Chapter 12 #3
I slide my finger out and enjoy the way her hips follow the movement. She reaches for me, but I catch her hand, kissing her palm.
“I hope you’re not so impatient when racing,” I grin and reach over the bed for a condom package on the nightstand.
I toss the package to her so that I can work on my jeans and boxers.
She rips it with her teeth, eye-fucking my body the whole time.
When my dick springs free, she sits up to roll the condom over my length.
I let her greedy hands guide me between her legs.
When I finally push into her, she sucks in a breath, eyes flying open. I still, for a second, every muscle straining.
“Is this what you want?” I ask, my voice hoarse, spreading her legs lightly so I can push even deeper.
“Fuck me, Fabio,” she purrs, eyes closed again, chasing the friction with her wriggling hips.
I obey. Slow at first, finding the rhythm her body wants. Her hands slide up my back, nails digging in when I hit the angle that makes her gasp.
“Fuck,” she breathes, in German, then loses the rest of the sentence in Czech. It spills out of her in a rush—syllables I don’t catch, just feel—and she clamps around me hard enough that I have to grit my teeth.
“Again,” I say, hips stuttering. “Say that again.”
“Hloub,” she groans, half laugh, half moan. “You don’t even know what it means.”
“I know what it does,” I say, driving in a little deeper. Her head thumps back against the pillow, braid sliding loose on the sheet. She keeps her eyes on mine, wide and dark and open. It undoes me more than anything she could do with her hands.
“Fabio,” she says, and from the way her walls close around my shaft, I know she’s close. The sound of my name hits like a fist to the solar plexus. My grip on her hip tightens; she just pulls me in harder.
“Look at me,” I say, and she does.
She comes with her fingers buried in my shoulder, a sharp, ripped-out sound that has nothing to do with being pretty and everything to do with being real.
I feel it all the way through her, the way her whole body locks and then lets go, trusting me to hold the weight.
That’s what finally drags me over the edge after her, hips jerking, forehead pressed to hers, breath punched out of my lungs.
We collapse into each other and the mess we’ve made of the bed—sheets twisted, one pillow on the floor, my knee hanging half off the mattress. For a while, all I can hear is our breathing and the faint creak of the bed protesting its life choices.
“Still think Pec would break me?” I ask eventually, voice rough, not moving.
She huffs against my chest. “It might,” she says. “But I’d enjoy watching.”
I chuckle, the sound rumbling under her ear.
She doesn’t roll away. She just shifts enough to tuck herself more firmly against my side, leg thrown over mine, hand resting warm and open on my ribs like it claims them.
I slide my arm around her, pull her in until there’s no polite distance left, and with my free hand, smooth a damp strand of golden hair back behind her ear.
She sighs, a small, honest sound, and lets her full weight sink into me. The room feels very small and very full, and for once I don’t want to be anywhere else.
***
She’s still lying half on me, tracing little nothings on my skin like the pattern hypnotizes her.
For a while, it’s easy—just warmth and quiet, her breathing flattened against my chest. But then I feel it.
The shift. Her body stiffens the tiniest bit, the one that always comes right before she starts building distance again.
“Don’t start,” I say, before I can stop myself.
Her fingers pause. “Start what?”
“Talk like you’re something people can just… pick up and put down.”
She stiffens more. “Well, that’s what this is, isn’t it? I’m not pretending it’s anything else.”
There it is—the wall, built fast and defensive. I let out a slow breath and stare up at the ceiling. “You say that like it’s a point of pride.”
She laughs, but it’s brittle around the edges. “You want me to get sentimental about it?”
“No,” I say, maybe a little too fast. Then quieter: “I just don’t buy it.”
For a second, she looks at me like I’ve said something unfair, but then she masks it. Always so damn fast to hide.
“You’re the one who said it wasn’t serious,” she throws back.
“Yeah, because that’s what you wanted to hear.”
Her silence right after should feel like relief, but instead, it crawls under my skin. She keeps doing this—daring me to prove she matters, then acting surprised when I try.
Finally, she asks it, voice softer this time, almost careful: “So what are we, then?”
I stare at the ceiling again. Honestly? I don’t have a clean answer. I don’t want to lie, either.
“I don’t know,” I say finally. “But it’s not just sex. If it were, I wouldn’t keep wanting to see you when I don’t have to. You… get under my skin.”
The words feel like too much as they leave my mouth, the kind that you can’t take back once they’re in the air.
She doesn’t say anything. Just hides a smile against my shoulder, like she doesn’t want me to see it. And maybe that’s enough for now.
I glance at the clock. “Come on. Max is waiting in the ski depot.”
She pushes up on one elbow. “What?”
“I arranged a lesson for you.”
Her head tilts, eyes narrowing in that mix of disbelief and amusement.
“You booked me a ski tuning lesson?”
“Yeah,” I say, trying not to grin. “If you’re going to keep invading my off-days, you might as well learn something useful out there.”
That gets a real laugh out of her, the kind that hits somewhere low in my chest. I tell myself it’s nothing—but it doesn’t feel like nothing. Not anymore.
***
I carry her skis from the car myself and set them on the workbench. They’re heavy, narrow, the kind meant for speed more than comfort, but the edges are dull and the bases a patchwork of old wax. Max whistles low when he sees them.
“Pretty sticks,” he says, thumbing the tip. “Haven’t had a lady bring her own set in a while.”
“Thanks,” she says, voice a little tight.
“She tunes them herself,” I say. “I told her you’d show her the right way.”
That gets a grin out of him. “Ah, so this is the student you promised me.”
She steps forward then, all bright curiosity, fingertips tracing the top sheet like it’s something sacred. “They’re fine,” she says. “Just… probably neglected.”
Max chuckles. “We’ll fix that. Tuning’s all about rhythm.” He flips one ski into the clamp, angles the lamp closer. The air smells faintly of wax and metal as he starts working, slow, deliberate strokes of the file on the edge.
She leans in, studying the motion, her face open and intent. I unpack the rest from her bag—brushes, wax, iron—but the truth is I’m mostly watching her. The concentration, the quiet fascination, how completely she gives herself to learning.
When Max passes her the file, she mimics his angle, careful but firm. The scrape of steel against steel is clean.
He nods approvingly, then tilts the ski to catch the light.
“See that reflection? That’s what you want — no burrs, no chatter.
” He runs a thumb along the edge. “Now, this exact angle determines how fast you can commit. Steeper gives more grip, but it punishes you if your balance is off. Racers live around one degree base, eighty-seven sides. For free skiing, you can soften to eighty-eight, maybe eighty-nine.”
She listens like he’s narrating a secret. “And the wax changes everything, too?”
“Completely,” Max says, warming to the question.
“Cold snow wants graphite or a hard race wax; warm snow wants a softer, lower-temp blend so the base keeps breathing. The trick is matching the iron temperature—melt the wax, don’t burn it.
Burn it, and you seal the base pores. That kills your glide. ”
She grins. “So that smell I call ‘ski shop perfume’ is actually someone cooking the wax wrong.”
He laughs, delighted. “Yeah, exactly! Ruins the layer. You want a shimmer, not smoke. Feel,” he gestures, motioning her forward. “Run your finger along it—it should be slick, but not greasy.”
She does, eyes bright, and that’s when I notice it again: how she’s all in. She doesn’t flirt, doesn’t perform—she just absorbs. Max keeps talking—about structure lines, fiber brushes, the way texture channels water out from under the ski—and she’s nodding, drinking in every word.
Max looks twenty years younger teaching her. Most guys come through here half-listless, but this—this is adoration wrapped in honest curiosity.
And me? I can’t stop watching her hands glide along the tuned edge, or the way the light paints the curve of her smile when she gets something right.
There’s something magnetic about her here: no poses, no defenses, just focus and pure joy.
The heat of the iron, the smell of wax, the sheen of the base catching light—it’s all background to how alive she looks.
When Max finally packs up, he wipes his hands on a rag. “Alright, I’m done for today. Fabio, keep her from ruining my masterpiece, yeah? I’m going for dinner.”
She spins toward me, mock-offended. “You say that like I’m a hazard.”
Max laughs on his way out. “Everyone’s a hazard until they learn patience.”
The door shuts. She bends over the ski again, brushing out the last streaks of cooling wax, utterly absorbed.
She’s still bent over the ski, focused like she’s tuning for the Olympics.
Max’s tools lie in neat order; the depot is quiet now except for the rhythmic scrape of the file.
The late-day light slants in through the high windows, catching wax dust in the air like gold.
I last maybe a minute before walking closer. I tell myself I just want to check her angle—see that she’s not over-cutting—but that’s a lie. I just want to be near her again.
She grips the file a little too tight, adjusts the pressure, and then—tiny hiss of pain.
“Ah, damn.”