He doesn’t answer, and jerks his head toward the chalet, breath steaming in the frozen air. “Come upstairs with me, then.”
I eye the warm glow from the windows, a promise or a dare, then meet his gaze. “Lead the way.”
Inside, the silence is deafening. He holds the door, then the lift, close enough that his heat radiates through our clothes. In the mirrored elevator, we stand shoulder to shoulder, stealingglances while our reflections betray us—cheeks flushed, eyes hungry.
My heart hammers, not just from nerves, but from the thrill of the unknown, the wild spark that sent me here, that made me touch him first, that craves the edge of danger. This might sting later, but right now, it’s all I want.
***
His room is cozy: a bed, a worn sofa, a desk cluttered with his life: lanyards, ski wax, the musk of laundry powder. None of it matters but the charged air between us.
He tosses his keycard, kicks off his boots, and turns to me. We stand there, hearts pounding, neither willing to break the tension.
“Hi again,” he says, voice gravelly.
“Hi,” I whisper, and then he’s on me, devouring the distance in a stride.
The first kiss is ravenous, nothing like the cautious brushes at dinner. His hands grasp my face, lips demanding, teeth grazing. I gasp into him, fingers fumbling with his shirt, desperate for skin. He groans—low, feral—and presses closer, his cock hard and insistent against my hip.
His hands dive under my sweater, pushing it up. I break away just long enough for him to tear it off. He barely glances at the discarded sweater, too busy tracing my ribs, thumbs brushing my bra’s lace edge, sending shivers through me.
“Fuck,” he breathes, eyes dark. “You’re incredible.”
“Less talk,” I pant, tugging at his shirt. “More action.”
He obliges, shrugs off the shirt, pulls me against him, and the contact is searing. I scrape my nails down his back, and he growls, pushing us toward the bed, kissing me in sloppy, feverish bursts.
We tumble onto the mattress, laughter melting into moans. I straddle him, grinding down slowly over the bulge under his boxers, savoring the friction, the power. His eyes flutter closed, lips parted in a silent plea.
“Zlata,” he groans, hands clutching my thighs. Hearing my name like that sends electricity sparking through me. I have never felt more powerful than now, feeling this man under me, begging for my body.
I lean down and brush my lips against his ear. “Tell me what you want.”
His eyes snap open, heated. “I want to taste you.”
I sit back, heat pooling low in my belly. “Then ask nicely.”
He swallows hard, pupils blown. “Please, Zlata. Let me taste your sweet pussy.”
I smirk, slow and filthy, then climb off him, shimmying out of my jeans. He watches, rapt, as I hook my thumbs in my panties and slide them down, kicking them aside. He reaches for me, but I bat his hand away, kneeling over his chest instead.
“Like this?” I tease, lowering myself onto his mouth.
He nods, eager, hands gripping my ass. His tongue delves in, lapping, exploring, and I gasp, arching my back. He moans, the vibration sending sparks through me. I ride his tongue, reckless, taking what I want, until I’m shaking, close to the edge.
Then I climb off, leaving him panting, lips glistening. He starts to protest, but I cut him off with a kiss, sharing the taste of myself on his lips.
“Now what?” I ask with a mischievous grin.
“Now,” he rasps against my mouth. “Will you please fuck me?”
“That’s the plan,” I grin, reaching for his belt.
He lifts his hips, helping me tug off his jeans and boxers. His cock springs free, thick and flushed. I wrap my hand around him, stroke slowly, watching his face. He swears, thrusting into my grip, then grabs my wrist, reaching onto a nightstand with the other hand.
“Rules are rules,” he grins, and pushes a condom packet into my palm.
I tear the packet, roll the rubber onto his shaft, and I sink onto him, gasping at the stretch, the burn. He grips my hips, urging me to move. I do—slow at first, then faster, harder, chasing the friction, the heat.
