Fire on the Ice--Snow & Ice Games

by Tamsen Parker

  Her chastisement earns her a scowl. “I don’t appreciate being mocked.”

  “Well, clearly, since I now need to go to the village ER and get an X-ray to make sure you didn’t break me.”

  I roll my eyes, because the idea that I could break Blaze is preposterous. “I did not break you. I didn’t even dent you. Besides, how would you be able to tell with the way you get busted up on the track? You’re a monster truck rally in human form.”

  “I prefer roller derby bruiser,” she sniffs.

  “Fine. Meet the newest jammer for the Blazin’ Hussies, Fire in the Hole! Or maybe Penis Flytrap?”

  Oh, that grin. There’s no way she could actually do roller derby while she’s training and competing in short track—people get seriously beat up during bouts, like broken-limb beat up, and Blaze might be reckless, but I don’t think she’s so reckless that she’d jeopardize her career and everything she’s worked so hard for. Because as much as she shrugs it off, I know she busts her ass. Her training schedule is as hardcore as anyone here’s, and she’s a stalwart supporter of her sport. But I bet that after she’s done competing at this level, she’ll be trying out for the first derby league she can, and I have a feeling about what’s going to be on the back of her jersey.

  For now, though, her mind’s not on her future as a dominating force on a derby squad, but solely on me. “So, are you busy?”

  “You mean now that you’ve disrupted my scant private ice time? No, I suppose not. Why, what did you have in mind?”

  It’ll be one of two things with Blaze: watching people go fast, or filthy sex. I know which one I’d vote for.

  “Well, I was thinking either the women’s super-G or being knuckle-deep in your cunt.” Her whole face works into this positively mischievous expression. She looks like a pixie. A wicked pixie from hell, bent on finding as much vice as possible while she’s amongst mere mortals. “And I don’t have tickets to the super-G.”

  My stomach clenches with the thought of it, because that sounds frigging awesome and I could really do with some of that to keep up this high feeling instead of getting my internal organs all in knots by fretting about the job I have to do.

  “That’ll do. My place or yours?”

  “Mine. Phoebe texted me to say she’d be out for a while. You know, in case I wanted to make use of the room. For shenanigans. Shenanigans is code for sex, by the way. You get that, right? Fucking, banging, screwing, riding the O train—”

  I cover my ears in hopes that I won’t be able to hear her sex euphemisms anymore, but of course, she’s so fucking loud, I can still hear her. “Oh my god, stop, please! You’re killing me.”

  “I don’t get it, Mais. You’re at least as filthy in bed as I am, and yet, I say some dirty words, and your face gets red like a tomato.”

  I know, I know. It’s ridiculous. And yet as much as I can shrug off the sex-shamey stuff in private, I have a much harder time in public, and saying it out loud? Caught up in the moment, yeah, but out here? Ties me up in knots. I don’t want to stop her from doing it—hell, I want her to shout dirty things from the rooftop if she feels like it, because she ought to, I just . . . don’t want to be around when she does it. Or maybe in the audience, knowing I’m going to get in her pants afterward, but having that be our little secret. Yes, that would be best of all. “Yep, that’s how things are. Can I shower first and meet you back there? Or you could wait. It won’t be long.”

  The corner of her mouth draws up again in that nefarious smile. “I’ve got a better idea.”

  Of course she does, and I can’t wait to find out what it is.

  First, though, we have to get to her suite. The walk isn’t super long, and that’s what it is—a walk. It’s not as though we have to catch a bus like the athletes who have events in the mountains. The village is a hop, skip, and a security gate away from the arenas.

  While I wouldn’t mind walking in silence, that is not on Blaze’s agenda.

  “So what was that? What you were doing?”

  “Um, skating?” I know what she’s getting at and I don’t particularly want to talk about it.

  “Yeah, but the music. Was that one of your programs or something else?”

  “How much did you see?”

  Obviously, she was there at the end, but I don’t know how long she was standing there. Did she see everything? The tips of my ears start to burn even in the cold. Not that she would object, but it’s not . . . it’s not for her. Not yet.

  “Not much. Not enough. You looked amazing for the part I did see, though.”

  She bumps my shoulder with hers. It makes me feel warm at the same time I’m the teensiest bit mortified.

  “You looked like you were having fun, too. Not like most of the times I’ve seen you.”

  Wait, what? I almost stop in my tracks, but manage not to, with a small stutter in my step. “What do you mean, all the times you’ve seen me? You been stalking me, Bellamy?”

  It’s her turn to get a little awkward, for once. She gets exaggeratedly defensive. “Nooo.”

  I keep walking, but I look up at her in question without turning my head much. A silent Oh, really?

  “What? I haven’t been. I don’t have time for that. But I have seen you skate. On the internets.”

  There’s that flush of pleasure again. Not that it’s hard to type my name into a search bar and come up with a dozen different clips from competitions, but . . . she did that. How many times has she watched me skate? What did she think? Did she sit there in awe through entire programs? Or did she only watch long enough to remember the shape of me so she could get herself off? Either way I’m flattered. “Oh?”

  “Yeah, and . . .” Her brow furrows, and it’s not a good look for her. I mean, she’s still probably the dead sexiest woman on the planet, but Blaze isn’t hesitant, she’s not unsure. “Never mind.”

  “Oh no, you don’t. Tell me.”

  She shoves her hands into her pockets and huffs, her breath a frozen white cloud in the frigid air. “You didn’t look . . . happy.”

  All the clement pleasure that’s been curling in my chest—and let’s face it, lower—evaporates, and gets replaced by a spiky misgiving. “I don’t have to be happy.”

  No, happiness, joy, elation, none of that matters. Delight doesn’t rack up the points. Technical brilliance and elegance are what earns you a good score. Not actually enjoying what you’re doing, as long as you put on a good face about it.

  “I guess not. But that’s the weird thing. When I saw you, just now? You looked like skating was your favorite thing on the face of the earth. Like you relished it. And it was awesome. You were awesome.”

  It’s a compliment and a curse all wrapped up into one. So I was great . . . at a routine that could never earn me a medal, that many if not all of the judges would find insulting, that my parents would murder me for. Cool. I mutter a thanks, but I don’t mean it. I feel shitty and awkward and out of sorts because it’s not like I didn’t know that, but I don’t like that it’s true, and I’d rather not think about it. Fuck Blaze Bellamy for not letting me keep that icy little ball of angst and discontent to myself. I don’t want to talk about it. But knowing Blaze, if I don’t fill the space with something, she will.

  But it’s as good a time to ask her about something that I’ve been curious about anyhow. “So, in that MaxOut article . . .”

  She smirks at me. “Did you actually read the article and not just look at the pictures?”

  “I did.” Of course I did. As if I wouldn’t scramble for any detail about her. Pfft. But she doesn’t need to know that I read the article almost as much as I rubbed one out while looking at the pictures. This is not the point. “And you said something—”

  “That’s what she said?” She snorts and it’s hilarious but eyeroll-inducing at the same time. I don’t give in to her baiting, though. Now I’m fishing for information.

  “You said something about being . . . polyamorous?”

  She nods and
looks straight ahead. “True story.”

  “What . . . what does that mean?”

  Blaze slides a glance in my direction, like seriously?

  I cut her off before she can direct me to letmegooglethatforyou. “I mean, anyone can read the Wikipedia page, but it’s kind of confusing.”

  She nods again, but looks more comfortable, her stride evening out and her body more fluid. “It’s confusing for people who’re poly, too. I don’t think any two people have exactly the same definition. I mean, basically, polyamory is about being in intimate relationships with more than one person at a time. The shape and content of them vary hugely, but the most important part is that everyone knows and is cool with it.”

  I could ask her more questions, like how this works for her in particular and not solely as a general thing that happens in the world, but we’ve reached the building her suite is in, and what the hell is the point, really? It’s not as though we’re going to be together long enough for this to be an issue anyhow, and I should make the best use of the time I have with her, which sure as hell doesn’t mean talking.

  Apparently she doesn’t think so, either, using her keycard to open the door and gesturing me in with a lascivious smile. “After you, hot stuff.”

  Damn straight after me.

  Chapter Eight

  Blaze

  Twenty-five minutes later finds me in my suite’s shower—thank you, Phoebe, for whatever (or whoever) it is you’re doing—pressing Maisy up against the tile with three fingers buried to the hilt in her pussy. She’s facing the wall, and her hands are pressed with her fingers spread wide, and her head dropped back against my shoulder. She’s so fucking hot.

  As much as I love this, though, it’s not conducive to getting her all slicked up. You’d think water should equal wet, and it does in a way, but not the slippery glide of a woman’s arousal. Not as good. So I slip my fingers out of her, smack her on her tight ass as I bite her shoulder.

  “Out you get, bathing beauty. I can’t make you come like I want in here.”

  The noise she lets out is one of frustration but also giving in, because who wants to settle for a substandard orgasm? No one, especially not someone who is well-acquainted with exactly how much pleasure our bodies can produce when they’re smashed together in a particular way.

  Out of the small shower, we dry off quick, fast, and in a hurry, and then she’s towing me over to the bed. Eager beaver. Heh.

  As much as I usually enjoy her taking the lead, I put on the brakes. “Hey, hey. I thought for once this could be my show.”

  She rolls her eyes, but gives in with a “fine.”

  I’m not going to make her sorry for giving up control for a while. Never make anyone sorry for something you’d like to do again.

  I sit on the bed with my back against the wall, raise my knees slightly, and then pat my lap. “Come here.”

  She eyes me suspiciously, as though she doesn’t trust my motives, but, come on, my motives are to get her off. What is not good about that? Nothing. Since she clearly needs more convincing, I wave her over with a hand and an exasperated look on my face. “Mais, come on, please? I promise it’ll be fun.”

  She purses those pink lips of hers, and sighs, but does as I’ve asked, and soon enough, she’s sitting on my lap with her back against my chest, and I’m urging her legs to bend and spread to give me access. It’s easy to nudge them a bit farther open with my knees. When I do, she gives a half-grunt, half-squeak, and it makes the corner of my mouth curl up. Oh, Miss Harper, I’ve got you precisely where I want you.

  I have to play with her clit some before the good kind of wet is back—even while her damp head rests against my shoulder. Soon, though, the dancing of my fingers on and around that sensitive bundle of nerves makes her slick and ready as ever. Her hands have been to her sides, but now I’m wondering why. They could be put to much better use.

  “Play with your tits.” My instructions aren’t met with a protest, but with quick compliance, her hands practically flying from where they’ve been tangled in the bedsheets to her chest. Her back arches away from me a bit as she takes her breasts in her hands and starts to manipulate them. Unfortunately, this position doesn’t allow me to see precisely what she’s doing—which frankly, is a crying shame—but I can imagine it, so I do. Oh yes, I do. Picture us doing this in front of a mirror sometime so I can see all of her, the faces she makes as I drive her crazy. Would she close her eyes and let her head drop back even farther, or would she brazenly make eye-contact with my reflection in the glass? The second one, for sure. Those dark brown eyes staring back at me from under heavy lids and her dark fringe of lashes, with pink high on her cheeks as she kneads her tits or pinches her pinky-brown nipples. Holy shit.

  It’s not the best angle, but I can still put my other hand to good use. Maisy had liked the penetration I offered earlier while we were under the spray of the shower, and there’s no reason I can’t give it to her again. My own cunt is feeling swollen and soaked and empty, and my tits are heavy pressed against her back, because this is turning me on like whoa, but this is her time and I’ll take my turn. Patience isn’t always my strong suit—okay, hardly ever—but I believe I’ll get mine. She won’t even have to do much work given how fucking horny I am, how hot I am for her.

  I’m working her clit with the middle finger of one hand, faster and lighter than I would my own, and then slip two fingers inside her. Hot and slippery, the feel of her is incredible. If there’s a place I’d rather have my fingers than inside Maisy Harper, I can’t think of where that might be.

  Given that I know her, her body, and there was a shit ton of foreplay from the walk over here to the shower hijinks, I’ve got her revved up pretty good, and she’s handling herself in a way that gets her off, it’s not so long until she’s panting, the back of her ribcage heaving against me in a way that rubs my own hard nipples.

  I’m grinding against her with my pelvis from behind—between that and the four hands that are toying with her, does it make her feel as if she’s got more than one lover? What I wouldn’t give to make a Maisy sandwich with some other woman. But I don’t think Maisy would be into that. She’s too private, too secretive. It makes me happy in some ways, that she trusts me enough to share this with me and not so many other people, but sad for her as well. How much more fun could she have if she loosened up a bit?

  But for right now, I don’t want her loose. I want her twisted up and tight with wanting, tensed for an impending climax, so I start to murmur the filthiest things I can think of in her ear while I make urgent circles around her clit with one hand, and frig her with the other.

  “You like that, Mais? Getting finger-fucked in your tight pussy while you play with your own tits? Spread out like a fucking centerfold with your cunt on display? You’re so goddamn shameless. Are you going to shout for me when you come, dirty girl? I want to hear you. Not just feel you clench around my fingers. I want your noises that you make when I’ve fucked you into oblivion.”

  “Fucking hell.” Her breathy, just-above-a-whisper mutter only barely gets out before I feel it: that sexy as fuck tightness of her body that tells me she’s going to lose it, that she’s right on the edge, and all I have to do is push her over. So I pinch her clit while I crook a finger up to her G-spot, and she’s gone. Gone into shuddering, crying out, pussy-contracting orgasm. I feel it around my fingers, and the tremors ripple through her whole quaking body. And yeah, she let me hear it, these barely human noises, and so loud. Some curses and blasphemies, but even better, my name. “Fuck, yes, Blaze, fuck me, fuck me. I’m coming, so hard. Don’t stop, never stop.”

  Which of course she doesn’t mean, but it takes her a good few minutes to be lying limp against me, her hands flopped outward and her legs sprawled as if she doesn’t give a fuck about what the world thinks of Maisy Harper. It takes her a while to find her breath, and as she does, she dreamily strokes my thighs and nuzzles her face into my shoulder as though she could fall asleep right her
e. I wouldn’t mind, except I’m practically vibrating with my own need. But I’ll give her this; a few moments of peace to enjoy her satisfaction, to be completely unraveled and satiated.

  Yeah, I did that.

  Maisy

  Blaze makes a really good pillow. I mean, yeah, she’s also a phenomenal lover. She’s got me practically comatose after some fun soapy times in the shower followed by a really quite thorough fingerbang, so bushed—heh—that I’m totally content to laze in her lap, which is something I never do. Cuddles aren’t so much my jam, because it seems like asking for too much. I’ve done my job, gotten what I came for, and now I should stop wasting people’s time.

  And yet . . . Blaze is showing no inclination whatsoever to kick me out. She is, in fact, holding me, her arms wrapped around my waist. Nothing like her crazy strong thighs, but her forearms are substantial enough on their own, weighty across my midsection, like they’re telling me to stay. I can do that. For now.

  I drowse for a bit, feeling sated and relaxed, and not freaking out about what’s ahead in the coming days. Going over what I need to do, but not fretting overly. It’s not as though the shelf life of a figure skater is very long, especially for women, so there’s a better than 90 percent chance that this is it for me. Well, that whole not-worrying thing is over.

  Lucky for me, I have something else I can focus on for a bit before I have to run off to dinner with my teammates. Her name is Blaze, she’s hot as fuck, and she’s been waiting so patiently underneath me that her head must be ready to explode, because forbearance isn’t exactly her middle name.

  “Blaze?”

  “Yeah?”

  Oh, bless her for trying to sound normal when she is likely thirsting for an orgasm. “Did you happen to bring any, um, accessories with you?”

  There’s a pause, and I can practically smell the smoke from the thought fires stoking in her brain: Accessories? Like earrings? Hair elastics? A motherfucking scarf? What are you on about, Harper?