His thumb strokes the inside of my wrist, slow and steady, sending little sparks up my arm.
“You get to decide what it says about you,” he murmurs. “Not your ex. Not Instagram. Not me.”
The way he says it is dangerously close to permission. To encouragement.
The thought should make me pull back, build a tasteful wall, joke this away. Instead, it makes something in me stand up straighter. I’ve spent seven years waiting to be chosen. I didn’t book this trip, sharpen these edges, and sit in a swinging tin can with my secret crush just to sit perfectly still.
My hand moves first.
Not much—just a slow, deliberate slide, fingers tracing the line he placed me on, following the shape of his body through layers. I feel him go very, very still under the touch. His breath catches, just once, and then comes back deeper.
“Zlata,” he says, a warning and a question tangled together.
My pulse is hammering so hard it hurts. I keep my hand where it is, not retreating, not going lower. Yet.
“I know,” I say, voice low. “We’re in a gondola. In a storm. This is crazy.” I turn my head enough to catch his profile, the hard line of his jaw. “If you want me to stop, say it. If you think I’m panicking and not… completely aware of what I’m doing, say it.”
Outside, the wind howls. Inside, the only thing that matters is the way his eyes finally meet mine, dark and intent, like he’s trying to read every line of my face.
“Are you panicking?” he asks quietly.
“Yes,” I say honestly. “But not in the way that makes me want you to move away. And…”
“And?”
“I have one question.”
“Which is?”
“How does a fan actually ask a world champ for his dick?”
Chapter 5
Inside
FABIO
Her question sends a jolt straight down my spine. Her hand on my abs is shaking, but her voice is firm. She isn’t hesitating for herself. She’s waiting for me. For my sign.
And it’s so fucking sexy, because it’s been a long time since a woman has given a damn about my boundaries and personal space, not just her own.
“How does a fan what?” I say softly. I free my hand from her wrist just long enough to cup her chin and tilt her face up to mine.
Her eyes are huge, pupils blown, but steady. No fluttering, no pretending thisis an accident.
“Seriously,” she says, mischief in her eyes replacing the shyness. “I’ve been thinking about it since I stood in a line for a selfie with you. Do women just come and ask directly for sex?”
I trace my fingers along her cheek, watching mesmerized how she narrows her eyes and leans into my palm. And decide that I’m done talking and joking.
“I’ve wanted you since the moment we stopped, and you said giant slalom,” I say, and she takes in a sharp breath. “Your eyes looked like you were talking about a lover.”
I feel that line somewhere deep. My mouth curves before I can stop it.
“So,” I whisper, close enough that my lips almost brush hers. “Whatever you want to do… I’m all yours.”
She kisses me fast, like if she doesn’t move now, she’ll lose her nerve, but the press of her mouth is soft—careful at first, trembling with all the things she’s never let herself want. I’m gentler than I meant to be. One hand still curved around her wrist, the other cradling her cheek, thumb resting at the hinge of her jaw.
Her breath ghosts against my lips, warm and shaky. I let her come to me, let her set the speed. She kisses me again, surer this time, sliding both hands up to my head, then into my hair at the back of my neck. That touch is electric, sends my heart rattling against my ribs.
