Then he flips me onto my stomach, pulling my hips up before I can catch my breath, driving into me again with brutal thrusts.His hands grip my ass like he owns it, owns me, each thrust staking a claim.I’m limp and helpless, but every nerve burns alive.My clit throbs, begging for touch.
“You can come, Kat,” he grits out, his thrusts hard enough to jolt my body forward on the mattress.“You don’t need your hand.Just me.Just this.I can feel you.”
And he’s right.The pressure builds sharp and sudden, my whole body spasming, as I scream into the pillow.Pleasure rips through me, pulsing around his cock, and he groans, chasing his own release.
“Yes, baby,” he snarls, “that’s it.That’s mine.”
Two more thrusts, and he shudders, the condom filling as a guttural growl tears out of him.
He collapses half on me, half on the bed, our bodies slick with sweat, breaths ragged and uneven.His hand slides from my ass to my hip, still holding me close, still too tight, like he’s afraid I might slip away if he lets go.
My body is humming, sated, but my mind won’t quiet.The silence afterward feels different.Not satisfied.Not peaceful.Heavy.As if the sex didn’t fill the void.It only exposed it.
Finally, I whisper into the dark:
“I’m scared, Thomas.”
The words hang between us, raw and sharp.He doesn’t answer.Doesn’t soothe.Just breathes, hard, his hand still locked around me like he needs proof I’m here.
And that’s how we fall asleep.Passion cooling into silence, heavy with everything neither of us dares to say.
***
The morning after gold, the media center already hums like it never slept.Screens glow on every wall, repeating the race and the celebration.Headlines crawl through my mind like gnats I can’t wave away:
Golden Kiss.Romance on the Slopes.Austria’s New Power Couple.Who´s the media lady?
Our photograph is everywhere.His hand at my waist, my mouth on his, frozen mid-recklessness.It doesn’t feel like mine anymore.It belongs to them — to the world.
I sit at a plastic desk, typing the federation’s press release.Cool.Neutral.Forgettable.Thomas Kern wins Olympic gold.Insert generic quote.Insert medal tally.Nothing about last night.Nothing about how I fell asleep pressed to his chest and woke in silence so heavy it hurt, before he left for a photoshoot without saying good morning.
The door clicks open.
He steps in — jacket half-zipped, medal still hanging around his neck like a dead weight.His hair is a mess, his eyes shadowed, his gait stiff.He doesn’t look like a champion.He looks like someone carrying the weight of one.
He stops cold when he sees me.
“Already working?”His voice aims for light, but it’s frayed — thin with disbelief.
“Always,” I reply, not looking up.My fingers move over the keys in hollow rhythm.I haven’t typed a real sentence in an hour.
He waits.I can feel him watching me — the air between us thick and charged.
I snap the laptop shut.
“You shouldn’t have kissed me like that.”
His jaw flexes.“You didn’t exactly push me away.”
“That’s not the point.”My voice cracks like a whip.“You kissed me in front of the world.Do you even realize what thatmeansfor me?”
He lets out a short, sharp laugh.“I don’t know.Maybe that we’re not pretending anymore?”
“You think this is a joke?”I shoot to my feet, heat rising under my skin.“I woke up to my face on every sports site, every gossip column, every damn headline.They’re calling me a manipulator.A leech.That I’ve been sleeping with you since the beginning — climbing my way up through your bed.”
“And what, you’re mad because they’re right?”he snaps.
I flinch.
