This time, she’s less frantic than in the storm. Still hungry, but there’s a deliberateness to it now. She kisses me like she’s memorizing me—angle, pressure, the exact spot on my lower lip that makes me suck in a breath. Her fingers dig into the back of my neck, then roam down over my shoulders, across my chest, testing, learning.
I can feel her smile against my mouth when I groan. “Like it?” she murmurs, breath warm on my lips.
“Very,” I manage. Understatement of the century.
The cabin rocks gently as we pass a tower; the cable hum shifts pitch for a second. Some professional part of my brain notes it automatically—pylon count, distance to the middle station—but the rest of me is busy with the way her ribs expand under my palms every time she drags in a breath.
I let one hand climb higher, feeling the strap of her sports bra under my fingers, the quick, sharp shiver that runs through her when my thumb brushes the side of her breast. Her answeringkiss turns messier, more urgent; she makes a small, needy sound into my mouth that goes straight to my cock.
She gets her own back quickly. Her hand leaves my chest, slides down the front of my suit, fingers hooking in the zip, testing how far she can go before the fabric gives. Even through all the layers, my whole body tightens in anticipation.
“Careful,” I say against her mouth, half laugh, half warning. “We only have so much time before—”
Another tower glides past the window, closer now. The hum deepens as the cable dips, a reminder of where we are and what’s coming. I ignore it. So does she.
Her hand slips inside my suit, finds the heat of my undershirt and the hard lines of muscle beneath. When her fingers splay over my stomach and start to move lower, my knees honestly threaten to give out.
“Zlata,” I breathe.
“Mm?” She doesn’t stop.
If the lift company decided to shut down the entire line right now and leave us swinging for another hour, I think, wildly, I wouldn’t even be mad.
The middle station only really exists again when the cabin begins to slow. She breaks the kiss on a soft curse, forehead dropping briefly to my chest. I close my eyes for a second, fighting the urge to bang my head against the window.
“Of course,” I mutter. “We should have known better.”
We’re both breathing like we’ve just finished a second run. Jackets hanging open, hair skewed under helmets, hands still half under each other’s clothes. And now, whether we like it or not, the ride is about to have an audience.
We yank ourselves back together as the cabin noses into the middle station.
She drags her zip up with fumbling fingers; I haul mine closed, shove my undershirt back into place. Her buff goes over her mouth, my helmet goes on, and goggles down. We look like two people who just sprinted up a flight of stairs and are pretending they didn’t.
“Perhaps, nobody comes in,” she offers, smiling guiltily.
By the time the doors slide open, we’re seated again, a respectable gap between us. My pulse is still on race-start levels.
The platform slides past for a second, empty, and hope flares—maybe we get lucky, maybe no one—
“Come on, Hansi, this one’s fine,” a woman says, and two older couples shuffle into the cabin, stamping snow off their boots. They fill the remaining bench, all poles and bright jackets, and the soft rustle of ski gear.
I angle my body out of habit, trying to conceal the worst of my situation. It’s pointless. One of the men peers at me through his glasses, head tilting.
“Excuse me,” he says. “You look very much like that racer… Fabio Baier?”
I give him the small, media-trained smile. “That’s me.”
His wife lights up. “Really? Oh, we watch every race. The big slalom at home, the one with the night lights—so exciting.”
“Schladming,” I say automatically. “Yeah, that one’s intense.”
“Could we take a photo?” he asks, already fishing for his phone.
“Sure,” I say, because of course I do. I stand carefully, turn just enough, and hold my breath as he frames the shot. My thighs are burning for a whole new reason now, every muscle locked.
“Thank you, thank you,” he says. “Good luck with your next race.”
“Thanks.” I sit back down, pretending my heart isn’t still trying to punch out of my chest for reasons that have nothing to do with results.
