Schladming, Austria, January 23
Thomas
Night races are always something, and I’m still not used to them.
Slalom racers know the evening chill, the thrill of the crowd, the artificial lighting that messes with your vision, and the strange way the surface gets harder instead of softer with every following bib number.
Night giant slalom is rare because a piste with artificial lighting along such a long course is hard to find. But this is Schladming, the Austrian cathedral of skiing.
If Kitzbühel is my hometown, Schladming is skiing’s hometown.
I guess kids around here are born with ski boots already crushing their little feet. Everything, from the parking lot to the chateaux, is built to accommodate tens of thousands of skiers every day, utilizing artificial snow to extend the season to its limit.
Their night race is a national holiday in this country.
And I finished third in the first run.
I had it under control until I didn’t. One mistake above the flat, losing speed, and here I am, knowing that I have to push hard to chase the guys in first and second. Niko is first; it pains me to take the win from him. But I will do it anyway.
The media acts like I’m some superhuman, not allowed to make mistakes. Katharina had to put a stop to the endless stream of questions.
“What went wrong, Thomas?”
“What will you do better, Thomas?”
“Are you a little tired after Kitzbühel?”
“Did the Kitz party take a toll on your form, Thomas?”
I smile to myself.
The brunette with the last question was closer than she thought.
Is it true, though?
Do I feel pressure knowing I won’t get to taste my favorite pussy if I lose?
Was it a lapse in concentration? Me thinking about the beautiful legs I want to get between, her moans begging me to ride her harder...
I shake my head.
I’ve analyzed the run, and there was nothing unusual. Just a mistake, like the thousands I’ve made in my career.
One slip of an edge, one split second longer on the outside ski, one meter farther from the gate.
Nothing I can’t repair in the second run.
I lean back on the sofa of our recovery room and sip my energy drink. Time’s almost up. Soon I’ll get up, gear up, and head out for the second run course inspection.
Niko has already left, nerves getting the better of him; the others are long gone. I’m the last one here, and just like that, I see the one I’ve been waiting for.
“Thanks for shielding me from the press,” I tell Katharina the moment she steps through the door.
“That’s my job,” she answers with a half-smile.
She looks at me, and her eyes scan my body with an intensity that makes me hard.
I know my muscles look great in the base layer top, but this is more like she imagines my body on hers.
Gosh, and I did not even win.
It′s before the race, but I can’t resist. I take her hand and pull her down onto my lap.
“Not here,” she whispers, but doesn’t pull away as I bite her earlobe and trace my lips along her neck.
“Not now,” I finish the phrase she was about to say. “I didn’t win.”
I palm her perfect breast, and her breath catches. They say no sex before the race, not to blunt the edge testosterone gives us. No satisfaction. But this kind of teasing is the opposite; it will sharpen my edge.
I palm her other breast and squeeze it, enjoying the way it fits my hand, even when her bra stands in my way. Her moan is barely audible, but my cock hears it before I do, poking her buttocks. Knowing she feels my hard-on is enticing, intoxicating.
She wants to fight it, to set those ridiculous rules of hers, pretend she’s in control, but she can’t.
She’s helpless as my hand slides between her legs. I use the other to fumble with the buttons on her jeans. I need to get to her bare pussy, I need to know just how wet she is for me.
But as I fumble with her jeans, she laughs and jumps up.
Her eyes are on fire. Her lips are wet. Her breathing is ragged. She looks fuckable.
“You have a race to win, Mr. Kern,” she says, “Won’t that—” she points at my erection, “be a problem between the gates?”
“Not at all,” I grin. “I’ve never lost a GS here. Not about to start—not even with you distracting me.”
“Then,” she steps close, presses her body against mine, and whispers against my lips, “don’t disappoint me.”
***
Katharina
His second run is explosive, fearless, and flawless.
He crosses the line, and the whole place explodes. Noise, flares, cowbells; like the mountain itself is cheering. Niko’s second. An all-Austrian podium. My stomach unclenches.
Niko’s grin is pure sunlight; I let that be my excuse for how much I’m already shaking.
I let myself smile, actually smile, as I watch Thomas celebrate with the others. Skis, helmets, hugs, all tangled together in a chaotic, joyful mess. The media swarms in, but he’s ready to give them his best golden boy side.
Grinning. Effortless. Throwing out just enough soundbites to keep them fed. I don’t have to step in. No damage control needed. Not tonight.
Later, the afterparty hums like a well-oiled machine. Gold light spills from the chalet bar windows, casting long shadows across the snow outside. Beers clink. PR girls dance with techs. Coaches lean into their drinks like they’ve just finished skiing the run themselves.
I scan the room and find a quiet spot near the fireplace, and let the glass in my hand warm me. Something strong. Something I wouldn’t normally drink, but tonight feels different.
Schladming is our turf, and we won it all - the last test before the Olympics - and our athletes did not fail. No work for me, they do the PR themselves. Time to breathe out and reap the rewards for the first half of the season.
I know what my reward is.
I feel Thomas before I see him.
His smell, the fresh outside air in his jacket, the faint trace of sweat, and whatever cheap champagne they sprayed on the podium.
His presence sends butterflies in my belly; this anticipation is different. Loaded with promises.
I don′t look at him, I know he′ll come to me like a moth to the light.
He moves closer behind me, so close that his breath warms my neck. I lean back so that our bodies touch, but he steps back.
“Not here, miss Berger,” he scolds, but strokes my backside, giving it a little possessive slap. “But shall we go upstairs? You know, I delivered; it′s time you delivered.”
I take his hand without a word, ready to deliver whatever he asks.
I love our agreement.
Every race he won this season, I was ready to bend over and plead with him to fuck me. Every time I saw him demolish the field, I fought to quench the aching between my legs. Not this time, this time he′s mine. I can give in.
I pull him by the hand and march. Past the dancers, the noise, the questions. Through the hallway, the floor creaking beneath our steps.
My room this time.
My decision.
My man.
“You′re in such a hurry, Miss Berger,” he teases as I pull him, walking fast towards our hotel.
“I′ll do what I wanted to do every time I watched you win this season,” I call back and stride on.
He laughs. Melodic. Amused. Happy.
Gosh, I want to make him happy. To make him mine, to enjoy his delicious body until the sunrise.
There will be no frantic groping against the wall. No stolen kisses in forbidden places.
I don′t need to look at him to see his mischievous smile. I know how much he enjoys my unrestrained hurry.
We reach my room, and I fumble with the keys, as he kisses my neck and strokes my shoulders, pushing his ready cock into my backside. I smile with delight and slip in through the open door.
I turn around before he can push me against the door, unzip my jacket, and shrug it off.
He leans against the wall, his eyes glowing, urging me to go on. I undress slowly, my shaking hands making me clumsy.
“Your hands are trembling, Miss Berger,” he says, but remains motionless.
I don′t answer and pull the T-shirt over my head, throwing it at him with a laugh. Then I unbutton my jeans and slide my hand in my panties, feeling the wetness between my folds. I slip my jeans off, and with one hand still touching my pussy I step closer.
“Have a taste, Mr. Kern,” I whisper, pull the hand from my warm cunt, and touch his lips with my slick fingers.
He licks them, eyes half closed, the cocky smile gone. He takes my hand and pulls me to him, attacking my lips, driving his tongue deep in my mouth. I moan but pull away, stumbling a few steps behind.
He does not follow, plays along, and watches on.
I shrug the bra straps one by one, reaching behind me to unstrap it and free my breasts.
“My nipples are so hard it hurts,” I say, making one step closer. “Want to ease the pain.”
I offer him my breast, and he takes it with tenderness contrasting with the fire in his eyes.
“Kat,” he whispers, sucking my nipple. “You′re destroying me.”
“I have not started yet,” I answer, and drop to my knees.
His cock springs into my hand as soon as I unbutton his jeans, erect, already weeping. I had a little teasing in mind, but I can′t resist. I pull him into my mouth and suck.
This cock is mine, and the moans he makes are mine. I pull him out, lick the head like an ice-cream, tasting the saltiness, feeling blood pulsing in him. I suck again, and he groans aloud, fisting my hair and pushing his dick deeper in my mouth.
“This mouth of yours, Kat,” he whispers. “I wanted to fuck your cheeky mouth the moment I met you.”
His words turn me wild. I want to give him the pleasure no woman has ever given him, licking his delicious cock like it was my favorite ice cream, and I was starving.
“Can I come into your mouth?” he asks. “Because I will, just asking…”
I pull him out and grin at him. “Not yet, Mr. Kern.”
I reach further between his legs, still holding his pulsing dick in my palm, and open his legs a little with my other hand, so I can get to his balls.
There, guess, no fangirl gave these little guys a blowjob.
As I lick his balls, he groans like a desperate animal. Driving his dick with my free hand, I suck one of his balls gently into my mouth, feeling his knees buckle a little.