by Sara Ney
“I’m not making fun of you; you’re just so damn cute.”
I hesitate. “Well? Are you any good?”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“How good?”
“I’m real good. Not just real good—I’m the fucking best.” The mattress dips and he turns to rest on his side, facing me. “Know what my favorite part of wrestling is?”
“What’s your favorite part?” I gulp down a whisper, then a sigh.
“The moments before I finally get that pin, the anticipation when you both know it’s coming. The buildup, the back and forth leading up to that point.” He is positively humming, and my nerves hum right along with him. “My body stretched out, sweaty from the effort, my opponent laid out underneath me.”
Why does it sound like we’re not talking about wrestling any more? A throbbing heat forms between my legs, and I wiggle around uncomfortably to avoid having to rub them together.
“Oh.” This time I do whisper and sigh.
“Yeah.” The mattress dips again as he rolls toward me. “Oh.”
“Is it a power trip thing?”
I can feel him considering the question. “Not at all. For me, the thrill is all mental, knowing I can calculate how someone is going to react before they do in order to gain the upper hand physically.” Then, as an afterthought, he adds, “It’s more about controlling my own body and its movements rather than someone else’s.”
The room is silent.
“Does my size…scare you James?” His voice is reluctant and full of worry, as if the thought just occurred to him.
“No. No, your size doesn’t scare me.” Quite the opposite; it doesn’t scare me—the sheer size of him thrills me and my traitorous body. I don’t mention how it’s become harder and harder to breath when we’re together. How I’ve begun fantasizing about him when we’re apart. How lying here in the dark is a test of my resolve.
I want to touch him.
I want to let him touch me.
Whisper his name as he…
“I might be big, but I don’t ever want you to be afraid of me, James. I would never hurt you.”
“I know.” He would never.
“My dick would never hurt you either. He’s very gentle.”
Great. Now I’m going to be lying here thinking about his penis.
“Oh my god, Oz, you are so—”
“Good in bed.”
“Why must you do that?”
“I’m just stating the facts, Jim.”
“Go to sleep, Oswald.”
Sebastian
Holy shit, Jameson is good.
No. Scratch that.
Not good. Fucking. Great.
I’ll be the first to admit: when I heard James was a good snowboarder…I didn’t believe it. Granted, all my assumptions were based entirely on her conservative looks. Her preppy sweaters. Her pearl necklace. Those classy, demure, diamond earrings. The leggings or whatever those pants are that she’s always wearing.
None of those things scream, “I shred it going down a mountain riding a snowboard.”
But shreds it.
She does.
She really, really fucking does—and watching her today was unbelievable. I couldn’t take my eyes off her: dark brown hair in two of the sexiest braids I’ve ever fucking seen, peeking out from underneath her black helmet and sleek goggles. I happily trailed down the mountain after her, chasing every movement of her blue tie-dye coat and bright blue snowboarding pants.
Struggled to keep pace as she nose crailed a 360 in the terrain park. Marveled when she banked it off the slider. Cheered when she slid skillfully on the down rail.
I consider myself a decent snowboarder, but even I can’t do an Ollie. Jameson nailed three of them.
She removes her bright blue coat as we walk into the warm ski chalet and my eyes browse around, noting all the people inside escaping from the frigid cold: several youngsters that are obviously siblings, a married couple sipping coffee, and the same MILF with huge silicon tits and botoxed lips that accidentally bumped into me this morning when I was putting on my lift ticket. She may or may not have been giving me come fuck me eyes.
Scratch that—she definitely was.
The black straps of Jameson’s snowboarding pants draw my attention; they’re pulled taut over her shoulders, running up the front of her tight, black wool under layer, showcasing her boobs. They’re not huge or fake—not like the MILF’s—and I admire their size and their smooth, round shape beneath her sweater.
An entire handful.
Next comes the helmet. Jameson reaches up and unsnaps the strap cradling her chin before sliding it off and shaking her two brown braids so they hang over those gorgeous tits, stray hairs flying haphazardly around her flushed face.
Fucking sexy.
I close the distance between us, reaching for her coat and helmet. “Here. Let me go put these in our locker. You have the key?”
She glances up at me, surprise widening her pretty eyes. A smile widens her mouth, and she bites down on her lower lip to keep it from spreading. A faint blush tints her cheeks that wasn’t put there from the cold. “Sure. Yes. Thank you.”
Reaching into the pocket of her jacket, she produces a small silver locker key. It dangles between us on the ring.
“Oh! Would you take my pants, too?” Jameson pulls the straps of her pants down, sliding them down her arms until they fall at her side. “I don’t want to roast when we’re in front of the fire; I’ll die of heat stroke.”
I watch as she pops open the front buttons, glides down the zipper, and thrusts the black vinyl pants down her hips with a seductive little shimmy. Underneath, she’s wearing nothing but tight, black wool tights.
Oddly, I find the whole thing incredibly erotic.
Stepping out of them, she bends at the waist, sticks her perky ass in the air, and picks them up off the floor, handing them to me with an appreciative smile.
Naïvely. Like she wasn’t just shaking her ass in the general direction of my junk.
I hold a hand up to halt her. “Wait. You’re not seriously going to run around here in just that underwear, are you?”
Jameson bends her head, glancing down her torso at her stocking clad legs—her gorgeous, long legs—before looking up at me.
“Uh, you mean my itchy wool leggings? Yeah. This is what I’m running around in.” Her laugh is full of humor. “Why?”
“They’re not decent.”
Her hands go on her waist and she juts out a hip. “What do you care?”
I stare down at her inner thigh. “I don’t. I’m just picturing you naked, and so is everyone else. If you can live with that knowledge, then I guess we don’t have a problem.”
“I highly doubt everyone is picturing me naked.” Jameson laughs dismissively. “But I guess I’m okay with it if they are.”
I cross my arms over my broad chest in disagreement. “You don’t think Chad over there is checking you out? And that Blaine kid?”
Her face screws up, bewildered. “It’s Brandon, not Blaine.”
“Same thing,” I argue, because I honestly don’t give a shit what the kid’s name is.
“You know what, Oz? You’re really weird sometimes. No one is checking out my goods, so you can lay off the big cousin routine.”
“The feelings in my groin are hardly familial,” I joke, finally reaching for her gear. “Suit yourself if you want to date them, but don’t come crying to me later.”
Another soft laugh and she’s giving me a little pat on the arm. The brief contact sends heat straight to my—
“I think I’ll manage, but thanks.” She pats me again, running her fingers up the sleeve of my cotton under layer. “And thanks for taking my stuff to the locker room. I’ll go find us some seats.”
So off I go like a good little Boy Scout, transporting Jameson’s pants, jacket, and helmet down to the locker area. I insert the key into the metal door and toss everything into our rented locker, including my own coat,
pants, and helmet. I chuck all our shit in before locking it up and stuffing the key into the pocket of my loose athletic pants.
Turn from the locker.
Across the warm locker room, I’m not terribly surprised to discover MILF leaning against the far wall, appraising me. A coy smile tugging the corner of her red lips, her bleached blonde hair is braided underneath a black knit skullcap. The rest of her outfit is pure white: white turtleneck, white ski pants, white socks.
If she’s going for the virginal look, it’s not working—and let’s face it, she knows she’s not fooling anybody.
I pass MILF and shoot her my sexiest smirk, knowing she’ll be around later if I get bored.
Taking the stairs two at a time, I make my way to the main lobby, sans boots, and search the cavernous, rustic lodge for those thin black leggings. I find them propped on the large, gray stone hearth of the blazing fireplace. James’ cute little toes and cute little feet are in gray wool socks that are yanked up her calves.
Catching me watching them, she wiggles her toes when I approach. Patting the seat on the massive leather couch, her feet hit the ground as she makes room for me to sit.
“Here, I got you a hot chocolate,” Jameson announces, handing me a white, steaming mug. Whipped cream is dolloped on top. “This is for taking my things downstairs.”
Our fingers brush when I slide my palm around the cup to remove it from her grip, and with an easy grin, I plop down next to her on the couch. I settle onto the well-worn leather, spreading my legs wide so our hips and thighs touch with satisfying heat.
“So, Oz man, how’s your season goin’?” asks some kid in a red Burton sweatshirt. Stocking cap pulled low over his forehead, his goggles still rest on his head.
“It’s a bitch. I’m lucky I was able to get away for the weekend.” It’s partly true; the truth is, I had to lie like a mother to get the weekend off from my trainer. I concocted some bullshit about my left hamstring being too tight and not wanting to pull it before our next meet.
Which is in exactly six days. Against the powerhouse Penn State.
Contractually, D1 athletes like myself aren’t technically allowed to participate in other sports, especially “dangerous” ones like snowboarding.
Fine. There’s nothing technical about it. We’re not supposed to be doing anything that could get us injured, and that includes playing beach volleyball with my annoying cousin Brielle, or oh, I don’t know—snowboarding down a freaking mountain.
If I were to break, sprain, or pull something, there’d be a huge possibility I’d cost my team their season.
Which means, I’m royally screwed if I get injured on the ski hill.
“How much can you bench press?” a boarder in an Iowa hoodie asks. His hat is backward and like James, he’s only wearing wool leggings, and his aren’t nearly as nice as hers. Even from my spot on the couch, I can see the bulge of his junk—I mean Jesus, is it hard to put pants on in the company of ladies?
“About four hundred.”
“Holy shit,” he mutters, suitably impressed.
“Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“I’m Scott—my friends call me Striker.” Scott lifts himself from his spot on the fireplace hearth to extend his hand toward me for a fist bump. “I play soccer.”
I muster up a limp tap. “I might have heard of you,” I admit begrudgingly, narrowing my eyes. “Does your coach know you’re on this trip?”
Scott studies me back, the red hair under his cap sticking out in spikes. The little shit has the balls to volley back with, “Does yours?”
A pointy little elbow stabs me in the ribcage, and I look down into Jameson’s angry blue eyes. Wordlessly, she sends me a silent message: Stop it right now.
I lift my chin a notch. Simmer down.
“So what’s the deal with you two?” one of the girls asks. Her light blonde hair is piled in a messy bun atop her head, and despite the fact that we just spent the entire day outside, she has a face full of expertly applied makeup. “Are you dating?”
“They’re cousins,” Chad explains with authority.
“No we’re not.” Jameson furrows her forehead, her pert little nose wrinkling.
“You’re not cousins?” Chad eyeballs me. “Dude, that’s what you told me on the phone.”
Oh shit, that’s right. “Right…” I drawl out the word, adding, “Cousins that kiss,” with a laugh. “Sometimes.”
No one thinks it’s funny.
Especially not Jameson.
She gasps—a surprised, horrified gasp that sounds so surprisingly orgasmic it plays on a loop through my mind.
“Oh my god, he’s totally kidding!” She jams her pointy-as-fuck elbow deeper into my ribcage. “Oz, tell them you’re kidding,” she hisses through clenched teeth.
“Fine. I’m kidding about the cousin part,” I deadpan. “But we’ve definitely kissed and we’re definitely not cousins.” I take a casual gulp of hot chocolate to occupy my mouth and feel the whipped cream coat my upper lip. I lick it. “I lied. I’m trying to get into her pants, but if you want the truth, it’s proving rather difficult.”
Beside me, Jameson groans, head falling back against the leather sofa. “Oh god, my life.”
Chad sits back against the stone fireplace chimney, studying me: my flip flops, the athletic pants, the thinning wrestling tee shirt. His eyes take in my black tattoos, the hard set line of my mouth, the scars above my brows and across the bridge of my nose.
Finally, “Why would you lie, dude?”
I shoot a sidelong glance at Jameson that only he and Scott can see, then raise my heavy eyebrows, sending the silent message, Isn’t it obvious? Slowly, they both nod in understanding as my arm goes up on the back of the couch, resting behind Jameson’s reclined head.
I give my forefinger a soft tap on the leather, toying with the silky ends of her hair, wrapping the loose strands around my finger.
She lets me.
“Hey, what are we all doing later?” a dark-haired girl asks. I think her name is Sam or whatever, but regardless, her shocking black hair is piled high on her head in an untidy knot, the ends messily sticking out everywhere. It’s kind of cute, actually. I wonder if she’s single; my body is desperately seeking vagina. “My boyfriend wants to FaceTime. I just want to know what time to tell him.”
Never mind.
Chad, obviously the leader of this crew, rubs the scruff on his chin. “Tell him whenever. I think tonight after dinner we’ll just chill.”
“Speaking of dinner, I could eat the ass out of a dead skunk,” Scott announces, to the mortification of all the girls. Sam, Jameson, and two blonde girls make faces, calling him a disgusting slob. “It’s almost six. Let’s go eat.”
“Cab it downtown?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Sebastian
“What did you think you were you doing back at the restaurant?” Jameson starts in as soon as we’re back in our hotel room following the group dinner. I shut the door behind us, sliding the deadbolt into place. “Were you cockblocking me?”
“Cockblocking you from who?” What the hell is she talking about? I toss our coats and shit on the bed, spinning on my heel to face her. “Who the hell were you hoping was going to ask you out? Scott? Cause that guy is a douche.”
“Scott is not a douche,” she argues feebly. “He’s a nice guy, unlike some people! And no, I don’t want to date him.”
I snicker. “He’d love knowing you called him nice. Nice guys heart that shit.” Not. “So who do you have a lady boner for?”
“None of your business.”
“Then how the fuck am I supposed to know if I was cockblocking you or not? I’m a wrestler, not a freaking mind reader.”
Jameson strolls to the dresser, tugs it open, and pulls out her white tank top and sleep shorts. “Well you’re a shitty wingman, too.”
I furrow my brow, disgruntled. “Do I look like a goddamn wingman?”
Her mouth hangs open.
“Yes! You literally said you were going to be my wingman!”
A snort escapes my nose. “Not with those snowboarding guys! I thought you meant other guys staying at the hotel!”
“Fine!” In defeat, Jameson throws her arms in the air. “Then let’s get dressed and sit in the hotel bar.”
I squint at her skeptically. “Are you even twenty-one?”
“Oh my god, I hate you right now.” She taps her foot on the carpet in a tiny huff, pretending to be mad. It’s kind of adorable. “Rule number six: no cockblocking. And yes I’m twenty-one. Can we go now?”
“Uh…have you seen the idiots staying here?”
“Yes, I’m staring at one,” she deadpans, keeping a straight face for a few seconds before her face breaks into a grin.
“Ha ha, very funny.” I smirk. “Lucky for you, I don’t count.”
“If you would have at least let Erik give me his phone number, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. You were really freaking rude to him.”
“He was wearing a yellow sweatshirt!” I hardly manage to keep the disdain out of my voice.
She stares blankly. “So?”
“So? So! You can’t trust anyone wearing a yellow sweatshirt.”
Her brows rise and she points to my yellow sweatshirt. “You’re wearing a yellow sweatshirt.”
“Thank you! I just proved my point.” I flick an imaginary piece of lint off my hoodie. “Besides, Erik had small hands.” No reaction? Fine. I prompt her, “Small hands? Small…”
“Dick.”
“See? You get it.”
“No—you are a dick.”
God she’s adorable when she’s argumentative, all in a snit. Blue eyes blazing bright, alive with interest, James clutches her sleep clothes in one hand, propping her fist on her hip with the other. “Are we going down to the bar or not?”
“No. Not until you calm down. You’re being really irrational for someone who doesn’t plan on hooking up with anyone.” I look her up and down. “And what the hell are you doing with that tank top?”