Seduction on the Slopes--Snow & Ice Games

by Tamsen Parker

  I look up at Miles, and he’s studying me. Hard. Brings to mind the way people are going to be staring at me in a couple of hours and a mass forms in my throat. I’m expecting a crisp nod and a go-ahead shooing motion to get me into the shower, maybe a condescending pat on some innocuous part of my body, just to press my humiliation buttons a little harder. But what I get is Miles’s narrowed eyes digging into my very soul.

  “What are you so afraid of anyway? That’s what this is, isn’t it? You’re worried about what’s going to happen when you get up there. And I don’t think it’s just about press in general. I’ve seen you give interviews after big races and you’re fine. So what is it about this that makes it different?”

  I swallow hard to keep the lump from making its way further up my throat. Do we have to talk about this? Isn’t the fact that we’ve temporarily solved the problem of how to get me not to upchuck before every single press event good enough? What does he want from me?

  “After races, I have something to talk about.” How I raced. That’s all they care about. My time, how I did on my run. I could get in, give them a few positive soundbites and then get out before they could dig any deeper, and figure out that yeah, those were indeed soccer shin guards I had strapped over my pants because real slalom ones cost a fortune. For a reason; those shin guards didn’t do shit against the poles whipping against my legs in every turn. I’d come home with my legs striped with bruises.

  “You’ve got an awesome story. People love to talk about it, they can’t—”

  I glare at Miles from under my eyebrows, shoving my hair out of my eyes so he’ll be able to see exactly how hard I’m warning him off. He takes the hint, snapping his mouth shut. But only for a second.

  “That’s it, isn’t it? You don’t want them asking about—”

  “No, I don’t, and I don’t want to talk about it with you, either.” I shove away from the counter and back out to the bedroom. Fuck it. I’d rather blow chunks than have to talk to Miles about this. He wouldn’t understand, fucking rich kid. He wouldn’t get it at all.

  But he’s hot on my tail, catching up to me but not touching me. “Hey, Crash, I’m sorry, all right? We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. We’ll just . . . do the thing.”

  Sometimes I thought spending my childhood as a nomad living out of a van would be the weirdest thing that would ever happen to me. I mean, after I realized living out of a van was, in fact, weird. Which took longer than you might think. But no. Turns out getting hand jobs from Miles Palmer so I don’t boot all over reporters might be numero uno.

  “Whatever.”

  Miles tips his head back toward the bathroom and that’s my cue. I could tell him to fuck off, but the truth is, it’s helped. Even if Miles doesn’t really want to be doing this—and why would he? Guy could have anyone he wants but he’s in a bathroom with me—he is, and I can fantasize myself into the rest.

  I can fantasize that he’s madly in love with me, that we’re going to go live on a ski slope in a quaint lodge somewhere and when he gets old, he’ll get hip replacements so he can still ski. We’ll work on getting him settled into a world he hasn’t lived in since he started skiing competitively, and he’ll learn how to cook because he’d look pretty great in an apron and nothing else. Miles would totally wear an apron. I’ll show him how recreational weed can increase a person’s enjoyment of life exponentially. I bet Miles would be awesome if I could get him stoned. Or would he just be lost?

  Is he always like this? So tightly wound and scheduled to within an inch of his life? Or is this a SIG thing? A competition thing? Suddenly I desperately want to get a peek into his sock drawer to see if he pairs his socks and folds them, or just throws them all back in the drawer. I bet he folds them. Maybe makes them into those little balls. Something in me wants to shake him, loosen him up, see what he’s like outside this life, but it’s possible he doesn’t know that himself. He’s going to be staggering around trying to figure it out in a few weeks.

  No time to worry about that now, because we’re going into the bathroom, a.k.a. the Whack-A-Crash Spurtarium. That would be awesome. If on those plaques they have at historical sites they included where famous people had blown their loads? It would be hilarious. “On this spot in 1779, Alexander Hamilton busted a nut.” Sure as hell would’ve made fieldtrips more interesting.

  When we get into the bathroom, I strip and head for the shower, but Miles has something else in mind. He lets me get naked, but before I can turn on the water and duck under the spray, he herds me over to the door, and backs me up against it, bracketing his elbows on either side of my head.

  He’s standing . . . so close. So goddamn close, it takes my breath away. Almost as if he were actively pressing against me, crushing me into the door instead of carefully keeping his body from touching mine. I want him to. But when I go for him, he shakes his head from so damn close and tuts at me. “Ah. No. No touching.”

  “But—”

  “I said no touching.” His tone is stern in a way that makes my breath catch yet again and my cock fill. Fill faster anyway. Whenever I get near Miles and think even vaguely sexy thoughts, my dick is half hard. And when he gets all . . . bossy? Yeah. Not that I will ever tell him that, because he’ll use it against me in ways that I don’t want him to be bossy. But in this case, my shoulders drop from where they’ve been climbing up to my ears, thinking about all the cameras and microphones and lights and people and questions, so many fucking questions—

  “Hey. Knock it off.” Miles still hasn’t touched me but fuck if it doesn’t feel like he’s taken my chin in his hand and forced me to look at him. “You were here, but then you were gone. I want you here. Make this worth my while, Crash.”

  Oh. The fact that he thinks I could ever make it worth his while is maybe one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me. He doesn’t think he’s wasting his time with this head case of a kid. At least he won’t be if I give him my attention, and I can do that much.

  So I study his face, his black hair cropped so close to his scalp, his eyebrows that are arched just so, his broad nose, his brown skin. His bottom lip is fuller and pinker than his top one, and even though it’s been about twenty-four hours since he shaved, he’s barely got anything to show for it. I guess I’ve never noticed before, in all my time looking at pictures of him or seeing him on TV, but he’s got this divot in his chin, at the very bottom, like someone was looking at his face, went, “Aw, crap, this one’s too perfect, no one will ever think he’s real,” so took a little nick out. Which, weirdly, makes him even more perfect.

  In the face of that, that face, all I can do is stare.

  “Good,” he says, staring at me so hard I’m pinned by nothing but his gaze. Then he leans forward, still without touching me, and so close there’s like a disturbance in the force or something, blows a thin stream of air over my neck that nearly makes my knees buckle.

  Miles

  Last time with Crash was not anything special. Nor was it supposed to be. It was simply a means to getting him to not be so goddamn uptight about doing pressers that he makes himself sick. And sure, it had been satisfying to watch him spill some of that stress all over the white tiles of the shower, have some of it drip over my hand. While he’d still been nervous when he had to talk, he hadn’t thrown up. Not even a little bit. Unless it was in his mouth. Which would be gross. But, whatever. At least it wasn’t all over, and he’d seemed much more functional.

  And okay, perhaps I’d enjoyed it in more than a purely professional way. He was so . . . easy. Not in a like “giving it up” kind of way, because that’s an idiotic way to think about it anyway, but in a “yeah, this is what I enjoy and I’m not going to be secretive about it, because what the hell purpose would that serve?” kind of way. Which was . . . refreshing. Made my job easier for one, that he was so shameless. And what does he have to be ashamed of, that long, lithe frame, and those noises he makes, and Jesus, the way his whole body shudders when he comes?


  Crash was made for pleasure. Some people are prettiest when they’re frustrated, some people make you want to rip their clothes of when they’re angry, some actually do coy very well, but there’s something about seeing Crash surrender to the pleasure I was giving him, that was just . . . that. I would like to do that again. But better. Make him crazier. Make him beg for it. Because I bet he’s very pretty when he begs, too.

  Instead of just getting him off with a serviceable hand job, tease him. Taunt him. Show him what I can really do, because, yes, okay, I’m a competitive jerk. If it’s worth doing—and Crash is worth doing—then he’s worth doing right. It. It is worth doing right.

  Plus, and maybe this is weird, but I almost don’t mind not coming myself? Yes, I like reaching climax. Who doesn’t? But there’s also satisfaction in holding off. In having a mastery over myself that Crash doesn’t even try for. Did I get hard from jerking him yesterday? Yes, I did. But I didn’t break my own rules, and the gratification from that made the blue balls less painful. Slightly.

  He’s pressed up against the back of the bathroom door, and slumping because he trusts me and also because he’s starting to get that intoxicated look on his face. Like I’m a drug he’s taken and I’m already spiking his blood, running through his system, and bringing euphoria to every part of his body.

  His neck is so close I could lick him, and, god help me, I want to. But I won’t. I’ll just croon in his ear, blow hot breaths on his skin, watch his hands curl into fists by his side while his dick fills to bursting. It doesn’t take much to make his cock thick and heavy, bobbing away from his body and toward mine, as if it’s seeking its own pleasure because Crash isn’t going after it hard enough. That’s what I have to be most careful of as I get as close as I can without actually touching him.

  But I’m careful, controlled, and getting so close, I can not only smell him but taste him. Salt. Musk. Something vaguely sweet I can’t quite name. How close can I get? My tongue, my lips, my cheek, but just as I’m about to brush the tendons straining in his neck, I stop. Laugh.

  He flinches, his whole body tightening convulsively, and then letting go, his fists pulsing. But I don’t think he’s afraid. There’s certainly no reason for him to be afraid. All wound up, his muscles taut with want because I’m teasing him to within an inch of his life, sure, but there’s no threat here, only promise.

  “Are you ready, Crash? What do you think it would take to get you off right now? I doubt I’d even have to touch your cock.”

  There’s a faint groan, and even from my place in the crook of his neck, I can picture his face, the way he must be squeezing his eyes shut at the same time his mouth is falling open, and the back of his shaggy head hits the cheap plywood door.

  “Maybe if I just . . . kissed you. Here.” Stupidly, I lean in, close the gap, and let my lips touch his skin.

  Softer than I was expecting. It’s all I can do not to part my lips and let my tongue slick over him because I want the quintessence of the tempered, muted version I’ve been inhaling.

  I’m only a little disappointed he doesn’t spill. That just means I get to tease him more which I’m enjoying more than I ought. “Or how about if I . . . bit?”

  I let myself indulge then, open my mouth and sink my teeth into his flesh. Not hard, not nearly as hard as I’d like, but hard enough that he whimpers, and his cock jerks. My mouth and the rise of his trapezius are the only point of contact between us, and it’s as if because it’s the only connection that the intensity is out of control.

  “Miles . . .”

  The sound of my name coming out of his mouth, the way his lips would have to wrap around his teeth to hum the first beat, the same way he’d have to cover the sharp surfaces in order to suck my cock, it’s . . .

  That thought’s out of control. It’s too much. That’s not what this is about. That’s not the relationship we have. I’ll get Crash through his press obligations without spilling his breakfasts on any more sound stages, and then it’ll be over. I’ll find someone else to celebrate with when all of my races are over, and no doubt he’ll do the same. Probably multiple partners if the looks he gets around the village are any indication. There’s one German slider in particular who eyes Crash’s ass like he’d like to sink his teeth into it, and I can’t blame him.

  But at the moment, my name is the one dropping from Crash’s mouth, and it’s a prayer. One I’m willing and able to answer. One that also feels like it’s creeping toward far too personal. So I grab him by the shoulders, turn him around and use a grip on his neck to press his cheek to the door. With my other hand, I reach around his hip and wrap my fingers around the base of his dick. Squeeze. Pump a few times, none too gently, and that’s all he needs.

  Crash lets out a small cry at the same time the spurts of come are leaving his body. I can feel them through the smooth skin and hardness of his erection which is pulsing in my hand. After a few beats, the vigor of his orgasm diminishes. He’s still coming, but not in hard sprays against the wall—yeah, that’s going to leave a mark—but throbbing weakly in my hand, his come sliding down the side of his dick and onto my hand. A hot, sticky reminder of what I’ve done to him. How I’ve made him feel.

  In that moment, there’s a warmth in my chest, and I have to resist the urge to lean in and rest my forehead against his neck. The only thing I allow myself is a small rock of my stiff-as-hell dick against him, pressing into the cleft that divides his shapely ass.

  It’s not enough. I want to do more for him than this one fleeting moment, this transient, ephemeral pleasure. So while he’s still in my grip, under my care, I lean in one more time.

  “Listen to me very carefully. I know you get twitchy about people talking about how you used to steal stuff. Which I get, I do. It’s not something you’re proud of, it’s not something you’d do again, and it’s not something you would’ve resorted to if you’d had any other choice. But the thing is . . . if this is how you got to be one of the best people in the world—and you are, make no mistake—don’t be ashamed of how you got here. Like, yeah, donate to a foundation that helps kids learn how to ski, drop off a check or offer to do some promo spots gratis for those places, but it’s over now. Over, and you don’t need to feel guilty or embarrassed anymore.”

  He’s been listening to me assiduously, not speaking, not moving. His cheek that’s not pinned to the door has gone a more saturated pink than it had been solely from his climax. Hopefully I haven’t undone the work I just did and he’ll still be able to get through this press gauntlet intact. I’ll feel crappy if I’ve made him feel worse, but I think it was worth a shot. Let him hear me say that in his ear when someone no doubt brings this up sometime in the next few days. Let him hear it and believe me.

  “Do you understand me?”

  Crash opens his mouth to speak, then thinks better of it and nods before closing his eyes and nodding again. The thing is, I believe him.

  Chapter Ten

  Miles

  Standing there with my arms crossed over my chest, I watch as Crash practically charms the pants off Eric Colton, who I’m pretty sure is straight. Or was, before meeting Crash and his sheepdog magnetism. Kid is doing really well, and I take some pride in knowing some of that was my doing.

  Ted’s been watching all the one-on-ones, making sure none of us fuck up too badly, and making sure time limits get respected so we don’t miss any of our time on the slopes. He’s been standing aside and only tossing the occasional glance to the stage, but his attention is more focused now that Crash is on. Don’t blame him, Crash is the one most likely to bring trouble down on his head. Or all of our heads.

  Ted sidles up next to me, leans back against the wall and crosses his arms same way mine are. Our elbows practically touch. Normally I wouldn’t think anything of it, but he’s giving off this air of having something he wants to poke me with. What’s he got to say?

  “I don’t know what you’ve been doing to Crash—” No, Ted, you really don’t. And
you really don’t want to. “But whatever it is keep doing it. With gusto.”

  Oh my god. With gusto? The only way I could do Crash with more enthusiasm is if I were actually, you know, doing him. Which I can’t. Because I don’t.

  I don’t do that before races. No matter what. No matter how hot the guy, no matter if it’ll be a missed opportunity. I don’t do that, I’ve never done that, and who knows if that’s been the secret to my success? Keeping all that pent-up . . . energy . . . pent up. And if it has been—really, Miles? The secret to your gold medals has been not blowing your load before races? Going to tell that to Sports Illustrated? That’ll make fabulous cover copy, moron—then I’m not going to risk it all for a roll in the hay with Crash.

  Yes, I’ve come to want him quite badly, and yes, I’ve laid awake at night wishing I could jerk off because orgasming is a good way to relieve stress and get to sleep, but fucking Crash is not the answer. If he wants to fuck after this is over—and it wouldn’t be at all surprising if he did—then we can fuck each other for all we’re worth. But for right now, I’m going to keep my cock where it belongs—in my own pants, and achy with having been slightly hard for days now.

  Never has my self-imposed celibacy bothered me so much. If I’d known this was going to become a superstition, I should’ve made sure to rub one out or fuck someone before every race. Then I wouldn’t have this goddamn problem. But no, Past Miles was perfectly happy being a monk. Because Past Miles A, was an idiot, and B, didn’t see Crash Delaney coming. But I can hardly blame myself for B. No one saw Crash coming. No one.

  Then I do see Crash, waving at me. No, not waving—beckoning me onstage. What the hell? I’m up next and we only have a limited amount of time to chat. He shouldn’t be giving his away to me, especially since he needs all the screen time he can get, and I turn things down because I get offered too much. But he’s flailing pretty good now, and making faces, not appearing like he’s going to stop anytime soon either. I’m already wired up, so why the hell not?