by Tracy Wolff
But I’m wrong. This time Z isn’t going anywhere. Instead of getting up or suggesting we stop, he takes the opposite approach. He strips my panties down my legs in one swift move, then buries his face between my thighs.
I come off the bed at the first touch of his tongue against my clit, and seconds later my legs are over his shoulders and I’m in the throes of my first orgasm in eleven long, terrible months. I clutch at him, hold him to me as it goes on and on and on, thanks to Z and his oh-so-talented tongue.
When it’s finally over—and I once again have control over my brain and my limbs—I sit up with some vague idea of returning the favor. But Z just puts one big hand on my stomach and presses me back down.
“What—” I’m so dazed, so sated, that the words still aren’t forming right in my head.
He just laughs, a low, warm, delicious sound that sends new shivers up my back. And then his mouth is right back on me, his tongue tracing the folds of my sex and dipping inside once, twice, then again and again.
“Z!” I call his name as the maelstrom starts to build again, and he reaches up, twines his fingers with mine. He anchors me, gives me something to hold on to as he takes me right up to the edge of my control and then flings me over a second time.
And a third.
By now, my body isn’t even my own anymore. Z has laid claim to it and he’s determined to do what he promised. To make me feel good as he wrings every ounce of sensation—of pleasure—that he can from me.
“Please,” I whimper, my hands clutching at him as his tongue delves inside me for another long, leisurely lick. “No more. Please no more. I need—”
I cut myself off before I finish the sentence, before I scare us both off with an admission of just how much I need him.
But Z won’t let me hide. He strips away my last barriers—and every ounce of self-protection I have left—as surely as he stripped my clothes away. “What, baby?” he asks, his voice all sex-drugged black magic. “What do you need?”
I don’t want to answer him, don’t want to give him this last piece of myself when I’ve already given him so many. But when he brushes tender kisses across my shoulder and down my breast—kisses that tell me he wants so much more from me than just the good time we agreed to—I can’t stop myself from blurting out the truth.
“You,” I whisper, my body arching against his as he slips two fingers inside me and strokes my G-spot. “I need you, Z.”
“You’ve got me, Ophelia.” He murmurs the words against my breast, in between long, languid licks around my nipple. “I’m not going anywhere.”
For the first time, I wish that that was true. That we could stay right here, hiding from the outside world forever. Or at least until our bodies give out from the pleasure.
Except Z hasn’t taken any pleasure yet. He’s made me come three times and is giving every indication that he wants to go for a fourth, but I’m not having it. Not right now, when I am drowning in the need he created and my own determination to make him feel as good as he’s made me feel.
So I clutch at his hair, tugging at him until his face is level with mine and his hips are between my thighs. “Now,” I tell him. “Please. Right now.”
Except he’s pulling away, straightening up. Leaving me. “No!” I gasp, clutching at him. I’m not ready for this to end, not ready for him to leave me again. Not yet. Please, not yet.
“It’s okay,” he tells me, reaching for his jacket and unzipping a secret pocket on the inside. “I need a condom.”
Right. Because that’s who he is. The guy who carries condoms in his snowboarding jacket. And probably his pants and his wallet and his car, too. I need to remember that no matter how crazy he makes me or how much pleasure he gives me, I’m just one of a crowd.
Which is fine. This isn’t about love or forever or any of those other things. It’s about forgetting.
Then he’s back, kissing me, sliding into me. I kiss him back, try to lose myself in the sensations ripping through me. But it’s too late. Z might be a better lover than Remi—and I feel a little guilty even thinking it—but he doesn’t care about me.
Which was fine the other day, when I didn’t care about him, either. But now … now it’s not so easy. Because he isn’t just some guy looking to win a bet anymore. He’s the guy who’s helped me out nearly every time he’s seen me. The guy who somehow wormed his way under my defenses and made me like him way more than I should.
“Ophelia.”
Z’s voice brings me back. I open my eyes, find his face only inches from my own. His eyes are dark with desire, his jaw clenched against the need to come.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “I’m good.”
He bends his head, nips at my bottom lip, hard.
“Hey!” I exclaim, bringing my hand up to soothe the hurt. “What was that for?”
He doesn’t answer, but then he doesn’t have to, because already I can feel the heat spreading through me. The pain grounds me, brings me right back to the precipice of desire I’d been balanced on only minutes ago.
Z’s watching me closely, and he must be satisfied because he starts moving again, thrusting into me oh so slowly. I can feel every inch of him stroking through me, and heat starts building inside me, spiraling my own desire up, up, up.
It scares me a little. How easily he can make me want him—and how much. Part of me wants to disconnect again, to take a step back out of sheer self-preservation. But Z’s having none of it. He chooses that moment to lower his mouth to my neck and bite me again.
“Z!” I gasp his name as fire sizzles along my nerve endings, and I clutch at his shoulders. He laves the little hurt with his tongue, even as he slips a hand between us and strokes my clit.
That’s all it takes. I come apart in his arms once more, and this time he comes with me.
Chapter 15
Z
This girl is going to be the death of me. It seems stupid to say that, to even think it considering what I’ve done in my life and what I’ll continue to do, but I swear, it’s the truth. What years of snowboarding haven’t managed, Ophelia is going to take care of with just a look. A smile. A touch.
Outside, a strong gust of wind blows, whistling through the trees even as it has the windows rattling in their frames. Ophelia is still asleep, but some part of her must feel it, because she burrows deeper under the covers, snuggling closer to me until her ass is pressed right up against my cock.
I want to slide inside her, to be the first thing she feels when she wakes up. The first thing she sees out of those gorgeous green eyes of hers, eyes that I now know turn a deep, verdant jungle green when she comes. But we made lo—
I freeze before the words are fully formed, force a do-over in my own head. We were together (because saying we fucked doesn’t fit any better than saying we made love) four times last night. She has to be sore and tired, and I need to be considerate.
But part of me doesn’t give a damn. It’s the same part of me that can’t stand when she slips away from me, when I’m holding her or loving her and she just disappears. Just goes somewhere else in her head. That part of me wants to fuck her again and again and again, until all she feels or smells or tastes is me. Until she understands that I’m not just going to let her slip away. Not now. Not yet.
Just the fact that I’m thinking this way freaks me out. I don’t date. I don’t pine after a girl. I don’t do anything but fuck—and even that is more about letting the pressure out, feeling something even if it’s just for a minute, than it has ever been about the person I’m with. Except last night wasn’t about trying to feel—at least for me. Last night, and this morning, I feel much more than I’ve ever wanted to.
Determined to gain a little distance—or at least a little perspective—I roll away from her, start to climb out of bed. But she follows me, scooting across the bed in her sleep in an effort to keep her body pressed to mine.
It makes me smile, makes me want to wrap myself around her and stay with her until she w
akes up. But as she shifts, I catch sight of the livid bruises around her arms. Bruises that Harvey put there. Bruises that he will pay for.
With that thought in mind, I brush a kiss over Ophelia’s hair and climb out of bed. I take a quick shower. Then, wearing nothing but my boxers and the smile I can’t seem to wipe off my face, I follow the signs to the laundry room on the first floor to retrieve my clothes. I really hope nobody took them, because a text about losing my clothes is so not what I want to send to Ash this morning. Already he’s pissed that I wouldn’t upload the footage from the camera and send it to him last night so he could watch it. If I press my luck, he’ll enlist Luc to find a way to get even—probably one that involves cayenne pepper in my underwear. Luc’s practical jokes are legendary.
My clothes are there, though someone’s taken them out of the dryer and heaped them on the side counter. I slip into them quickly, cursing a little at how cold everything is. It’s never bothered me before, but then I’ve never spent a night snuggled up against Ophelia before, either. In fact, unless I’m totally wasted and just pass out like I did with Stacy, I never spend the night with a girl at all. The fact that I did last night shakes me up more than I want to admit to anyone, especially myself.
I make my way back to Ophelia’s room, hoping she’ll be up so I can talk her into breakfast and a ride home. But she’s still sacked out, and when I glance at her alarm, I realize it’s not set to go off for a couple of hours. Either it’s her day off or she’s working late today.
Either way, there’s some stuff I want to take care of, and since there’s no way I’m going back to bed, I might as well do it now. I can’t stand what almost happened to her last night, hate the fact that if I hadn’t been hiking in—due to my own stupidity—then I wouldn’t have been there and she would have had to fend Harvey off on her own. I hate even more the fact that she might not have been able to fend him off. When I caught up to them, she was almost holding her own, but he’s a big guy. Who knows what could have happened.
Just the thought of Ophelia being raped and/or beaten has rage rocketing through me, and for a minute I can almost feel the bastard’s neck beneath my hands. Men who hurt women that way don’t deserve to live.
Shaking it off, or at least trying to, I add another item to my mental to-do list. Then I bend over, kiss Ophelia’s cheek, and murmur, “I’ll be back in a little.”
She moans, pushes at my face, and I can’t help grinning. Looks like my girl is definitely not a morning person. It’s kind of cute that she’s this grumpy in the morning. Then again, it shouldn’t really surprise me, not when she’s got grumpy cornered all the other times of the day, too.
Pulling my phone out, I text Ash and Luc a quick request before throwing on my jacket and heading out on the same path Ophelia was on yesterday, only in the opposite direction. If I hurry, I can be back before she wakes up.
I pretty much jog the whole way to the resort—it’s a great morning for it. Crisp and clear with air so pure it almost hurts to breathe. Luc and Ash still beat me there, though. I find them in the main parking lot, leaning against my Range Rover and shooting the shit about some of the other guys on the snowboarding circuit.
“Well, you look like you’re in one piece,” Luc says, giving me a critical once-over once he catches sight of me.
“I told you yesterday that I was fine.”
“Yeah, well, we weren’t particularly inclined to believe you—especially when you wouldn’t let us come over last night.”
“You’re turning into a little old grandma, Luc. All this worrying. You should probably get out more. It’ll take care of that.”
He flips me off, but there’s no heat in it. “Yeah, well, you should probably go get laid. It might keep you from jumping off the side of a fucking mountain.”
At his words, I can’t help but think about Ophelia and what we spent most of the night doing. Not that I’m about to tell Luc and Ash about it. Some things are nobody else’s business.
“Where’re my keys?” I ask, holding out my hand.
“Where’s my camera?” Ash counters, holding out his hand as well.
“Right here.” I pull it out of the bag I snagged from Ophelia’s place.
“How’s the footage?”
“I don’t know. Haven’t looked at it yet.”
They goggle at me like I’m crazy. “Are you kidding me? How could you not watch it?” Ash demands. “Didn’t you want to see what you did?”
“Dude, I lived it. What’s going over it again gonna do for me?”
Luc shakes his head at me. “You’re hopeless. You know that?”
“I always have been.”
Ash shoots me a look, but he’s too busy bringing up the footage to say anything. Of course, I’d totally forgotten that it was recording during Cam’s and my little talk at the top of the mountain, so—lucky me—I get to endure hearing to it a second time. While my best friends watch and listen, too.
“Well, fuck,” Ash says, pausing it right before I go over. “I take back all the shit I said. If she was yapping at me like that, I’d probably go off the side of a mountain, too.”
All three of us laugh, and then Ash hits play and we get to watch my trip down that mountain. It always feels a little surreal to me to watch footage from a chest cam—at least of myself and something I’ve done—but Ash and Luc don’t seem to have any problem with it.
They hoot and holler a little bit as the video rolls, and Luc curses when I hit that monster drop, but other than that nobody says anything until we get to the end of the footage. And even then, Ash turns around and starts scrolling back so we can watch it all over again.
“Dude, how big was that drop?” Luc demands. “It went on for fucking ever.”
“It felt that way. When I was doing it, I thought it was probably two hundred feet, but once I was down and looking back up, it seemed more like two hundred and fifty feet or so.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. It’s the only time on the whole run that I thought I might actually die. It felt like the ground was so far away.”
“It was so far away.” Ash shakes his head in awe. “Man, that is fucking Art of Flight shit,” he tells me, referencing the kick-ass snowboarding documentary that showed boarders doing a whole host of things that didn’t look like they were humanly possible.
“That’s right,” I agree. “Travis Rice ain’t got nothing on me.” Then I laugh, because the man’s a genius while I’m just a fuck-up. No doubt a lucky fuck-up yesterday, but still a fuck-up.
“No way, man. This is epic. Seriously epic. Do you know the longest drop ever landed is—”
“One hundred and seven meters. Three hundred and twenty-one feet,” Luc and I finish for him in stereo. Ash is a living, breathing snowboarding Wikipedia, and we’ve heard it all a million times before.
“Exactly. I bet you were close to that.”
“Nah.”
“I don’t know, man.” He brings the footage back to my drop, counts the seconds. “If you were dropping at a rate of—”
“Okay, okay, enough snowboarding geek stuff,” I tell him. I don’t know how far I dropped and I don’t care. For me it’s never been about that kind of stuff.
“All right, fine.” He continues scrolling until he gets to one of my tricks. “Is that really a triple—”
“Yeah.”
“And a 1440—”
“Yep.”
“Where have you been hiding this stuff?” Luc demands. “We board with you every day, and while you do some extreme shit, I have never seen you do a couple of those tricks before.”
I shrug. “We don’t always practice together.”
“No, of course not. Only like every day.”
“He did the 1440 the other day, while you and Cam were still sleeping,” Ash says. “It was totally front.”
“Yeah, I bet.” Luc shakes his head again. “Man, you are going to redefine the X Games this year. No one is going to be able to touch you.”
“Forget the X Games. This is Olympic medal shit,” Ash tells him.
“Nah, man. The Olympics are your game. It’s all you this year. Well, you and that kid from Colorado,” I tell him.
“Yeah, right. Neither Luc nor I can do an inverted 1440.”
“Hell, most days it’s all I can do to hit 1080,” Luc agrees. “This is awesome, Z.”
“People are going to go apeshit for this footage,” Ash says. “I can’t wait to get it up.”
“About that …”
He already knows what I’m going to say. “Oh, no. No way. Don’t you dare tell me you don’t want me to use it.”
“I was just thinking, maybe—”
“No! No! You’re too frickin’ modest all the time. You never want anyone to see what you can do, and usually I go along with it, but this is amazing. And it’s almost Olympic trials time. You totally need to get this out there.”
“I already told you, I’m not interested in the Olympics—”
“Yeah, well, we are,” Luc interjects. “This footage is going to get us a shitload of hits and attention on YouTube and the website. And once they’re there, maybe they’ll poke around for a while, see what else we’ve got. This is how you get the Olympic selection committee’s attention.”
“You get their attention by kicking ass at the trials. The Dew championship—”
“Bull. You know as well as I do that it’s as much about swagger as it is about your actual performance during those couple of weeks.”
“You don’t count. You’d agree with anything if it meant getting that footage on the website.”
“While that is true, I still stand by what Luc says. What you did on this video is too awesome to ignore. It’s going up.”
I start to argue with him some more, but I can tell by the look on his face that I’ll have to pry the camera from his cold, dead hand if I have any chance of keeping my ride off the Internet. And fuck it, in the grand scheme of things, what’s the big deal? I’ve got better stuff to do this morning than to stand around here wasting time with these two.