Priyanka is talking about the test they’re running: VO2 max. The purest test of athleticism, discovering a body’s ability to consume oxygen. I know that already. I should still be listening.
The mask over his face looks like a jet pilot’s in a film. The tube connects to the machine with its beeping, pulsing monitor.
The mask can’t hide how handsome he is. The light wave of his golden hair. The classically handsome lines of his face. The dark warmth of his eyes.
The eyes that look at me.
I could swear under his mask, he smiles.
I could swear the heart rate monitor shows an irregularity that nothing else can explain.
“That’s JJ Schneider, one of our snowboarders,” Sarah says. “You’ll get to know him well.”
I already know I will.
He’s pale, now, in the still-warm way of someone whose skin is quick to tan. He’s lost weight, and the dense and compact neatness of his body has been changed to something slimmer.
But he still has his golden hair, lower now over his forehead with sweat, and he still has the face that always stops me in my tracks.
JJ would be handsome if you saw him asleep, or motionless. But his good looks are more than that. He’s the type of gorgeous that happens when you can see someone’s goodness shining through—when you can tell that they smile and laugh more than anything else.
Even now, when pain has left unfamiliar lines over his face, when he is so skinny, you can still see that kindness shining through him.
It should be easy to dislike JJ, after what happened. But it isn’t. Because no matter what, I know that JJ isn’t a bad person.
He’s just an athlete. And that means a level of sacrifice which perhaps even he isn’t happy with.
I can hardly breathe, as I watch him.
It hurts to see him like this. JJ has been injured before. But now, almost eight weeks after his injury, to still be like this… it gnaws inside of me. Usually he’d be in the gym for hours on each day he wasn’t hitting the slopes. Cardio, strength—he’d go hard, really pushing his body as much as it could go. I’m not so far away from my years competing that I don’t remember what that was like, the joy of really doing all that you can.
Now he lies on the recumbent bike he bought on the physio’s orders, a pillow below his back, and his legs are trembling with pain as he pushes them slowly round, and round, and round. This thing that would once have been laughably effortless now has him covered in a sheen of sweat. Every few rotations he grunts, a huff of pain-held breath escaping the tightness of his lungs.
I almost start out of my skin when he speaks.
“Don’t stop.”
It’s not for me. It’s just for himself. I relax when I realize he hasn’t seen the sliver of my body visible in the mirror, between the ajar door and its frame.
“Do it. Do it. Do it.”
He’s probably doing too much. I could tell him that. Could remind him what the physio told us: that it’s crucial that JJ doesn’t push himself beyond his limits.
But I look at JJ, his jaw grit with determination, and for the first time I see a fire I haven’t seen in so long, and it’s far too precious for me to even consider putting out. In my chest, wings spread and for the first time consider flying again.
His hands find his thighs, as if he can push the strength there, and his eyes close tight shut as he forces his legs to move round.
There’s no way he can ride again.
But in this moment, I want him to. I want him to achieve everything. Even if it’s the things that keep him away from me.
I’ve practiced on fractured bones. I’ve worked until I’ve felt close to vomiting.
I know this part of JJ. I understand it. And I am so very proud of him.
When I drag myself away to head downstairs for the laundry room, I don’t have a word for the half-pain, half-fizz in my ribcage.
Raquel
That night, I turn to find JJ leaning in the doorway when I’m cooking falafel. I can still remember watching my teta make it—her already-old hands seem to blur over my own, as if I’ve become her. She can’t have been really old in the memory. She had my dad when she was in her twenties, and he had me in his thirties. But grandmothers are always old, when you’re a child. I can almost smell her rosewater perfume.
The smile that lingers is for her, probably.
“Oh. Hi. I’m making falafel.” As if he can’t see.
I can’t think why he’s here. To grab beers for Chase, maybe? Anyway: “I’ve made enough for you and Chase. It’s just as easy as cooking for one.”
Not to mention that cooking for one is depressing.
JJ turns his start—does he feel caught?—into coming toward me with a shake of his head. “Chase flew out this afternoon.”
Of course. The filming. I regret saying anything, though I can’t see more than a studied calmness on JJ’s face. Perhaps the forbidden hours in the gym have calmed him.
“I’ve already put the pita out,” I say instead, tilting my shoulder to the island between us. “There’s hummus in the fridge if you want something to eat while you wait.”
JJ shrugs and continues just to stand there. He looks awkward. He must have just come out of the shower, slightly flushed from the hot water, his hair and the neck of his t-shirt damp.
We’re both awkward, standing with too-much space between us and at the same time too little. We look at each other for a moment too long, and unbidden between our eyes something sparks.
JJ clears his throat and looks away. “You, uh, wanna watch some TV with it?”
It’s an innocent question. So why is there a beat before I can find a smile?
“Sure.”
He must be able to hear my stupid heart hammering against my ribs. But he doesn’t mention it. He just nods, somehow the gesture the very opposite of anything smooth. Is he feeling it, too? Like he’s forgotten how to swallow.
“I’ll take the stuff through.”
This time I don’t say if you’re sure. I remember him exercising downstairs. Don’t stop. I remember how hurt he was with the groceries.
And for one moment, I want to enjoy this illusion, this hint of how things used to be.
Even if that’s crazy.
We sit at opposite ends of the couch, with the trays of pita and falafel and veggies and the bowl of tahini between us, and we watch old episodes of Arrested Development together—because it’s what we always used to do. Without speaking to each other we pass the paper towels when we need them for sticky fingers.
Outside it grows dark, and inside it begins to feel… warm. A little like…
But I don’t think the word. I just enjoy the sound of JJ laughing beside me, the low thrum of his humor. I pass him a glass of water when I bring my own from the kitchen.
And when he raises one thumb to wipe a sliver of tahini from my lip, unthinking, we’re hooked there for just one moment.
Our breaths, both lost, run away together.
We pull back at the same time, JJ wiping his hand over his track pants, me pushing my hair behind my ears.
“Sorry—”
“I didn’t mean—”
He clears his throat. “I, uh, should go to bed.”
Yes, he should.
So why can’t I say it?
Why are we looking at each other?
As if… As if…
Luckily JJ hasn’t totally lost his mind. He’s already off the couch before I have time to say anything in my moment of stupidity.
“I’ll take these to the kitchen. See you tomorrow.”
It’s a lucky escape. I tell myself that over and over. Because it’s true. Because it would be a mistake compounded on so many mistakes for me to have—
I’m not even thinking of what I might have done.
I won’t allow myself to.
I force the thought away as I sit at the vanity in the guest bedroom, wiping my makeup from my face. As I hear JJ walk past to our—to his bedr
oom. As I change into my silk nightgown and climb into bed.
But in the darkness, the thought is waiting for me. It prickles over my skin. It makes me toss and turn in the guest sheets I bought so many months ago.
There are so many memories in this house, and they crawl over each other and press in on me in the darkness, until my breath is hot and want opens undeniable inside of me, an aching emptiness.
What harm could it do?
It’s not about him. It’s not. It’s just that it’s been a long time. I’m an adult human, I have needs.
They’re nothing to do with him.
If I turned on the light, it would be too real. I move in darkness like I’m guilty, reaching to the drawer under the bed. The wand is cool and smooth in my hands.
I leave the light off as I plug it in and lie back, and I try not to think of him.
I try, but the first low buzz of pleasure inside of me makes me think of JJ, just like always.
JJ sinks to his knees and hooks one finger in the loop of his tie, tugging it open so that its noose tightens around one side of his neck before it comes free.
On the bed’s edge I shiver, twisting my fingers in the sheets.
The spread of his thick thighs holds his body as steady as his eyes hold my gaze. He begins to open them. The buttons.
One.
Another.
Slow, all the way down, until he can slide the open shirt off his shoulders. He reaches behind his head and peels the white T-shirt beneath up, too. Solid planes of muscles shift and ease around each other.
I can hear my own swallow.
“It takes a while,” I say, trying to sound as confident as I know I have a right to be.
JJ is the first man who smiles to hear that—only an edge of a grin, but real.
“Sounds good to me,” he says.
“I mean it. It’s… most guys can’t.”
“Okay,” he says, as if it’s nothing, and then he’s moving down to all fours, crawling forward until he’s close, until I can feel his breath, until it makes me shiver.
He comes to stop on his knees and lets his eyes sweep over me. I’ve felt lovers’ touches less erotic than that look. JJ’s gaze is like a hand stroking over me, lighting fires beneath my skin.
“So teach me, Raquel,” he murmurs, his fingertip trailing down to find the hem of my dress, to slide his hand under it and sweep his palm over my thigh—not going any higher, not any lower, just maddeningly there. “Teach me how you like to be touched.”
He doesn’t tell me, “Of course I can do it.” He doesn’t decide it isn’t important. He isn’t arrogant or selfish. He isn’t intimidated by our difference.
He just leans forward and presses his mouth to my stomach, his kiss moving the fabric over my skin, warming it against me.
“I want to pleasure you.”
Not “make you come.” Just “pleasure,” whatever that means for me.
I look at him, and he raises his head to meet my gaze with his own, and he holds it. Just waiting. Slow blinks move his lashes over his dark eyes.
When I reach for him, his hair is silky soft under my fingertips, and his smile spreads wider. I pull him in, and he slides his hands to my thighs, pushing up my dress before gently spreading my legs.
When he looks down to the lace of my panties he grunts, and his erection twitches under his pants, and I can feel myself shudder in response.
It feels vulnerable, having him just looking at me. It feels too open, too insecure.
I forget all of that as JJ begins to kiss up my inner thigh, sweeping his tongue over my skin.
“James…”
And then he kisses right there, right at damp lace, and my breath catches in my chest and I’m falling back onto the bed, and his laugh is soft and hot against my skin. When his finger hooks under the edge of my panties and pulls them aside, I can’t stop myself moaning.
“I want to know what feels good for you,” he murmurs, his lips brushing over mine. “Tell me. Show me.”
He guides my hand to his hair. He kisses each of my thighs.
Then he presses his mouth to me, and begins to take me apart.
JJ
I wouldn’t even hear the sound, except that I’m lying awake in bed anyway.
It’s not like sleep has been easy since the accident. And it was hardly a cakewalk before then, either, in the months after Raquel walked out.
But tonight it’s something else I’m thinking about. Not the injury, not the way Raquel left me.
I’m thinking about the way Raquel looked at me on the couch, just after I touched her.
Like maybe she…
There’s a part of me that realizes that hope is a bad idea. That it’s just going to get me hurt.
And there’s another part of me—a bigger part—that has always chased after hope and low odds. Because what matters is what might happen, and how good that would be, even if probably you won’t get there at all.
I brushed the tahini from her lip.
We looked at each other.
I can still see her dark eyes, frozen open. The part of her lips. I can feel them under my thumb. Their soft warmth.
And the way she looked at me, like she wanted to say—
Anyway, it’s all pushed out by that sound.
I stop breathing.
It’s not like I need to hear any clearer. I know exactly what that low buzz is.
I slide a hand down to rearrange my suddenly hard dick inside of my boxer shorts.
Fuck. She can’t be. Not after…
Her dark eyes haunt me, and the words that were in them. That moment. She felt it too. The electricity that arced between us.
And now she’s pleasuring herself, and my mouth is dry, and I can hear the beat of my heart in my ears.
In my empty hand I can almost feel the vibe: the weight of it, the heft. Hitachi’s gift to women. Me and that vibe—there was just about nothing we were incapable of doing for Raquel. I remember countless days we’d spend in this bed together, finding out just how many times she could go, how often it’s too much could fade to yes, yes, and that to wordless whimpers as she tossed beneath my fingers and my tongue and my cock and that vibe.
She’d rest her head back, when she used it on herself. I loved to watch her like that. Her delicate wrist arched above her stomach, her clever fingers curled around the plastic. Her head tilted, the back of her skull cradled in the pillow, her hair a messy cloud around her.
She’ll be biting her lip. The sharp point of her canine, caught against the plump flesh, pushing into it in the perfect mix of vicious and sweet.
I can almost hear it—the way she breathes. The hitching, rising intensity.
Her writhe, god, the way she begins to arch and twist.
My hand’s already on my shorts. Fuck.
I can’t do this. I can’t. It’s torture.
I can’t. But I am. My pants are already down over my hips, my hand on my dick, and all I can see is the dark of her eyes when they half-open to look at me, and the red flush that spreads from her cheeks to tip over her jaw and along the fine lines of her neck.
There’s a sound from the other room, and I have to bite my lip so I don’t make one back. I know the way she arches. The way strangled cries of pleasure come from her, escaping unbidden, as she unpicks all of that perfect control. Taking apart the elegant, put-together woman to reveal the animal within, shaking and sweaty and so fucking beautiful.
Her thighs will be trembling. My mouth waters at the idea of burying my face between them, smelling the animal musk of her, pushing the wand away and feasting on the slickness of her want. Tasting deep inside of her pussy before sliding my fingers inside of her and working them as I suck at her clit, feeling those quaking thighs against my head, their shaking reaching a tremulous breaking pitch, these sharp jagged jerks before the slower wave overtakes her—
She cries out, just once, in the darkness, and I know that she’s coming, fuck.
I try to kee
p my mouth closed as I come. I think I do. I grit my teeth as I spasm, the muscles over my belly tensing, the ones over my scar aching, white searing behind my tightly closed eyes.
When reality rushes back into my ears, the silence is loud.
She’s turned off the wand. There’s no sound other than the thud thud thud of my heart.
Maybe she heard me. Fuck.
Worst of all, I don’t know how I feel about it.
Maybe for just one moment I could dream that she’d come through that door. That the handle would click and she’d push it open, come padding inside, naked and sticky at the thighs. That she’d come lie under my arm and curl one leg around me, holding me here.
But that’s not fucking happening, is it? Reality is too pressing, too ugly to ignore. Here I am on my bed, my track pants around my thighs, and my stomach covered in come.
I bring my clean hand up to rub it over my eyes.
Fuck’s sake. I have to get a hold of myself.
JJ—Before
When we pull up in front of her place, I reach for the clip of my belt.
Raquel looks over, checking the motion of my hand before she raises her eyes to mine. “You’re not coming in tonight.”
Well, that’s how you get to the point. I look over to her with a nod. “Cool. I was just going to walk you to your door.”
Raquel snorts, her eyebrow arching elegantly. “Really.”
I reach over to pull the handle of my door, twisting a look behind me for any stray cyclists before I open it. “This might amaze you, but yes, really.”
I’ve always liked the traditional way of doing things. Not that I haven’t had casual sex, because I have. You get a boy famous from when he’s a teenager and shower him a) in female attention and b) cultural messages that to be a real man he’s of course gonna take what he’s offered, sexually… Well, he’s gonna try it.
Crash (The Wild Sequence Book 2) Page 13