“I’ve thought about this so many times,” she admits, voice low, almost conversational, as if we’re discussing line choice and not the way her hand is closing around my shaft. “On lifts, in bed, watching your races. I always wondered if I’d freeze if I ever had the chance.”
“And?” My voice comes out hoarse.
“And apparently not,” she says simply. Her fist tightens, thumb dragging over the sensitive ridge through the fabric. “Apparently, I’m very adaptable.”
Heat surges through me. I want to shut my eyes and drown in it, but I keep them on her instead. On the concentration in her face, the flush on her cheeks, the way her lips part when my own hand coasts down her spine in answer. Every tiny reaction she gives me feels like information I didn’t know I’d been starving for.
“Zlata…” I warn, because my self-control has never felt this thin outside a start gate. “You’re playing with fire.”
“That’s the point,” she says, and then she shifts, sliding off my lap to kneel between my legs in a clumsy, careful shuffle, one hand braced on my thigh, the other still wrapped around me. The cabin rocks; she steadies herself with a palm to my knee, then looks up at me from under her lashes.
The sight slams into me harder than any compression. Her hair is messy, buff askew, eyes dark and intent. There’s nothing coy in it, nothing calculated. Just a woman who decided, finally, to take what she’s been fantasizing about since before she knew my size.
Her fingers work at the last barrier between us, deft and determined, and then there’s nothing but warm air and her hand on bare skin. My head knocks back against the scratched plastic with a dull thud, and I barely register. Every nerve is focused forward, on her grip, her breath, the promise in the way she licks her lips like she’s about to commit to a new line on piste.
When she finally leans in, heat and wet and the first slick drag of her mouth closing around me, my hand flies to her shoulder, holding on more for balance than control. A raw, unfiltered sound rips out of me, swallowed by the storm outside and the tight little space we’re sharing.
For the first time in months, my head goes completely, blessedly empty. No splits. No rankings. No ex. Just the rhythm she sets, the scrape of her teeth when she gets brave, the little hum of satisfaction she makes when I can’t hold back a curse.
It feels like we hang there forever, suspended in white and want, the cabin nothing but a shell around the intensitybetween us. Time narrows to breath, to movement, to the hot, wet slide that’s about to undo me in a way I haven’t let myself be undone in a long time.
And then, with cruel, impeccable timing, the cable above us shudders back to life. The whole gondola lurches, swinging on the line as the machinery growls and the cabin starts creeping backward through the storm.
She freezes, eyes flying up to mine, my name a startled shape around me.
The swing knocks us both off balance. I grab the rail over my head with one hand and her shoulder with the other, steadying us as the cabin creaks and settles back into its slow crawl.
For a heartbeat, we just stare at each other—her on her knees between my legs, my suit open, my breathing wrecked. Then something like hysterical laughter bubbles up in my chest.
“Of course,” I mutter, half-laughing, half-groaning. “Of course, they fix it now.”
Her eyes widen, then she lets out a disbelieving little giggle that tips quickly into real laughter. She sits back on her heels, one hand still on my thigh, the other wiping at the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. Her cheeks are flushed, lips swollen, eyes bright with adrenaline and mischief.
“This is insane,” she says, breathless. “Completely insane.”
“Completely,” I agree, trying to drag my race suit back together with fingers that do not want to cooperate. My cock is still hard, throbbing, not at all interested in the fact that we are approaching infrastructure and other human beings. “We should probably… You know.” I gesture vaguely at the general area of both our clothes.
“Probably,” she echoes, but she doesn’t move right away. Her hand is still warm and heavy on my leg, thumb tracing one last slow line along the muscle, as if she’s committing the shape of it to memory.
Then, with a small, rueful exhale, she lets go.
“I’m sorry,” she says, and there’s a flicker of embarrassment now that wasn’t there a minute ago. “I’m afraid I have to return that.”
The phrasing hits me right in the ridiculous part of my brain; I choke on another laugh. “Return policy is brutal on this lift,” I say, trying to help by joking, not rushing her.
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at her mouth as she tucks me back in with quick, efficient movements, the way she might re-buckle a boot. Thermals up, suit zipped, everything shoved back into place with a gentleness that’s at odds with how bold she was a moment ago.
When she’s satisfied I’m at least vaguely decent, she retreats to her own side of the bench with a little hop, fumbling for her zips and buckles. I force my hands to help—jacket closed, gloves found, helmet straightened—anything to keep from just grabbing her and dragging her back.
We’re both breathing too fast for two people who’ve technically just been sitting for an hour or more.
For a few seconds, the only sound is the machinery outside and the frantic rustle of fabric. Then our eyes meet helplessly, and the tension snaps into laughter again. She clamps a hand over her mouth to muffle it; I lean my head back against the window and give up on looking dignified.
“That was crazy,” she says finally, still shaking her head. “All of it.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “All of it.”
The middle station comes into view sooner than I want. The windows are fogged from our shared breath and body heat, but the noise filters in—voices, clanking skis, a liftie shouting something over the wind. The cabin bumps into the platform, doors rattling.
