He’s not here.
I move to the coffee machine and press the button harder than necessary.Espresso trickles out like it’s shy.Perhaps I should, too, remembering my performance from last night.
I smile despite myself.
“Morning,” a voice says behind me.
Deep.Familiar.Warm.
Goosebumps erupt on my skin.
Of course.
I don’t turn immediately.Not until I feel him step up beside me — that heat he carries like static.
Thomas.
Hair damp from the shower, hoodie slung carelessly over his frame, race sweat gone, but the afterglow of winning the craziest race of the tour still clinging.
“Morning,” I reply, even.
We both reach for the milk.Knuckles brush, electric and ordinary at once.
“Sleep?”he asks, too casual.
“Like a saint,” I lie.
“Same,” he lies back.
We both know that’s not true.Not after what we did in the ski room.Not after how I screamed his name like a curse and a prayer.
Still, we stand like diplomats at a summit.Polite.Neutral.Pretending.
“Told Roman already?”I raise my eyebrows.
He knows what I’m asking.The rascalous spark in his eyes tells me he’s just replaying the moment we crashed tens of pairs of skis with the final thrust of his dick in me.
“I have,” he nods.“He was furious.But promised to play along.”
“Play along with what?”
“Our dirty little secret.”
He moves closer, the soft fabric of his hoodie brushing mine.I feel the pull — and it scares me, because I feel like everyone in the room is watching us.
And everyone can see theI-am-ready-to-be-fuckedgleam in my eyes.
Gosh, we need to talk.But not here.
Dominik waves at me from a corner table.I seize the out.
“Excuse me,” I murmur, stepping away.
Thomas doesn’t stop me.
Doesn’t follow.
When I glance back, he’s already sitting.Alone.Eating in silence.Not watching me.
