Fire on the Ice

by Tamsen Parker

  It must be almost ten minutes before she’s using the cup to rinse the lather out of my hair, and I’m basically a puddle. I have freaking awesome reflexes, but I think if someone kicked the chair out from under me, I wouldn’t spring to my feet but rather fall on the floor and lie there, dazed. And then fall asleep. I don’t get this relaxed—there’s always a film of mania over everything I do. But I think Maisy’s sultry brand of calm has managed to work its way under that layer.

  She lets the water out of the sink, rinses my hair again and then cracks open another bottle I’m guessing is conditioner. Pouring it into her palm, she circles the cream between her palms and then delves into my hair, her fingers working in, and repeats the same motions, though focusing on my neck, cradling it with both of her hands and easing the tight muscles there with the pads of her thumbs.

  I don’t feel uncomfortable with Maisy seeing me like this, either, which is strange. I’m not . . . quiet, easy. With anyone. And I’m so rarely alone that I’m not like this by myself, either. It’s a secret layer that seems to belong only to her, and I’m okay with that. For all that I tease her about being a stick-in-the-mud, I like that about her. For lots of reasons, one being that I feel as though she can be trusted. She’s not going to forget about me or about us in a frenzied quest for pleasure, she’s not going to run roughshod over my feelings, because she believes I have them and she’ll be respectful of them. She’s not going to overreach in a frantic grab for my soul. Nope, Maisy lets me know she’s coming. Like now.

  “One last rinse and then we’ll sit you up.”

  I hum contentedly as she works the conditioner out of my hair, and then let her help me up, keeping the rolled towel at my neck so my soaking hair doesn’t drip down my back. She leaves it there, grabs another towel that she uses to cover my head, and uses that to sop up some of the water before scrubbing it over my head as though I’m a dog.

  It makes me laugh, and if I were in fact a dog, this is the part when I’d shake off from my nose to the tip of my tail and leave her shrieking and crossing her arms in front of her face so she wouldn’t get too wet. As it is, I let myself enjoy the chafing until it’s over.

  Maisy uncovers my head and takes a comb to me, running the teeth through the strands with ease. When she’s satisfied, she takes up her scissors and starts to separate my hair into sections, keeping the damp strands between her fingers and drawing them away from my scalp, using the scissors to cut the bits that stick out between her fingers.

  She’s efficient but not hurried, and I let her work without saying anything. It’s companionable, this silence, and I appreciate her giving me the space to be quiet for once. That’s not what anyone else wants from me. Or expects from me. Which is fine for the most part, because I’m brash and brassy and that’s not an act. It’s how I am. But it’s nice not to have to be that way and still have a person who wants to spend time with me.

  The message I got earlier was from one of the people who really is only interested in me because of my antics. I can’t blame him; I cultivated our friendship because of what he could do for me, too. Yancey started out as a flat-out paparazzi which is when I first met him, but now he works for Celebrinews, writing his own features with pics he’s snapped himself, usually.

  He’d asked why I hadn’t been calling him with tips on where to get racy pics of me with whomever I was taking home that night. I’ll answer him at some point because I don’t want to blow a connection that could prove useful sometime, but also because I’ve come to genuinely like the guy. Not now, though. Now, I’ll bask in what Maisy is doing to my head.

  It takes her a while until she’s satisfied, and then she uses her hand to shake out my hair. It’s almost dry after her handling, and she bends down close in front of me to make sure parts are even, and though I could—I totally could—I don’t grab her face and kiss her. I let her demonstrate her skill and get the job done. It’s possible I shouldn’t be such a shit to Maisy about her being a workhorse. I swear to god, though, it would do something for her skating to put on more of a show. To look like she’s having fun. But I’ll let her be for now. Which is a good call, because she’s breaking out a hair dryer and a round brush that looks so substantial she could probably club baby seals with it. Or maybe a mouthy speedskater.

  She pulls and tugs and dries, and by the time she’s done, I feel downright glamorous. It’s usually a quick smear of mousse straight out of the shower, and letting it dry on the way to the rink because my hair’s going under a helmet anyhow. This treatment makes me feel as though I’m a princess, and I kinda like it.

  Maisy’s gaze rakes over me as she inspects her handiwork, her mouth tight.

  “Can I see it?”

  “Yes.” Though she doesn’t seem particularly excited for me to. Did she fuck this up? I won’t give her a hard time if she did, and honestly, it’s not as if anyone would notice unless I shaved my head. Which A, wouldn’t be so bad, anyhow; and B, I know she wouldn’t do that. Probably even if I asked her to.

  So I stand and turn to the mirror, not knowing exactly what to expect. When I see my face, I squeal. I look fucking amazing. She’s done this asymmetrical pixie cut kinda thing but left my bangs longish, sweeping them over to the side. Damn. I mean, damn. I would totally fuck that girl in the mirror—if she weren’t me. Because I obviously get myself off by any means necessary pretty often.

  “Maisy, I look awesome. You’re really fucking good at this. Why didn’t you tell me you’re like Vidalia Sassoon?”

  “Well, that makes me sound like an onion instead of a hairdresser, but also, why would you care?”

  I can’t help it anymore. I turn to her, grab her around the waist, and pull her into my side, planting a big, wet, smacking kiss on her cheek. “I care, ridiculous girl. You aren’t just a pair of skates and a really good fuck, you know.”

  She blinks, and I swear to god color rises in her cheeks. Before she can mutter something else about it really not being that big of a deal, I kiss her again, and then shake her by the shoulders. “I flove it, Mais. Do you hear me? I fucking love it. So thanks. And uh, aren’t we at the point in the program where I’m supposed to be wrist-deep in your pussy?”

  Maisy makes the cutest squeaking noise, and her face turns red as a rose before she gets ahold of herself.

  “Yes. Yes, I believe we are. So let me clean up in here and then you can get to work.”

  Chapter Six

  Maisy

  I enjoy fucking athletes for a lot of reasons, but one of them is that we’ve put obscene amounts of time, money, and effort into making our bodies do crazy shit. Which leads a lot of us to think to ourselves, What else can this thing do? I think I’ll take it out for a spin. While for some people that means picking up another sport, or modeling, or getting tattoos or piercings, for some of us it means sex. And not only the bendy sex people assume gymnasts and figure skaters have, but exploring ways our bodies can give us pleasure, perhaps in unexpected ways.

  Also we’ve got this inclination to push for more, better, faster, cleaner, harder. We want to amplify the shit out of everything. And Blaze? Even if she weren’t an athlete, she’d want more. Like she happened to stumble upon speed skating. She could’ve just as easily been a stockbroker who amassed millions, or a sci-fi author who’s written a hundred books, or one of those climbers who bags peaks. As long as she could keep pursuing something. Anything. Bigger, stronger, hotter, as long as it’s more.

  Which is why I’ve never kept my desires secret from her. She’s done it all, seen it all, and if you somehow managed to throw her for a loop, she’d take it as a challenge, not wrinkle her nose. The last time we’d been together, we’d both been plastered for much of the time, and drunk fisting isn’t a great idea, but while she’d been fucking me with her three middle fingers, I’d started murmuring dirty things in her ear about imagining it was her whole hand, and how sexy that would be. She’d drawn back and blinked, and my heart had stopped for the split second it took for her mo
uth to spread into a grin that was all Yes, I would like to fucking do that. And now she’ll get her chance.

  After I’ve cleaned up in the bathroom, sweeping up the stray hair and rinsing out my scissors and comb, I head back out into my room. Blaze is standing by the bed, gloves on the nightstand and with a bottle of lube in her hands that she seems to be studying.

  “Looking for something?”

  She looks up, completely unabashed. “Not really. Just looking at the ingredients. One of my partners has some whackadoodle allergies so it’s hard to find stuff that’s not going to bother his skin.”

  One of her partners? How many are there? But that’s not really my concern as long as she’s being faithful now, and she is. She’s agreed to be anyway, and she’s given me no reason to think she’s broken that promise. It’s not as though things are going to go any further than beyond the fences of the SIG village anyhow. Unless we both make it to Trondheim next time, or end up in the same city for some other event, there’s no reason to think I’ll be with Blaze ever again. So it’s definitely none of my business to speculate about how many partners she has and what their relationships are like.

  Blaze has zero artifice, so I’m assuming they all know about each other or at least know they aren’t the only one and take measures accordingly. And honestly, I can’t blame them. I can keep up with Blaze right now, but that’s likely because I’m taking on energy from the atmosphere of the SIG snow globe by osmosis. Out in the regular world, would I be able to keep up with the level of—well, everything she demands? I don’t think so.

  It’s stupid to think of, but would that mean she wouldn’t want me? Always cursed to be both too much and not enough. But perhaps Blaze doesn’t see me that way. Does she think there’s a single person who could handle every last bit of her, or will she always feel as though she’s settling? Or perhaps she won’t. Maybe she’ll go along as she always has—

  “How about you? You looking for something?”

  I definitely can’t confess what I’ve been thinking. That kind of talk is for intimates, not fuck buddies. So I stick to the script, making a joke instead of seeking assurances. “Yes, actually. I’m looking for a girl who can work her hand into my cunt and make me come until I can’t see straight. Know anyone like that?”

  Blaze smirks. “I do actually. Her name’s Tamara, she lives in Burlington, Vermont, and she—”

  Before she can go on about this Tamara person—who does sound pretty fabulous, actually—I strip off my shirt and throw it at her face. “Shut up and glove up, Bellamy.”

  She manages to snort out, “Yes, Your Highness,” from under the cotton and between giggles. Ridiculous woman. I love her foolishness, but I’ve now spent so much time in achingly close proximity to her—imagining while I was leaning over her and cutting her hair that she would grab my shirt, tug down the neckline, and start nibbling and sucking at one of my breasts—that I’m over foreplay. Cutting her hair and having my hands on her was the foreplay, and I want an orgasm. Or two. I enjoy penetration a lot, and to be honest, the few times I’ve had sex with guys, I’ve found them kind of . . . lacking? Even though I think they were perfectly normal-sized in the penis department. It didn’t seem like enough. Above and beyond that, men aren’t my preferred bed partners.

  Blaze, though, is absolutely my jam, and she’s watching me as though I’m the best thing she’s ever seen while I walk to my bed, stripping the rest of my clothes as I go. I sit on the edge, swing my feet up to rest on the mattress and then lean back against my pillows. Our suite’s on the top floor, and because the buildings are designed to look sort of like nouveau ski chalets, we have a slanted ceiling. Kristie and I probably got put up here because we’re on the shorter side—I’d hate to see some of those six-foot-somethings hunching over in these hobbit-sized digs.

  Blaze doesn’t get undressed, but stands there in the ribbed tank and leggings she’d had on while I cut her hair. She studies me from head to toe while I lie there, and the way she looks at me—is this how she makes everyone else feel? Like they’re the most scrumptious treat she’s ever been passed? As if she ordered you special from the chef and he did her one better? It’s a gift, I think, for her to see the good in everyone, to make everyone feel like their best, most magical, most attractive self when she’s with them.

  It’s silly, but I’d like to think I’m in some way special to her, and if it’s because my lean, muscular build is one that she favors, then fine. I can live with that.

  Once she’s had her fill of looking, she sits on the side of the bed and touches me. No warm up grazes along my arms, or any kisses. She must be able to smell my arousal, tell how ready I am for her, because she puts a hand directly on my inner thigh, and draws my leg out until my ribcage and my femur make an L shape. That hand quickly moves to right between my legs. A single finger—not gloved yet, despite what I told her, and I’m glad for the touch of skin on skin—slicks over my clit and delves back to my entrance to gather up more moisture, and returns to that small bundle of nerves to make loose circles around it, teasing me.

  “I feel like maybe foreplay isn’t really necessary?”

  Her kicked-up eyebrow is gently mocking, but I don’t mind.

  “I had my foreplay already. Being that close to you for so long and keeping my clothes on? And yours? I’ve been fantasizing about you since you got here. I’m ready.”

  Nope, no use beating around the bush, and Blaze doesn’t seem to think so, either, suddenly pressing two fingers inside me, making me gasp. Yep, that feels good. Not good enough, though. I want more, more, until she has to slow down.

  “Give me three. I want your fingers, Blaze.”

  She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t tut at me for being bossy, but does as I’ve asked, and that’s better. A good start. I take them easily and start to move my hips, rocking up to meet her easy thrusts. Then she’s pressing hard, working those fingers deep inside until she’s in me up to her knuckles.

  It doesn’t take long until I’m ready for four, feeling open and greedy because if three fingers give me so much pleasure, four are going to be even better. More of the slick spreading and stretch, feeling worked into and worked over, eventually letting the tight bud of arousal burst into the bloom of orgasm. Thankfully, Blaze doesn’t make me ask for four, just gives them to me, pulling out and pressing back in until she meets some actual resistance.

  Some women I’ve been with have been almost . . . afraid of fisting? I guess the name isn’t particularly encouraging and if you’ve only seen it in cis het porn, yeah, that doesn’t look fun to me, either. More like someone’s trying to punch your uterus. No, thank you. But a slow, tender opening? Coaxing? The stretch and the pressure and the feeling of something so articulate inside of you? Sorry to everyone who likes dick, but penises are a pretty blunt instrument. Hands, though, they’re capable of so much more.

  As Blaze seems eager to prove. Her thrusts have slowed, but they’re as deep as before, and the tension coils in my pelvis, making me hot and eager. My body resists her at first but then starts to give way at her patient and thorough insistence. It’s funny in some ways that Blaze has agreed to this, because faster and more direct seems to be more her style at life. But she also knows how to work hard, how to stick with something, to persist at something until she’s good enough, has as much as she can possibly get. So yes, maybe I can see why this would appeal to her. I’d bet she enjoys being on the receiving end as well. I wonder if I’ll ever get to find out.

  For today, I’m the center of her attention, and that’s what it feels like as she dedicates herself to opening me up, working inside of me. That I could be worth that much to someone, that I deserve that much, that someone would forsake me for all others for any length of time because I am perhaps enough instead of both less and more than—a chill goes through me. Blaze blinks her gaze that had been fixed on what she’s been doing, to my face. “Are you okay? Am I hurting you?”

  I shake my head, but realize that weak
answer won’t satisfy. “You’re not hurting me; you’re good at this. It’s just getting to the intense part, you know?”

  “Oh, I know.” Blaze smiles at me knowingly, and there’s a kinship there, an understanding, ease. In this one way, we’re very similar. Unlike along any other metric. She rolls her lips between her teeth, thoughtful, maybe plotting, and then looks up at me again. “How intense do you want this to be?”

  I suspect my scale of intensity is not the same as Blaze’s, but she won’t give me more than I can handle. If she heads there, I can tell her to stop and I have all the faith in the world that she will. I suppose that’s one of the nice things about knowing I’m not her one and only—someone else can fulfill her wishes that I’m unwilling or unable to. Which means I won’t feel like a disappointment. Like I’m not enough. Not how so many other people in my life make me feel. There’s always someone else on her horizon whereas I’m my parents’ last shot to get it right, and they’re not shy about letting me know exactly how short I’m falling while at the same time having gone completely out of the bounds of what they consider acceptable.

  That trust and confidence in her is what gives me the ability to say, “Very. I want this to be very intense.”

  Blaze

  That’s my girl. I love the contrast of how delicate she looks and how badass she actually is. On the outside, she’s this insubstantial spun sugar, all sweetness and elegance, but should anyone try to break her? They’re going to find a tank underneath. A very sexually adventurous tank.

  “Then sit up, get on your knees. I want your back against the slope of the ceiling.”

  We could play finger-Twister to get her in the right position without me having to move my hand, but it’s getting time for actually gloving up anyhow, so I let her go to come onto her knees, which she does without arguing, and spreads her legs as much as she’s able while still keeping her back pressed to the wall. It’s a strenuous position—she has to use her core to keep this posture, and her thighs are bearing the brunt of keeping her hips hovering at the right height. That’ll make my job easier, and force her to lean on me at some point, something I suspect Maisy wouldn’t willingly do otherwise. Stubborn, aloof woman. Fiery and frozen at the same time. She drives me fucking crazy.