule. One night.

  Easy. No strings. The rule was simple and it was the only one I had to follow.

  I wasn’t against using my own place except that I was staying with Marissa and didn’t want to intrude on her night. I wasn’t even against giving him my name; I’d never kept that a secret before. But for him… with him… even a name felt like too much of a breadcrumb.<
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  I checked my watch. I had about an hour and a half before I had to meet my trainer out by the slopes. Maybe it was better that I got ready and grabbed breakfast and coffee at the mountain rather than wait for Marissa. Maybe it was better to run.

  I. Wasn’t. Running.

  I was just moving on from a night that, while completely and utterly mind-blowing, was also just sex. Just. Sex. Sex with a random, possessive, protective, far-too-hot hero-type to loosen me up for some of the hardest weeks of my life. There was no shift. There was no earthquake coming. There was nothing but snow and the mountain and the World Cup.

  And there was definitely no night number two.

  Throwing on some yoga pants, my favorite Princess Leia tee and Snowmass hoodie—courtesy of Marissa, I did my make-up, and topped it off with my head warmer and shades, and wondered just how far all of that would go before I was recognized.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled, grabbing my coffee and bacon, egg, and gouda sandwich from off the bar at Peace and a Cup of Joe, the coffeehouse belonging to the Snowmass resort.

  The barista practically ignored me to get back to the line of cups waiting for her. I preferred it that way.

  Snagging a seat in the corner, I tore into my not-so-healthy breakfast after my not-so-restful night. Danny was already going to have my head about it, might as well go full tilt into my first day of training.

  I laughed to myself. First day.

  Like I didn’t train all year for this. Like the season hadn’t started months ago in Europe and Canada. Like I hadn’t lived in the gym every day over the summer months, strengthening, conditioning, and making sure to keep my cardio up. Danny kept all that on track—along with insisting on a ten-hour a night sleep schedule and strict meal plan.

  That might be what made the bacon taste so much better this morning…

  I’d push through today and make it work, but it was going to be a little more of a struggle. Turning thirty-two wasn’t such a huge change from many of the years before it except that it would be dumb to not respect that, with age, injuries were easier to come by and harder to recover from. And that went for both the body and the heart.

  “Jaclyn?”

  I turned to see a petite woman in snow gear with hair almost as short as mine except blonde.

  “Yeah,” I said tightly, raising a brow.

  There were a ton of reasons for why I was the way that I was or why I said the things that I did, not in the least of which was that it kept the crowds in fear of me—not fear as in afraid, but fear as in awe, respected, and kept at a distance. Truth was, there was a lot of rumor surrounding me and it was too much—to personal—for me to be able to correct it. So, I generally gave fans a cold shoulder because I learned the hard way that letting people behind the walls only makes it that much easier for them to destroy you.

  “Son of a biscuit,” she said with a smile that lit up her small face. “Channing. Channing Ryder. I wasn’t sure it was you.”

  “Well, that’s what I was going for,” I mumbled, wondering why her name sounded so familiar. “Do I know you?”

  She shook her head no, adding, “You may know my fiancé, Wyatt Olsen?”

  “The pro boarder?”

  “Retired,” she confirmed.

  Now it clicked. “No shit. Yeah, that’s why your name sounds familiar.”

  I sat back in the chair. Athletes over thirty—especially in winter sports—ended up in this weird little club that none of us signed up for and yet got lumped in together anyway; the club to see who would be the last man or woman standing.

  I’d heard rumors about the snowboarder finally calling it quits after a big win last year. I’d also heard the stories about his fiancée who’d posed as her brother to enter the X Games.

  Hate to break it to you, honey, but just be the best and you won’t have to pretend to be a guy to compete.

  I shuddered, hating how inner Jac could be such a bitch sometimes.

  Channing had done nothing to me and yet I hated her in that moment. It was low and selfish but I hated her for what she had—for finding happiness and love in this cold fucking world. Why was it that guys like Wyatt Olsen could win both medals and love? Meanwhile, I had sacrificed one for the other over and over and over again.

  A cordial smile appeared on my face a second later because emotions had no place in my life. Emotions wouldn’t guarantee my win, effort would.

  “Well, I won’t keep you. I’m sure you’ve got a crazy few weeks ahead,” she said coolly because I’d gone and made the moment awkward as fuck. “Good luck with the Cup and if you have a night off and want to hang out, grab some dinner and drinks or whatever, here’s my number.”

  I murmured my thanks. I didn’t deserve the kindness, especially if she knew my thoughts.

  I stared up at the mountain, admiring how cold and immovable it was and thinking how it remained unchanged while my reasons for needing it had shifted.

  When I was young, I skied because that’s what I was raised to do. Both of my parents excelled at skiing, rising quickly to the competitive level in different events. They’d met at the World Cup back in the early eighties. At first, I did it because it was part of my family, because I had to. Later, I grew to love it—the freedom and the fear, the speed, the exhilaration. It was like I could outrun anything going down those slopes—whatever the kids teased me about in school, whatever the reasons the boys gave for not wanting to date me. The mountain washed it all away.

  I loved it for a long time. For the career it gave me, the friends I’d made, and because it brought me to the man I loved. It was the foundation that my life had been built on.

  Until it took everything and I hated it with every muscle that had been bourn out of my love for skiing, I hated the mountain.

  In a stroke of irony, the mountain that I hated was the only thing left I had to cling to because it was the only place where I meant something.

  Every day erased the last, every medal erased the previous. I meant nothing until I was out on that slope proving I was worth something. And then I’d come home, exhausted from victory, and knowing that I’d wake up tomorrow morning and feel the exact same way.

  That was the kind of drive that made you the best, that pushed you so far past everyone else that this had ceased to be a competition long ago.

  On the slopes, it was simple: either I won or I was nothing.

  It wasn’t a competition. It was survival.

  “There’s my champion.” I turned as Danny’s voice boomed from next to me, the short, balding Italian skier pulling me into his embrace.

  I gave him a smile, along with the hug he expected. Danny had been there through it all; he was like an uncle to me. If uncles planned out most of the days of your life, whipped your ass into shape, and refused to let you eat bacon.

  “Hey, D,” I muttered, strangled by his hug.

  “Ready to kick some ass?” Hearing him say that with his unapologetic Italian accent would never get old.

  This was my life: winning. There was no time for one-night stands that reminded me of all the other things I couldn’t have. There was no margin of error for emotion, especially ones that kept me thinking about Kyle.

  About his touch. Or his kiss.

  Or the way my body raced like no run down the mountain had ever done.

  And definitely not the way, for the first time in a decade, the frozen façade around my heart had slipped for something that I never should’ve admitted felt like magic.

  I’d made quick work of changing into my gear before D and I headed up the mountain for just a few warmup runs to acclimate me to the altitude, weather, and individual mountain conditions.

  I listened to him ramble on about his yearly vacation to Sicily to visit his family—driving along in the Alfa Romeo he rented every year, how he broke a tooth biting on some sausage, and then making my stomach grumble jealously with all the pasta dishes that he recited off the top of his head.

  I was doing pretty good. And sure
enough, the faster I flew down the mountain, the harder it was for thoughts of Kyle to catch up with me.

  I wondered if he worked on the resort—if I’d end up running into him by accident. I wondered what his face would look like when he found out who I was. Would he be angry? Would he pat himself on the back for screwing an Olympic gold medalist?

  No.

  He’d wonder why I was hiding.

  “Jaclyn!” I winced, hearing the thickening of his accent; Danny’s accent got harsher the angrier he got. And when he knew I wasn’t focused, when he knew I wasn’t performing like I should, he always demanded answers—most times in English.

  I swung to a stop and waited for him to ski up a few feet beside me.

  “What’s wrong with you?” he demanded, smacking one of my poles with his. His eyes were narrowed and probing as they regarded me from behind his orange mask.

  “Nothing,” I said, grateful that my goggles were mirrored.

  This time, the end of his ski poked right into my stomach.

  “Seriously!”

  “Don’t lie to me, Jaclyn Blanchard,” he said roughly. “I’ve known you from the time when you still thought pizza was just a dish not made famous by Italy.”

  “I went out with Marissa last night,” I confessed because there was no point hiding it. The man knew every inch of my routine. “So, I didn’t get my ten hours and then I was too tired to make my juice and eggs this morning so I just got a sandwich at the coffee shop.”

  “Oh Mamma Mia,” he groaned, followed by an explosive rant in Italian that I didn’t understand but had heard enough times over my lifetime to interpret his gist. “During the season? You know better, Jac.”

  I let out a deep sigh. I did know better. More than better, I also knew worse. I’d seen the injuries. Even Marissa’s. I knew what pushing yourself with a lack of proper focus and preparation could do. At least Marissa’s injury was healing; Evan hadn’t been so lucky.

  “Are you retiring?” he demanded with wide eyes. “Is that why you are doing this?”