Chapter 21 Bunny Slope Badass
Bunny Slope Badass
West
Pre Game
The sound of the alarm pierces my frontal lobe, pulling me from a dream. I really fucking good one. Brandt’s lips were wrapped around my—
He rolls over and nuzzles his scruffy face into my neck. “I know you’re awake. Let’s go.”
I groan and open my eyes. “But you were just about to suck my dick.”
“Was I?” He asks with a laugh. “I thought I did that last night.”
“Twice won’t kill you.”
He laughs again, throwing the covers off my leg. “I’m serious, West. Move your ass. I’ve been looking forward to this for too long.”
“Can I at least caffeinate first?” My voice comes out all whiny and desperate but, fuck, it’s not even seven a.m. I’m tired!
“I’ll grab coffee while you get in the shower.”
But when he disappears down the hall, I don’t get up, just pull the thick covers over my head again. Brandt comes back minutes later carrying two steaming mugs.
“If your ass ain’t dressed and in the Jeep in twenty minutes, I’m leaving without you.”
My ‘fuck off’ sounds muffled beneath the heavy blanket.
Fucking Brandt. He straddles me, peeling the comforter from my face. He looks at me with concern, brow furrowed, like I’m a complicated puzzle he’s trying to solve.
“Talk to me, Goose.”
That tired line earns him my knee in his ass. He laughs and tries again, tugging the cover lower.
“What’s wrong, Wes? I thought you were excited about the trip.”
Not exactly. I was excited about his excitement, seeing him worked up over something again. It’s been awhile since he’s had something good to look forward to.
“Wes,” he urges. “What is it?”
“I have one fucking leg, Reaper! What if I…”
He sighs, finally sounding as exhausted as I feel. “Fall? Wipeout? Faceplant and eat snow?”
Here comes the second knee to his ass, but only because of his stupid hit-eating grin.
“You’re a great skier,” Brandt says, twisting to dodge my knee.
“No, I used to be a great skier. Now, I’m…”
His blue eyes roll skyward. “That’s what you said about walking, then running, working out, and swimming. Now you can do all those things. Why is this any different?”
I give him a miserable shrug. “You ever watch those cartoons as a kid where the guy rolls down the slope and gathers snow as he goes, and by the time he reaches the bottom, he’s a giant ass snowball and all you can see is the tips of his skies sticking out?”
Brandt laughs deep, from his belly, throwing his head back. “You’re ridiculous.”
“What if I fall?”
His expression softens. I hate that look.
“I guarantee you’ll fall. And,” he continues, “I guarantee I’ll be right there to help you back up. And by the time we break for lunch, you’ll already have the hang of it and bet me twenty bucks you can beat me down the mountain.”
“I’ve only got ten on me,” I joke with a hint of a smile.
“Do I need to call Riggs again, to motivate you?”
Just the threat of hearing his bullshit motivational speech again makes my head hurt.
“Wes,” Brandt starts.
“Is this the part where you blow sunshine up my ass and tell me I can do anything I put my mind to?” My tone is more sarcastic than questioning.
“No, this is the part where I promise you that if you make it down the mountain on your feet, I’ll blow you in the lodge’s bathroom.”
Fuck my grin. Fuck Brandt. “You know how hard it is to get all those layers off?” I bitch, totally lying through my teeth. Because if Brandt wants to blow me, I’ll have that snowsuit off in a hot fucking second. And from the way he’s smiling at me, he knows it.
“Fine. Deal. But if I break my one good leg, I’m going to beat you with my prosthetic. The steel blade one.”
He’s laughing too hard to respond. Brandt reaches for my mug and blows over the rim before handing it to me.
“Not gonna lie,” he says as he reaches his own mug. “I’m looking forward to seeing you all decked out.”
“The fuck for?” I ask, sounding puzzled.
Brandt shrugs. “I don’t know, last time we went skiing, you looked kinda badass with your goggles and overalls.”
His little grin looks salacious. Fuck me. I’m gonna be crawling on my ass like a toddler through the snow, not burning wind behind me as I race down the mountain like some pro skier.
Thanks for not putting any pressure on me, Brandt.
With great reluctance and a deep sigh, I sit up and reach for my crutches, hopping my way to the bathroom for that shower. Brandt calls out, “Want me to sign you up for the beginners class? We could stick to the bunny slope.”
“I hate you,” I call back.
His laughter filters through the closed door. “You love me,” he shouts.
Suiting up
Turns out the rental shop is hell.
I’m sweating through my base layer while some dude with a chinstrap beard keeps trying to adjust the straps on my left boot like it’s gonna matter. I finally snap, “Unless you’ve got one in titanium, we’re wasting each other’s time.”
Chinstrap blinks. “Dude, that’s wild. Is that, like, carbon fiber?”
I give him a look that should legally classify as a minor assault. “Nope. It’s Lego and spite.”
Brandt snorts from where he’s adjusting his own gear. He’s already got his helmet on, goggles resting on top, looking way too hot for a man whose pants swish when he walks.
By the time I’m finally geared up, I look like the Michelin Man’s depressed cousin. The prosthetic clicks into the modified binding with ease, and I’m able to let out my first small breath.
Outside, the snow’s bright enough to stab me in the soul. Brandt throws an arm around my shoulders. “Ready to conquer the bunny slope?”
“Ready to be mocked by toddlers.”
“That’s the spirit,” he grins.
We shuffle toward the lift line. Brandt’s holding my poles, my pride, and probably my insurance info. A six-year-old in a pink helmet skates past and does a perfect hockey stop right in front of me. I want to trip her on principle.
We make it to the lift without any major catastrophes. Brandt slides on first, then me. The seat scoops under us easily. The ride up is quiet, except for the buzz of the cable and my rising blood pressure.
“Hey,” Brandt says after a minute. “You’re doing good.”
“We’re sitting, Reaper.”
“Yeah, and look how graceful you are.”
I elbow him in the ribs.
At the top, it gets worse. Brandt glides off the lift like a snowboarding sex god. I, on the other hand, flail like a drunk cat and basically fall off the side, straight into a pile of human children and rental poles.
The snow is cold, but my dignity’s colder.
From above, I hear Brandt laughing. “You stuck the landing, babe. Ten outta ten!”
“Die.” But after the fifth fall, something weird happens. I get back up… and I don’t hate it.
The motion starts to make sense. Prosthetic in place. Balance shaky, but there. I coast. I even turn. Brandt throws his hands up like I just cured cancer and skis backward in front of me like a show-off.
“You look good,” he says.
“I look like Bambi on cocaine.”
“Sexy cocaine.”
I roll my eyes and try to keep upright.
Halfway down, I call out, “Hey, Reaper!”
He spins around. “Yeah?”
“You still gonna blow me? Or did the three wipeouts void the deal?”
Brandt skis right up and tugs me by the collar of my jacket until our helmets bump. His voice drops low. “I’d blow you with a mouthful of snow. Don’t test me.”
And fuck me, I almost fall again. But not from skiing. From that stupid heart-lurching feeling that hits me when he says shit like that.
Yeah. I’m in trouble.
Payoff
Brandt all but drags me off the slope after the last run. I’m barely vertical, legs like overcooked noodles, goggles fogged to hell, and the only thing I can feel is the pulse in my thighs and the fact that I’m still alive.
Which means Brandt owes me a blowjob.
He yanks open the heavy lodge door and stomps inside, glancing over his shoulder at me like I’m the prize he just won in a raffle. My boots squeak across the floor. I feel like a roided-out duck waddling into a trap.
“Bathroom’s empty,” he says, low and gleeful.
“No shit. It’s three in the afternoon and everyone else is still skiing.”
He holds the door open and follows me into the little single-stall restroom at the back of the main lodge. It’s warm with ugly tile, one baby-changing station mounted to the wall, and a mirror that looks like it’s been punched.
“Romantic,” I mutter.
Brandt kicks the lock with his boot, slides his gloves off, and starts unzipping his jacket with purpose.
“God, you’re serious,” I say, already laughing.
He steps close, peels back my jacket next, and finds the zipper of my bib pants. “You made it down the mountain. On one leg. No falls on the last run. I keep my promises.”
“This is ridiculous,” I say. But I’m not stopping him.
It’s a whole war just getting out of the layers. We’re both panting by the time my lower half is accessible.
Brandt kneels on the ugly tile floor and smirks up at me. “Wipe that smug look off your face,” I tell him.
“Make me.”
Then he wraps those frozen lips around me, and my brain short-circuits. I hit the wall behind me like I’ve been tasered. My helmet tips sideways. The jacket half-on, half-off. There’s definitely sweat pooling somewhere inappropriate.
Brandt hums like he’s savoring it.
“Jesus,” I gasp, “don’t make this spiritual.”
He glances up, mouth full of me, like he absolutely plans to make it spiritual.
I let my head fall back against the tile. Let him take over. Fast, slow, just enough suction to make me regret not doing this sooner. He knows what he’s doing. He always does.
There’s a knock at the door. We both freeze.
Brandt pulls off my dick with a quiet pop and presses his face to my thigh, grinning like a sinner. “Occupied,” he calls sweetly.
I clamp a hand over my mouth so I don’t die laughing.
After a long pause, the person outside moves on. Brandt leans in again, mouth warm and wicked. When I finally finish—breathless, overstimulated, about to slide down the damn wall—he stands, wipes his mouth with the back of his glove, and zips me back up like a gentleman.
“You’re unbelievable” I tell him.
“You’re welcome.”