The hotel bar hums with noise, cowbells, alpine pop, cutlery, but the corridor to the back stairs is quiet, carpet swallowing my steps.
I find her there, of course I do, on the plush carpet.
Leaning against the wall like she owns the place, legs crossed at the ankle, coat open over a dress that makes my brain stall for half a second. Her hair is smooth and shiny, makeup perfect.
“Mr. Reiner,” she says when she sees me, mouth curving. “Three wins it is, now.”
My chest does something stupid.
“You watched?” I ask.
She pushes off the wall, heels soft on the carpet, coming closer. “Of course.” Her eyes are bright, almost feverish. “Youwere… less suicidal this time. I liked your line into Ciaslat. Very disciplined. Almost grown-up.”
I snort, but the praise slides under my skin, anyway. “High compliment. And I appreciate that you learned your way around ski racing.”
She stops just in front of me, close enough that I can smell her perfume, jasmine and something darker, the same one she wore in Reiteralm. It yanks me straight back to the gondola, to her knees in skiing pants.
Her hand finds my chest, fingers splaying over my sternum, heat seeping through my suit. She looks up at me from under her lashes, all practiced poise and something sharper underneath.
“You won again,” she says softly. “Don’t you think you deserve a proper celebration this time?”
My mouth goes dry.
She rises onto her toes before I can answer, lips brushing mine in a kiss that’s more promise than contact. Then she deepens it, tongue teasing the seam of my mouth, hand sliding up to my neck to anchor me there.
I let her.
For a second, it’s just this: the taste of champagne on her tongue, the press of her body against mine, her perfume filling my head. My hands find her hips on instinct, fingers digging into the soft fabric of her dress. She makes a small noise, pleased, and steps closer so my thigh slots between hers.
Her fingers slide under the hem of my thermal top, nails skimming skin. My body wants to slam her against the wall, hitch her leg over my hip, forget there’s a world outside this corridor.
My brain remembers.
Downhill. Tomorrow. And her, going quiet on me the second I wanted anything that wasn’t physical.
I break the kiss, breathing hard, forehead pressed briefly to hers.
“No.”
She blinks, slowly, as if she didn’t hear me right. “No?”
I step back a fraction, enough to get air, not enough to actuallywantthe distance. “Downhill tomorrow. Coach will kill me if I show up wrecked.”
It comes out sharper than I meant it to, defensive and brittle.
A flush creeps up her neck. “I see,” she says, voice cooling. “You weren’t too worried about being ‘wrecked’ after Beaver Creek.”
“That was different,” I snap.
“Was it?” Her eyes flash. “You had time for your American fans then.”
Something ugly twists in my chest. “I didn’t take any of them,” I bite out. “You know that.”
She looks away for a second, jaw tight.
“And you,” I add, words coming faster now that they’re loose, “don’t get to be jealous and distant at the same time. You can’t disappear when I ask to see you and then show up here and expect my dick on demand.”
The silence between us hums.
