“Well, that’s not going to work.”
Crash mutters a “no” from under his arms which he’s folded over his face.
“Then I guess there’s only one remaining option.”
Those slim, sinewy arms of his shift enough to let his eyes peek through. “What’s that?”
I shrug, feeling self-conscious because what I’m about to suggest is patently ridiculous. And yet it’s the only solution that I can see, and I’m not a stupid man. In the long term, yes, we will figure something reasonable out but for now . . . emergency measures are called for. Emergency measures which I have to say out loud, and I don’t know if I can look at the guy as I do it. My skin is already burning up, and my insides are feeling all squirrely.
However, I’m the adult here, clearly. Which means I need to man up and present this as a, you know, think of England kind of moment. If the kid was willing to steal equipment to ski, is it really all that much more scandalous to accept some, oh - god - is - it - my - turn - to - puke, aid from a teammate to get the job done? My sense of decorum shrivels up and dies a torturous, dramatic death but I press forward even so.
“You need help, and I’m going to give it to you.” Who would’ve thought a person could feel so righteous and so mortified at the same time? But it’s about equal parts in my brain.
Crash’s arms come the rest of the way off his face and his eyes have gone big and impossibly round. “You’re going to fuck me?”
Interesting. Crash’s first impulse is to bottom. Which—Fuck, Palmer. Not okay. It doesn’t matter. This is just one teammate helping another teammate out by . . . any means necessary.
“No. Here’s the thing. I don’t fuck before races. It’s maybe a stupid superstition, but it’s worked out for me so far, and I’m not going to change it now. So, I’m not going to come.”
“Okay . . .” Crash’s eyes have narrowed, and he’s tipped his head like one of my mother’s confused corgis. Say it, say it, just fucking say it.
“But I’m going to, uh, assist you. If that’s okay.”
Chapter Eight
Crash
Miles Palmer has just offered me his . . . services. Holy. Shit. He’s like a stud horse. Except the exact opposite of a stud horse, because he’s not going to give up his spunk. God I’d love to make him spurt into my hand, my mouth, my ass, pretty much anywhere. But no. That’s not allowed.
“I . . . I don’t understand.”
“Haven’t you ever gotten someone off without getting off yourself?” Miles is looking at me like I’m some kind of alien life-form.
“No? I mean, what’s the point?”
His eyes narrow, and his perfectly arched eyebrows crunch in the middle. “That . . . is a conversation for another day. And not something you need to worry about anyway. I’m the one who will be depriving myself, not you. You . . . you’re supposed to, you know.”
Blow my wad. Shoot my load. Get my rocks off. Bake a cream pie. Show my O face. Spurt. Splooge. Bust a nut.
But I can’t say anything remotely like that to Miles - stick - up - his - butt - Palmer, so I settle for “Yeah.”
“Worth a shot, right?”
“Yeah.” My mind’s gone blank of just about everything, because now I’m picturing getting down and dirty with my childhood hero, and it feels . . . weird? Better than it should, but still weird. I mean, I should be grossed out by this, right? But the thing is—and I’ll never ever tell him this, because I’m pretty sure he’d be freaked out by it—Miles is the guy who made me realize I was gay. At some point, my hero worship of those box covers and newspaper clippings became less a fan shrine and more a spank bank.
None of the girls I knew, or any of the bikini spreads my other friends posted on their walls, made my dick react the way my pictures of Miles Palmer did. I didn’t even try to fight it. My parents may have had a lot of faults, but one thing they always made clear to all of us was that it was cool to be who you were. Love who you want, how you want. Wouldn’t matter to them.
So here he is, come to life, and planning to play, I don’t even know—gigolo? That seems wrong. So very, very wrong. But he’s right. We’re out of options. And who knows if this will actually work—please let it work, please let it work, for so many reasons, please for the love of Pete, let it work—but as he’s said, it’s worth a shot.
“All right then.” For the first time, he seems uncertain. To be fair, this probably isn’t something he does every day. Does he? Nah, he’d be way smoother about it if it were. This is the least smooth I’ve ever seen him. He’s like a goddamn moguls course.
“So, uh, how do we do this?” Because I’ve got no experience with this kind of thing. Either I’ve been trashed at a party and hooked up with someone, or I’ve been with a boyfriend, and half the time we’d be fucked up, too. I’ve definitely never had someone get me off as a . . . service, or whatever this is. Is he going to like pull on gloves and be all clinical about it? Because I don’t think that would help matters. Maybe make it worse. Yep, a lot worse, because at least if it was just his hands—oh my god, his hands—on me, then I could pretend that it’s more than it is. It’ll take me about three seconds to lose it, because Jesus, this is Miles Palmer, who I’ve had a crush on for as long as I’ve had crushes, and I get to have any kind of sex with him whatsoever? My pulse is beating so hard, I swear I feel it in my toenails.
“I hadn’t really thought it through that far to be honest with you.”
Cool. So neither of us have any idea what the fuck we’re doing? Excellent.
One side of his face scrunches up, and his mouth makes this weird shape, like an apple left out for far too long. Even so, I’d kiss him. He speaks before I can think much more about that. “In the shower maybe? I mean, we haven’t got a ton of time anyway, so multi-tasking?”
This is crazy messed up. I should say no. But somehow, even though I know it’s wrong, I can’t. It’s not exactly a story I’d tell my grandkids, because ew, but someday I’ll have someone who I can tell this story to and they’ll laugh.
Miles Palmer jerked you off in a shower so you wouldn’t boot before a press conference? For real? Six-time SIG medalist and fucking GQ cover model Miles Palmer? You’ve got to be shitting me.
And whether he believes me or not, I’ll know it happened. Miles will know it happened. That’ll have to be good enough for me. That, and hopefully not honking Smurfs in front of the whole damn team again.
“Sure. Easy clean-up, too. Shower makes sense.” As much sense as any of this does at any rate.
Miles
Following Crash into the bathroom for our assignation, or whatever other kind euphemism could be assigned to this madness, is strange. He looks delicate somehow, which is ridiculous. Guy might be skinny, but he’s strong. Wiry, lean, all sinew and bone covered with the bare minimum of muscle to keep him from looking like a skeleton. There goes that tweak in my head again in that inappropriate region of attraction. Shut that shit all the way down, Palmer.
How can he look like that and ski like he does? At the very least, I’d think he would’ve frozen to death by now. It’s often freezing on the slopes and it’s not like we’re out there for a couple of runs before we head back to the lodge for a mug of cocoa or a hot toddy, or bundled up like the little marshmallow kids you see bombing down the slopes. Or maybe Crash has been. Who the fuck knows how he trained. If he trained.
Maddening. Yes, it’s possible I resent him for having done essentially nothing and still being able to compete at a world-class level. I’m not the only one. But I don’t need to think about that right now. What I should be focusing on is that Crash is getting naked. He’s pulled his shirt over his head and it’s on the floor, and now he’s shucking his ratty-ass sweats. No underwear. And now I have a chance to look more closely at something I’ve wondered about. He’s got some ink, a small splash of it on his right hip, just below where the waistband of his pants would be.
I’ve seen it in the showers, but never for long en
Except now I have the time and the proximity and the assurance that Crash is just as queer as I am, so I take my time and lean down to see . . . a bear. A bear with skis and a little jagged collar or bib or something around its neck. Which, what the hell is that? But then it dawns on me.
“Do you seriously have a skiing Grateful Dead Bear tatt?”
I see the flush gather on Crash’s neck before he turns half-toward me. “Yeah, I do. Why, what’s wrong with it?”
His cheeks are pink, and I don’t want to embarrass him. Sometimes I can be kind of a dick, and I should be less of a curmudgeon about stuff that doesn’t matter. Like what Crash has indelibly drawn on his butt. Other stuff I will come down on like a hammer, but not this.
“Nothing’s wrong with it, it’s just a little . . . on the nose. It’s like a fucking self-portrait.”
His eyes get big for a split-second, and it’s possible I’ve done the very thing I set out not to do. It’s supposed to be a joke. Ted likes to tell me I’m not funny, but I know better. It’s just that not everyone gets my sense of humor. Instead of turning some crimson shade of humiliated like I’m worried he might, Crash laughs.
“You know I never thought of it that way? But you’re right. Man, I am an asshole.”
Which in turn makes me laugh, and this whole thing seems less awkward. By a little bit. Fundamentally, I will still be jerking off a dude who I’m neither dating nor hooking up with so he doesn’t throw up before a press conference. In theory. We don’t even know if this will work. Because sure, what the hell else do I have to do on a Thursday?
Crash runs a hand through his hair and then turns on the shower, the spray coming down hard and flattening his hair as he steps in. My turn to strip. All I’ve got are my pajama pants and my tee, so off they go. It occurs to me while I’m stepping into the shower that the logistics of this are less than ideal. It’s weird that the architects of the village didn’t optimize for having two people in the shower at the same time . . .
We both wash our hair, muttering apologies as our elbows bang against each other and we have to switch places to get under the stream, and then soap up our bodies. Soap’s a good idea. I’ll be taking advantage of that.
When it’s clear we’re both clean and really have no excuse to be hanging out in the shower anymore, we just stand there. Awkward glances and shuffling movements pinging between us, because seriously? Are we really going to do this? Though I don’t see any alternative because if there’s another way, I haven’t thought of what it is, and neither has Crash. At least that he’s let me in on.
Since I’m allegedly in charge here, what with being the team captain and older and wiser, and so on and so forth, etcetera, I guess it’s up to me to get this thing started. Lucky for me, dudes aren’t difficult.
“Hands on the tile.”
Crash blinks at my snapped out command and his cock—which I’ve noticed has been at least semi-hard for our entire shower though I’ve tried to ignore it—jerks. And doesn’t go down, not in the least. Gets thicker, harder, more erect.
Like that, did you?
Fucking A, it’s not just a ping like the single pure note of a triangle sounding in my head anymore. It’s more like a gong. He liked that. A lot. That is not the point. This is a . . . transaction, nothing more.
He hesitates for the barest second before he turns his back and his taut, rounded ass to me, and does as he’s been told, putting his hands on the tiles and standing with his arms bent comfortably at his sides. I could tell him to step back until his palms and fingers just barely pressed into the wall, but what for? Yes, I like to play those kinds of games—and from what little I’ve seen, Crash does as well—but we’re not here for games, we’re here for getting this done and dusted. Besides, this gives me more room to maneuver.
I stand behind him, my dick more interested than I would like for it to be, and reach around. He’s hard. Really hard, and hot. When I wrap my hand around him, he sucks in a breath and a shudder runs through his body. If the circumstances were different, I’d step in behind him, cover the back of his body with the front of mine, lend him the heat of my body and the hardness of my cock against his crack in hopes that it would make him relax. But I’m not his boyfriend, not even a date, so I’ll stick to formalities. As formal I can be when I’m standing in a shower about to jerk off a near-stranger at any rate.
How the hell did this get to be my life? I took a very wrong turn somewhere, but backtracking isn’t an option anymore. The only way is through.
“You okay?”
“Yep.”
His clipped off word is an answer, but it doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.
“If at any point you change your mind, say the word and we’ll stop. This is supposed to be helping you, not stressing you out even more.”
His head bobs as he nods, his wet hair plastered to his scalp and reaching partway down his neck. Never realized exactly how fluffy and curly it must really be until now. But back to the more important things at hand. Or rather, in my hand.
If this were a romantic thing, I’d A, kiss the back of his neck because it’s just begging for it, B, murmur filthy sweet things in his ear, and C, press into him from behind. But it’s not even vaguely romantic even if my erection thinks there’s potential, and there will be no kissing involved in this ridiculous scheme, and I don’t want him to get the wrong idea. From my dick. So I keep my distance—except for my hand wrapped around his erection, obviously—and start to stroke. Which brings on more gasps, more shudders; even a bitten off moan. But I can do better.
It’s probably messed up, but even in bed I find myself being competitive. I want to be the best they’ve ever had, make them come the hardest, torment them the longest, scramble their brains so hard they forget their own names and cry out mine. Not as good as a cheering crowd, but having some good-looking guy gasp your name during an incredibly intense orgasm? The most fun you can have not on skis.
I stop long enough to squeeze some shower gel into my hand and then go back to work, slicking from the base of Crash’s cock all the way up to the head and doing a double-pump right around the crown that makes him set his forehead against the tiles, and mutter what sounds like a prolific stream of curses.
“That’s it,” I urge, although he hardly seems to need any encouragement. But the sooner this is over the better, for everyone involved. I won’t be having inappropriate thoughts about my much younger teammate—god, I’m a perv, and even if Crash has agreed to this, and seems into it, this can’t be the most fun for him either. I mean, the reason I’m doing this isn’t something that’s going to fuel his wet dreams. “Give it up, Crash. I want you to come for me.”
As far as dirty talk goes, that’s barely making the scale, but it seems to do something to Crash because with my last stroke, I feel it. The extra stiffening and the throbbing that seems to go from the base of his dick all the way to the tip, and then I get what I asked for: the first spurt is accompanied by a shout and hits the wall, dripping down from where it’s hit. The second also makes the tile, although the third viscous rope falls short and drops right to the floor. The fourth pulse is significantly weaker, and most of it ends up on my hand where I’m still holding him. Not stroking, because ow, but grasping firmly, waiting for him to ride out the way he’s shaking.
Finally he shifts and I let go, reaching again for the shower gel because I definitely have to wash my hands after that. Crash has still got his forehead against the tiles, and when he stands he turns to look at me. Seems dazed.
“Okay?”
“Oh, yeah.”
He smiles at me then, this big goofy thing, and I can’t help but chuckle as my heart warms in a way I’m not entirely comfortable with. Hopefully this will do the trick.
Chapter Nine
Crash
A little hard to believe, but it actually worked. Miles Palmer jerking me off kept me settled enough that though I felt like I might yak, I never actually did. It wasn’t fun, but even when they started picking at those old sore spots, I didn’t lose it. Never thought I’d be so proud of not vomiting in my whole life. I mean, yeah, I’m at the SIGs, but whatevs. Not chumming before I have to talk in front of some people, though? That’s the real accomplishment.
We’ve got another press event this morning, though not nearly as big as yesterday’s, and my stomach’s started churning. I get out of bed to hit the head, and when I’ve finished up washing my hands, there’s a knock.
“Just a sec.”
But when I open the door, it’s Miles standing there in those pajama pants that show off his sick hip cuts, and no goddamn shirt. I’d been cold when I got out of bed, but now I feel flushed. “I’m done, you can—”
“Oh, no, I thought we were going to, uh . . .”
Right.
I size Miles up. He doesn’t seem exactly eager, but he’s here, right? He couldn’t have been all that disgusted. I wish though, that he’d get even a fraction as hard as I’m getting right now thinking about it. I hadn’t felt a damn thing on his end last time. But on mine? Holy shit tarts, and it’s starting again. How can I not when he’s got those super dark eyes, that ridiculous body and a smile like fresh powder on the slopes? Being that attractive seems rude somehow.
“I guess?”
His mouth tightens slightly, his eyes flicking over me and I wish to god it were his tongue instead. What would I give to have Miles kiss me? Lick me? But this isn’t romance, there’s no room for foreplay. It’s a bare minimum kind of deal.
“Do you not need to . . . today?”
My hands go to my hips, which is not even voluntary, and I stare at the tiles at my feet. Could this be less embarrassing? Because that would be awesome. I need something to hold onto while I say this, so I take a couple of steps back, grip the edge of the countertop, enjoy the way it bites into my palm. “I do.”
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