A sound escapes me—half groan, half laugh—low in my throat as I kiss her back, deeper now, my tongue finding hers. There’s shyness in the way she moves at first, but underneath it, there’s something wild, hungry, like she wants to burn the whole world down just to feel alive for five minutes in my lap.
She sighs into my mouth and leans her weight fully against me, her hips snug against mine, and I want her so badly my hands are shaking.
She breaks the kiss on a ragged inhale, eyes too bright. “I want to forget everything,” she whispers.
God, I get it. I want that too.
“Just you and me,” I murmur, pressing my forehead to hers for a beat. “No world. No cameras. Nothing else.”
Her mouth finds mine again, hungrier now, and I open for her. My hands slide over the curve of her back, into her hair, down again, pulling her closer until her thigh is slung over mine and her hips are moving against me through all those stupid layers.
I let my hands move slow, learning the shape of her through fabric, not rushing it. Palm over her hip, the narrowness of her waist, the soft dip at the small of her back. When my fingers find the strip of warm skin above her waistband, she shivers hard enough to rock the cabin.
“Please,” she breathes, arching into my touch.
The word scrapes down my spine. My control frays.
I slip my hand under her jacket properly now, under her shirt, climbing higher over warm skin until I find the weight of her breast. Her breath catches; her fingers dig into my shoulders through the suit. I keep it careful, cupping her, feeling the way she presses into my palm, how responsive she is to even the smallest shift of my hand.
She tips her head back, baring the long line of her throat as the cabin sways. I take the invitation, letting my mouth drag along the side of her neck, tasting cold skin and salt, teeth grazing herearlobe. Her hips are moving against me in tiny, helpless circles; her breathing is ragged and hot against my cheek.
I slide my free hand down her back again, anchoring her more firmly on my lap. We’re well past “cuddling for warmth” now, and she’s not pretending otherwise.
My fingers trail from her waist to the place where her thighs meet, just resting there for a second over the firm stretch of her thermals, feeling the heat pulsing through the fabric. I don’t push. Not yet.
I draw one slow circle with my thumb low on her belly, not quite where she wants it.
“Yes?” I ask, my voice rough even to my own ears.
She nods hard, and that’s all I need.
I adjust my grip, keeping her steady against me as I let my hand ease under the waistband of her trousers, feel the heat of her skin, the tension in her muscles as she holds her breath. Even through the first barrier, I can feel how ready she is, how her body is already answering mine.
Her forehead drops to my shoulder. “Fabio…” she breathes, half plea, half warning.
Outside, the storm roars, and the wind plays with the cabin, swinging it from side to side. Inside this little swaying box, there’s nothing but her voice, her heat, the way she trembles against me as I finally let my hand move exactly where she needs it most.
I ease my hand lower, careful with the angle, fingers mapping seams and elastic until I’m exactly where I meant to be. Even through the last thin layer, she’s hot and soft and so obviously there with me that it punches the air out of my lungs.
The first small stroke drags a sound out of her I know I’m going to hear in my head before every start gate for the rest of the season. It’s not polite. It’s not controlled. It’s pure, unfiltered want.
“You sound so good,” I breathe.
Her forehead presses harder into the side of my neck; her hand fists in my race suit over my shoulder. She’s not shrinking away from me. She’s holding on.
I work slowly at first, letting her body tell me what it likes. Tiny adjustments, more pressure here, less there. The cabin creaks with each sway, but the noise feels far away now, like we’re underwater. All I really register is the way her hips start to move, finding a rhythm against my hand, the little choked sounds she can’t quite swallow when I hit the right spot.
She’s not trying to be quiet. There’s no one out here to hear us but the wind.
I slow down just a fraction, keeping it steady, keeping her right on that rising line. My other arm is locked around her, holding her to me as she moves, as if I can keep the whole cabin steady by sheer will. My own body is on fire, every nerve screaming at me to grind up into her, chase my own relief, but I clamp down on it, for now.
She shifts suddenly, swinging her other leg over so she’s fully straddling my lap, facing me. The motion is clumsy in the cramped space, and we both let out a shaky laugh that dies quickly into a shared gasp when the new angle hits.
“Better,” she manages, cheeks flushed, eyes blazing.
“Much better,” I agree, and steal another kiss, tasting that mix of fear and excitement and something fierce that has nothing to do with me being her secret crush.
Her hands are everywhere now—my shoulders, my chest, the back of my neck, like she can’t decide what part of me she needs most. Every time my fingers tighten in her, she tightens on me in turn, and it’s the closest thing to a feedback loop I’ve ever felt off snow.
