Especially if part of my legacy ends up being you. The thought has jumped into my head entirely unbidden, and with it comes images of me training Crash, putting him through brutal workouts, sitting down to eat nutritious food on plates that aren’t disposable, watching proudly as he dominates competitions.
And I’m not going to lie, there are some flickers of other pictures, too—us lying in bed together some morning when he’s got a late start, him on his knees with his hands on my thighs and asking if he can take my cock in his mouth, and perhaps most disturbingly, me taking his face in my hands after he’s won yet another SIG medal and kissing him in front of the spectators, the media, fuck it all, the whole world because everyone already knows he’s mine, he belongs to me. Because he’s not just someone I coach, but also someone I love. Shit.
After all that, Crash is still sitting there. My chest is heaving with anger and frustration, and he’s sitting there. I have half a mind to pick up my desk chair and throw the thing at him. But just as I’m about to reach for the dorm-style block of wood, his mouth pulls to the side and he squints like he’s looking into sunlight bouncing off newly snowed upon slopes.
“Hey, Miles?”
Oh my god. I grit my teeth and pray he says something that makes me want to murder him less. “Yes?”
“Have you ever heard of visualization?”
Seriously? Sports psychology 101? Seriously? “Well, yes, Crash. As a matter of fact, I have. What’s your point?”
He blinks and suddenly he looks hurt, like I’ve shamed him. Yes, my tone was more acerbic than it needed to be but . . . oh.
“That’s what I’ve been doing. All those things you told me? It’s not like I’m going to have much time to actually put that into practice on the slopes, and I’ll try to practice it here, but visualization has always worked well for me. It’s like I’ve got some freaky weird connection between my brain and my muscles. It doesn’t always work, and sometimes I need to practice a lot to get it right, but it’s my best shot when I don’t have a lot of time. And I don’t. So it might look like I’ve been sitting here, doing nothing, but really I’ve been playing that movie over and over in my head, trying to adjust my stance and my timing in my head using the things you told me.”
I am the worst. “Oh.”
“Yeah. I’m sorry if you thought I was ignoring you, but—”
“Don’t apologize, okay? I’m the one who flew completely off the handle when I could have asked you. I’m sorry. If that’s what works for you, that’s what you should do. And we’ll try to get you some extra time to practice, okay? I know I’m asking a lot, but it’s just because . . .”
Inexplicably, I want him to win. Not especially if it means I have to lose, but if I’m going to lose my medals, let it be to Crash. Let me start the second half of my legacy now if I have to, but just let it keep living on.
“It’s because I want you to do well, okay? It’s because I have faith in you, you deserve to be here, and I want you to show the world what you can do.”
“Well, maybe if you’re done wanting to strangle me with your bare hands, you could give me a hand?”
I take a breath and try to slow my still-pounding heart. “With what?”
“I got a lot of what you said, but I feel like I could understand it better, you know? If you gave me more detail? Maybe talked it through? I know this is hard, for you, but—”
My gaze goes to the ceiling of our suite. Yeah, he’s asking for my help. Because of course he is, and the truth is, I can’t see my way to not giving it to him. “It’s fine. Could I get dressed first?”
I’m still standing here in my towel, no longer shaking with rage, so it might be better to do this in pants.
The corner of his mouth tilts up. “Aw, man, I was hoping you’d do naked push-ups while you schooled me.”
Goofy little bastard. “I will not. This is far too serious. You need to concentrate. Visualize. And you know if I’m doing naked push-ups the only thing you’ll be visualizing is being face-down under me.”
He shrugs, but can’t keep up the façade of indifferent amusement and busts into cackles. He’s completely daft. As soon as he recovers, well, partially, he waves a hand. “Yeah, put on some clothes. I’ll never be able to concentrate with you walking around like that.”
So I quickly pull on some clothes and then sit down with him. “What was it that you needed help with?”
“What did you say, that I have flabby ankles?”
Heaven help me. “Floppy. I said floppy ankles.”
“What does that mean? How can they be floppy when they’re inside my boots?”
Good question, because our boots are rigid and tight fitting, hugging our feet just so. They’re customized by our techs, and the right boots can make all the difference. “Well, there’s part of your problem, relying on your equipment. You need to be active, creating tension in your ankles, and using them to start your turns. Not your shoulders, not your head, not even your hips.”
I’m on a roll now, gesturing with my hands, trying to make him understand. It’s not an easy concept to grasp, even for people who have been racing for a long time, even for people who’ve been coached. Crash is at a decided disadvantage because he’s never had to learn this stuff from words, but only concentrating on things that feel right. “You have to make your ankles active, and use them to create these soft turns. You don’t want your skis coming off the snow, right?”
He shakes his head, because he knows that much. “Okay, so the best way to keep contact is to sort of . . .” How to explain this? “Look, think about it this way. When we’re fooling around, would you rather have me glide my hand firmly over you or kind of karate chop you?”
His wrinkled nose gives him away. “The first one.”
“All right. Well, that’s what the snow likes, too. It likes contact with the skis. You have to use your skis to caress the snow, not . . . thrash it.” I wave my hands like crazy and he laughs.
“You want me to make sweet, sweet love to the snow?”
“Yes. Yes, I do. Pour it a glass of wine before you get started, make it feel good. Seduce the snow, Crash. Develop an intimacy with it. Not just wham, bam, thank you man. Snow doesn’t like that. You have to start early on your turns. You know, ease in, not just punch it.”
The look on Crash’s face is priceless. He’s half trying to keep from laughing his ass off at me and half on the edge of his seat, drinking it all in. But I figured I’d have better luck trying to make him entice the snow into inappropriate activities than using technical jargon. As long as he’s not snickering his way down the course, I think it’ll work. I think I got to him.
“Was that helpful? Do you get it now?”
He nods, and then gets this devious look in his eyes. “Yeah, that’s better, thank you. But you know what I think would really help? Some uh, hands on demonstrations. Since there’s not any snow I can get my skis on at the moment, maybe I could practice on you?”
This is Crash being charming, and fuck me if it doesn’t work. Well, actually fuck me if it does work, because that’s precisely what’s going to happen right now. Since my unplanned orgasm yesterday, I’ve been looking out for signs that it was a mistake. Maybe even hoping to find some.
I haven’t. All I’ve felt is . . . good. During my runs today I felt looser, more fluid. And while I feared it might affect my time, it hadn’t. I’d even shaved off a few hundredths of a second from my best times to date. This whole having-sex-before-races thing doesn’t seem to be so bad. And I’d like to do it again. Shake off some of the tension that had dissipated during my run but now is creeping back.
“I consider it my patriotic duty to help you learn how to beguile powder.” And damn does he have the best grin in the whole world. Time for some more explicit instruction.
Crash
Yeah, I mostly like to bottom, but sometimes it’s fun to be on the other end of things, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted by Miles’s superfine as
s. Not to mention, if he actually lets me do what I think he’s going to let me do, I would be flattered. Which is weird in a way, because I can go either way, and apparently so can Miles “Control Freak” Palmer, but for him to let me inside of him? For him to trust me to not hurt him? Miles is a precision instrument. He’s spent years tuning his body to top condition, which makes him awesome at what he does, but kinda fragile like a racehorse, too. Probably the smallest ache or pain throws off his performance, and someone giving your ass a serious reaming can leave you feeling it for days, not always in a good way, either. But he trusts me to not ruin him, believes I’m not a complete and utter fuck-up, that I’m worthy of his faith, his confidence, and not just on the slalom course. How ri-goddamn-diculous is that?
I want this. To seduce Miles. To show him he’s right about me, that I can be trusted. That I will hold him more carefully than I’ve ever held myself. Also that I’m a damn fine lay no matter where I’m lying, but that’s really bonus points over all that other stuff.
So I turn, put a hand on his thigh, and the other one to his cheek, turn his head, tip mine just so, and kiss him. Press my mouth against his and nip at his bottom lip. Miles tastes better than any person has a right to. Which is what makes me sling a leg over his lap so I’m straddling him, letting me kiss him deeper. Giving me better access to his mouth, and yeah, freeing up my hands to roam his back, his shoulders, his neck.
Also to sculpt one of my hands around the base of his skull and hold him there for me to explore. Mostly I let Miles do what he likes, which is fine, because I like it, too, and clearly guy knows what he’s doing at all times in all the things. But sometimes I find myself wanting to linger more than he’s inclined to, and this gives me the chance to do whatever the fuck I want with him. Which means kissing him like crazy.
His hands have slipped under my shirt, his pinkies teasing the waistband of my pants. You want it that way? Fine.
I let my knees slip wider to lower my pelvis, and oh yeah. I got Miles hard from kissing him. And I’m going to get him harder by rocking up against him, pressing my dick against his, and letting the not-enough-friction that’s getting through all the layers in between us make us crazy with want. Make him want to rip my clothes off. His clothes off. All the clothes, all of them off.
But part of making him crazy is going to involve trying his patience. Which he won’t like now, but he will like later. So, against his clear intentions to move this along—his hands grabbing and kneading my ass might have something to do with how I got that idea—I resist. No further, not yet. I keep him at bay with kissing and roaming hands until he bites my lip, hard, and urges my forehead against his while keeping our mouths apart.
“Enough already. Get on with it.”
His breath on my lips is hot and sultry, and I like the way he’s breathing hard. I’d like to make Miles break a sweat. “I thought I was supposed to be seducing you. Not wham, bam, thank you, man?”
“Seduction complete, now I’d like to get off.”
I laugh. Not a smooth, sexy knowing chuckle either. It’s a good thing Miles has heard me laugh like a goddamn loon before, so I know my cackling won’t turn him off enough to give up on this. Also, I’m glad he’s explicitly asked for this. I wasn’t sure how he’d feel after yesterday when he came kinda unintentionally. He hadn’t seemed all that upset about it, maybe even like he’d chilled out a bit, but I wasn’t sure he’d want to do it again. Now I know—he does. “You’re like the most patient guy I know, but you can’t bear a few minutes of foreplay?”
“I have borne them. Now I’m ready. I was trying to teach you to seduce the snow, Delaney. And how long is a run, huh?”
He uses his grip on my ass to grind my cock against his and it makes my breath short out. When I can muster a breath, I answer him. “Not that long.”
“That’s right. You don’t have all day. So chop, chop, come in for your victory lap, unless that’s not something that appeals to you?”
It’s tempting, to give this over to him now that I’ve proven a point. It would be less stressful for me to get fucked than it will be on the other side, but now I’ve got my heart and my dick set on it. More my heart, though. This is an opportunity to prove myself, and goddammit, I want to. I’m not going to make Miles sorry he offered this to me.
“It does. I want to fuck you.”
“Okay, then.”
I climb off him, barely able to stand on my own two feet because I’m lightheaded with the possibilities. “Stand up, take off your clothes, and then lie on your stomach.”
His irritatingly perfect eyebrows go up, but he doesn’t argue, just does as I’ve asked. But in a challenging way. Like You asked for it, now let’s see if you can handle it. Well, newsflash, I can handle the fuck out of Miles.
When he’s lying on the bed with the curve of his ass rising so perfectly I have to wonder why I didn’t ask for this before, I take off my own clothes. I tap the insides of his thighs just above his knees and he spreads his legs some, but not enough, so I wedge myself in between them while kneeling, and press his legs out with mine. That’s better.
The view from here is pretty sweet with how sculpted his ass is, just like every other inch of him. I can’t even help myself, I have to grab it, and it’s everything I dreamed it would be. Like, lip-biting degrees of firmness, but also not so hard that he seems like a statue. Flesh and blood, and skin. I want to work my way inside of him.
So I grab the lube and the condoms from the drawer, trying not to fumble in my excitement, and get my fingers slicked up as he’s done for me. Despite his earlier labored breathing, Miles’s ribcage is rising and falling at a slow and even pace. I could be tweaked, but I catch myself. Of course it is. He’s willing himself to relax, and he’s got so much control over his body that he’s done it.
Relaxed for me, and I’m not going to make him sorry. I do my best to work my fingers inside him slowly and surely but gently, pausing whenever his breath catches and checking in, but soon enough he’s ready for my cock, pressing his hips back toward me, asking for it.
And what’s a guy to do but give it to him? My eyes roll back in my head as I press inside him, the tight heat nearly doing me in, and his gasping moan when I’ve slid in to the hilt doesn’t help matters any. But I will take my time, coax his pleasure from him with long, slick strokes until his fists are clenched in the pillow under his head.
“Crash?”
I let my hands glide over his shoulders, down his back and clutch his hips. “Yeah?”
“I need more. Give me more, and I’ll come for you.”
Is it possible to choke on your own tongue? Because I think that might be happening. To me. But before I die of suffocating myself, I will, on my honor, give Miles Palmer the orgasm of his life. I dig fingers into one side of his ass with one hand, and reach my other hand round to circle his pulsing hard dick, and then give it all I’ve got. Drive into him while I stroke him, matching the rhythm so he can imagine how fucking awesome it feels inside him. I hope I make him feel this good.
Just as I’m about to lose it, I feel it. Feel Miles come. His body contracts around me and snaps that last cord of any control I had once I slid inside him, and the hot, sticky come dripping onto my fist isn’t helping matters any. Yep, I am coming really fucking hard inside my childhood idol, and hell does it feel good.
I don’t collapse on him like he does to me, but roll off to the side and drape an arm around his shoulders. “I do okay?”
There’s a muffled response from the pillow, and I laugh. Miles turns his head, looking as relaxed as I’ve ever seen him though he’s giving me the fake stink eye for laughing at him and how fuck-stupid he is. “You treat the snow like that, it’ll be begging for more.”
Which is a ridiculous thing to say, but damn if it doesn’t make pride bang around inside my head. And I’m really sorry when my phone rings. Especially when it rings with a tone I don’t hear often. Maybe a time or two per year?
It’s the only
thing that could drag me out of bed from where I’d like to be cuddling with this man. Instead, I drop a kiss on his close-cropped hair and gesture to the bathroom where I hustle with my phone, turning on the water for I don’t even know what reason. I guess I just . . . don’t want to talk about it with Miles. Not yet.
“Hey, Mom.”
Chapter Thirteen
Miles
Of all the team traditions, this might be my favorite but also the most embarrassing. They’ve been doing it since I was a kid, and just never stopped. Twenty-something years of team dinners, and my parents still love to hold court. My mom sits next to me, my dad sits next to her, and Ted sits next to him. The seat on my other side is noticeably empty.
It’s supposed to be for Crash, because as he hastily beat a retreat from our suite earlier, I’d reminded him about tonight. The time, the address, told him to text me if he forgot. He hadn’t, hasn’t, and now I’ve spent a good part of dinner looking toward the door, waiting for him to spill into the place, red-cheeked and crazy-haired because he’d gotten waylaid by some fans or run into an old buddy of his, or just plain old got lost. None of that would surprise me.
Maybe I shouldn’t be, but I am a little surprised that he’s not here, and there’s no sign he will be, and no messages on my phone. I might have checked. Twice. Okay, eight times.
There’s a nudge to my shoulder and when I turn my head, my mom’s looking at me with that half knowing smile she gets. “What are you waiting for, baby?”
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