Seduction on the Slopes Read online

  I step out onto the makeshift stage, wave and smile at the camera. I’ve been on this stage already this season, so I have a good idea of the setup, and I give Eric a winning smile and a shake.

  “Eric, good to see you again, thanks so much for having us.”

  “Thanks for coming on a little early, Miles. It’s great to have both of Team USA’s top alpine medal contenders onstage at one time. Quite the treat.”

  “Actually, Marissa Jennings and Tempe Doyle on the women’s team are also good bets for the podium. Don’t leave them out.”

  Eric’s eyes bug slightly, and then dart to someone in the wings. Maybe the producer who’s now scrambling to get Marissa and Tempe in here as soon as possible. Do your homework, guys.

  “Of course. The ladies are also looking good, and we’ll be talking to them later on.” Sure you will. Now. Jackass. “Anyway, we’re switching things up a little today because we’ve heard some rumors about the two of you.”

  He gestures with a finger between me and Crash, and my heart entirely bypasses my stomach and drops straight onto the cheap carpet. What the hell? My head swivels to glare at Crash, and I’m sure my face says it all. What the fuck have you said and why? I didn’t think I had to say to keep our pre-press sexing on the DL, but apparently—

  “You have kind of a special relationship.”

  Oh my god. My soul has become a gelatinous pile of green ooze, which is now leaking onto the floor into a mortified puddle. My parents will no doubt watch this interview when it airs. I do not need them to learn that I’m . . . fucking around with my roommate, my teammate, and my goddamn mentee. Crash is a dead person. When I get through with him, there’s going to be nothing left but a pile of curly dirty-blond hair and the vague scent of patchouli. That fucker. After everything I’ve done for him, this is how he pays me back? With sex gossip?

  But when I look more carefully at Crash, he also looks surprised. He didn’t see this coming. How did the press find out about this? And why are they bringing it up now? Sure they love romance between the athletes or athletes and celebs—our luger Rowan Andrews and some boy-bander have been all over the news because apparently they’ve been k-i-s-s-i-n-g—but if it’s just sex? Everyone here has sex, and if you keep it in the village, no one usually cares. I think our speed skater Blaze Bellamy has banged just about everything that moves in the village and some things that don’t and I haven’t heard a peep about it anywhere outside the village. Isn’t this show supposed to be family-friendly?

  But when the screen behind us lights up with something other than the show’s standard SIG backdrop, I turn. It’s a picture of me at a competition just after my first SIGs. Not that I remember it super well, because it was almost twelve years ago, but I know because there’s a sign next to me proclaiming Meet SIG Gold Medalist Miles Palmer! I’m shaking a boy’s hand and smiling. I’m not so hot with how old kids are, but he’s probably ten or so? Kinda scrawny, unkempt, and . . . holy shit.

  Eric Colton is beaming at us. “Isn’t that something? Miles, you look the same, but Crash . . . you’ve grown up quite bit since this picture was taken.”

  Yes, I’m well aware that I’m older than Crash, and not by a little bit. But we’re still peers. World class athletes who are on the same team, and for the most part that’s what matters. Yes, I mentor him, and yes, I feel somewhat protective of him, but not in a fatherly way . . . Images of earlier this morning flash through my mind, and no. Parental is the last thing I feel toward Crash.

  I’m usually good with the press. Great, even. But at the moment, I’m frozen. What am I supposed to say about this? Yep, just twelve short years ago I’d just turned twenty, was on top of the world, and Crash hadn’t even hit puberty. It suddenly adds a whole new layer of pervy to what’s going on between us, and frankly, that was entirely unnecessary. Quite pervy enough, thankyouverymuch. Not to mention the passage of time that this photograph makes unnervingly obvious is making me feel my mortality. Real hard.

  On top of all this, is Eric’s unknowingly awkward questioning going to activate Crash’s upchuck reflex? Because that would make this even worse. Your best hope for medals in the alpine events, ladies and gentlemen: a dinosaur whose knees are going to give out any day and a kid who can’t keep his breakfast down. Ted is going to die and then send his ghost back to murder me. Before I can say or do anything, because my reflexes have been dulled by my freak-out, Crash is jumping in.

  “Oh, man. Where did you even get that picture? I look . . . Wow, is that a Nickleback T-shirt I’m wearing? That’s embarrassing. Almost as embarrassing as my hair.” Crash punches me in a bro way on my shoulder. “But you, dude. He’s right, you look exactly the same. Lucky you. Nothing humiliating for Miles.”

  I look at Crash’s face, and he’s . . . encouraging me. Trying to tell me it’s okay. Which it is. There’s nothing compromising or suggestive in this picture at all. Nothing that’s going to tell the world that I am now jerking off the kid in that photo—and even worse, I want to be doing more than that.

  Don’t worry. No one knows. That’s what Crash is saying with his slightly raised eyebrows and his goofy smile. He’s nailing this, and he’s trying to help me nail it, too.

  So I dredge up something to say. “That is from . . . let’s just go with back in the day. I mean, I know I’m the old man on the team, but that’s making me feel like I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

  There’s a dip of Crash’s head and then he turns his attention back to Eric. “You know, even back then I remember telling Miles I wanted to be just like him when I grew up. Even though I was some random-ass kid, he took a few minutes to talk to me, encourage me. I really appreciated that, and I think it’s part of the reason I’m here today.”

  There’s a swirl of guilt in my stomach, because I don’t remember that at all, but it was apparently a highlight of Crash’s peripatetic childhood. I probably said the same thing to a hundred other kids that day, and none of them are here, so I sure as hell didn’t have anything to do with Crash fighting his way to the top. But it’s adorable and touches my heart more than I’d like to admit that he’s giving me some of the credit.

  “Now that I’m on the team, I have to say Miles has been the best mentor a newbie could ask for. I mean, he’s answered all my questions, even the stupid ones, helped me improve my technique. Really made me feel welcome on the team. So he’s not just a phenomenal skier, he’s a good guy, too. Now I want to be even more like him when I grow up.”

  Crash punches me again, in the same damn spot of course, and I have to grit my teeth so I don’t say ow. Eric seems pretty interested in this line of talking, though, and leans forward toward both of us. “Sounds like you two have developed a great sense of camaraderie. Is it going to be hard to go after each other on the slopes?”

  The filthy part of my mind supplies that it hasn’t been at all difficult to go after him in the shower or against the bathroom door, so the slopes shouldn’t be far behind, but the professional in me, the lion’s share of myself that knows I’ve been working toward this one thing for my entire life, shakes my head.

  “No. We may be on the same team, but we’re still competitors. Professionals. I may not have knees like I used to, but I’m going to be gunning hard for this one, and I’ve got experience on my side. Wait your turn, whippersnapper.”

  I’m only half-kidding as I wag my finger at Crash, and from the injured look on his face, he knows I would push him off the highest point of a chair lift if it meant I could have those last two medals.

  “No way, old-timer. Time for you to make way on the slopes for the next generation.”

  Outright aggression isn’t the most natural fit for Crash, but he makes it work, and Eric is clearly entertained. “Seems we have a rivalry on our hands, and I for one can’t wait. Makes me wish you were in the parallel slalom so we could really see you go at it.”

  Oh dear god. More dirty thoughts, such dirty thoughts of me and Crash not competing head-to-head, but doing other
, much less public things. Game on, Crash.

  Chapter Eleven

  Miles

  We’ve got yet another morning show interview today. One of the weird things about being at the SIGs in the US is that some stuff actually happens live. When you’re in Europe or Asia, the networks can’t do that, as much as they’d like to pretend to. Live on tape-delay? What the hell does that even mean?

  I’m half hoping Crash will wave me off, say he’s fine and he doesn’t need my special brand of, uh, help this morning. Maybe he’s got it covered? No, that wouldn’t actually help much. I’d just be lying in my bed, cock hard thinking about him beating off in the shower without me, and that would do nothing for my blood pressure or my focus. Christ.

  The other half of me is hoping he’ll beg for it. Tell me he needs me, he wants me, and not just in the serviceable - jerk - off way, but in the I - want - you - inside - me kind of way. Because to be honest? This celibacy thing before a race is so much bullshit, and despite my heaps of control and dedication, I’ve been seriously considering giving it up.

  Would it be more distracting to be fantasizing about fucking Crash when I haven’t, or perhaps after I have? Though no one’s ever been so good a lay I couldn’t put it—them—aside when I’ve been called to. It should be fine, right? Right?

  I’m screwed.

  Crash is still asleep and I can tell because the kid is the worst fake-sleeper in the history of sleeping. Like, fooling no one, not even small children, bad. I lie there on my back, waiting for him to wake up, waiting for him to give me some hint of how to proceed. If he’s good, then we’re good, and we don’t have to . . . do what we usually do.

  When he stirs though, something doesn’t seem right. His noises sound more fatigued, more worn-out than usual. Yesterday’s training wasn’t all that hard, since Ted doesn’t want us enervated by the time we get to the runs that actually matter. Is he sick? Did he sneak out last night after curfew and he’s hung-over? My mind is vacillating wildly between wanting to soothe him and wanting to shake him.

  “Miles?” His voice is kind of croaky, and I can’t even help it. These stupid heartstrings that have started tying me to him yank me out of bed and across the few feet of floor between our twin mattresses. It’s presumptuous, but I sit.

  “Yeah? You okay? You don’t sound so good.”

  “I’m fine, I just . . .”

  My imagination is sometimes too active. I come up with a million possibilities. Maybe he’s already feeling so sick he needs help getting out of bed, maybe, maybe . . .

  “Could we maybe do our, uh, thing, here? Instead of in the shower?”

  I pull the duvet that’s still covering up most of his face, and there he is, pink-cheeked and crazy-haired. Bastard, making me worry. “Feeling lazy, are we?”

  “Not so much lazy as warm. It’s cold out there.”

  “Yes, I know. I also used to be in bed, and now I’m not. Because someone made me think he needed me.” I try to locate a piece of Crash to pinch under his blankets, but he’s started squirming, so instead of getting an arm or his side, I think I get his ass. What’re you going to do?

  There’s a gasp from where he’s burrowed back under the blanket which I take as an invitation. “On your back.”

  He doesn’t bother arguing or even asking questions, just does as he’s told, and when he has, there’s an obvious tenting of his bedclothes. I see.

  Crash’s fingers curl over the top of the duvet and inch the fluffy white covers down over his face until it’s just below his chin. “I do need you.”

  I raise a teasing eyebrow.

  “Did you wake up like this, Crash?” Just in case he’s not crystal clear on what exactly I’m talking about, I palm the bulge in the sheets.

  He lets out this delightfully indescribable noise, somewhere between a moan and a squeak. “I mean, uh, yeah. Yeah, I did.”

  “And why is that?”

  I’ve never noticed that before. Not that it means anything; some dudes just always have morning wood. But I’d like to think it means he’s been thinking about me, about what we’ve been doing, as much as I have been. I hope it’s made him as horny and cocked on a hair-trigger as I have been. That would be difficult though, since he’s the one who’s been allowed to come, and I’ve just been sitting here with my balls heavy and aching because not only am I a guy, and hey, sex, but also . . . it’s not just about the sex anymore. I like Crash? Yeah, question mark, because I don’t quite know how this happened. What I do know is that is has, and I want him more than I would if I were just jerking off some rando.

  Part of it is that he’s responsive and receptive in the sack, and so goddamn forthright about what feels good and how good it feels. Which in general, is really fucking good, and he’s not afraid of that at all. Not like me—I always feel awkward about letting too much slip. I also maybe—just possibly—don’t like not being in control of all things at all times.

  Eventually he gets ahold of his heavy breathing well enough to say, “Because I was thinking about you. I’m hard for you.”

  His gasping confession makes me hard for him, too. Since we’re apparently doing this, I don’t wait anymore. I slide a hand under the blanket until I find his dick, hard through his sweats, and I stroke it. Thick and hot in my hand, I can’t help but think about what it would be like to clasp and jerk him while I pounded into him from behind.

  Could I get him to come as I did? Would I have to hold him tight at his base to make him hold off while I thrust into his tightness?

  My brain’s begun to look like some pornographic Dali painting because it’s melting. Jesus would that ever be hot. But I’ve got to get my mind off that, because sex isn’t an option for me. I told Crash that, and apparently I need to remind myself. Not acceptable.

  To distract myself, I tear the covers from Crash’s body and just as surely wrench his pants off. “Hands behind your head.”

  He dutifully does as he’s been told, but he can’t stop moving his hips. Those lean, muscular hips and yeah, his cock that is standing at attention. Wanting. Needing. Practically begging. And what’s a guy to do when faced with something like that? I’ve got a few ideas, but only one I really want to make reality.

  In a second, I’m using my knees to part Crash’s so I can kneel between his legs and go to work, taking him into my mouth. His choked-off response sounds kind of like “for the love of all things—” Dude can’t even get the “holy” out, and I’ve barely started.

  I work the part of his dick I can’t take into my mouth with a hand while my tongue and cheeks do the rest of the work. Maybe with a little bit of teeth, which makes him hiss and then groan. So noisy. So uncouth and impolite, and I love it. He tastes good in my mouth, salty, and earthy, with a little musk. I breathe him in, and it makes me want to not do this anymore. Not because I’m not enjoying myself—I am, very much—but what I want more than the taste of Crash in my mouth is to be inside of him. I want him to take me.

  I pop off long enough to ask “lube?” and go back about my business while he fumbles with the drawer of the bedside table. Handy. What does he think I’m going to do? Or does he not care?

  When I think I’ve heard the grind of the drawer closing, I hold out a hand, and Crash slaps a tube into it. Once again I have to stop my work and as I crack the lube open, Crash stares at me, flushed and breathing hard. “You’re not so bad at that, you know?”

  I smile, because I know it’s about to get better. Because I want to watch him squirm, watch him wonder what my plans are I hold up two fingers and drizzle the lube onto them. He’s riveted, can’t take his eyes off the clear liquid slicking up my fingers and will soon be slicking elsewhere.

  Tossing the lube to the side, I lay a palm on his hipbone, wrapping fingers around and giving him a squeeze. “You tell me anytime you want me to stop. I don’t want to do anything you don’t want.”

  “I want. I want everything. All the things, I want them. Please.”

  His breathless,
pleading words make me want to drop my head back and let out my own groan. For the love of all things is right. But the only outward sign that I’m about to fucking lose it is the front of my pajama bottoms getting wet and sticky with pre-come.

  I’m not usually one of those guys who talks to his cock like it’s a separate being with a mind of its own, but it seems appropriate right now. Buddy, I know, I want to fuck him, too, but you can’t, so just chill. And of course, my erection responds by throbbing even harder, probably out of spite.

  What I was after though in the first place is going to be mine. I reach my hand between Crash’s legs, place my slick fingertips right behind his balls and slide back until I’m rubbing circles around his hole, brushing over it, coaxing it, him, to open for me. Let me in.

  With my hand that’s not playing with his asshole, I squeeze his hip again and stroke. “Relax. I’m not going to hurt you, I promise. This is all about making you feel good, right?”

  He nods tightly, his wild hair flopping on his white pillow as he closes his eyes.

  Then something occurs to me—he’s said he fucks dudes, but is that true? I want to be sure he’s had some experience before I take this any further. “You’ve done this before, right?”

  More tight nodding, and his abs are clenching before I feel him purposefully give way. Taking advantage, I press a single finger inside him, just the tip, and wait for a protest that doesn’t come. Just air sucked through Crash’s teeth, and a canting of his hips in a way that makes me think he’s begging for more. And oh, is there more.

  Crash

  Miles Palmer has a finger up my ass. Well, part of one, anyway, and I want there to be more. Way more. I want to beg him to take the cock I’ve seen straining against his pants and fuck me with it. It’s been a while since I’ve bottomed, but I’d be happy to again. But I’m not going to beg, not even going to ask, because he made it clear he wasn’t going to come. Which seemed crazy to me, but whatever.