Chapter Three
High in the Alps, multi-time Olympic medalist Blaire Hollis did what she did best—she took control over a woman’s body and never looked back.
Isaline’s back arched off the mattress as Blaire thrust her fingers in a hard, disciplined rhythm, pushing the Swiss skier harder than any training run ever had. Punishing, yes, but deliciously so.
The Olympian loved women almost as much as she loved the breathless rush of racing downhill with a gold medal on the line. Sex came as naturally to Blaire Hollis as waxing her skis before a run.
Every pump of her fingers in and out was calculated to burn off the restless energy that had coiled in her muscles since the wind delay announcement.
“Faster,” Isaline breathed, the Swiss lilt in her English roughened. Her hips lifted in demand of more. “Prove you’re worthy of a gold.”
Blaire held in a laugh and didn’t answer.
Words wasted energy. She shifted her weight, pinning Isaline’s thigh with her knee.
Her thumb circled slowly against Isaline’s clit, a taunting counterpoint to the faster, deeper plunge of her fingers.
The gasp Isaline made was musical. Blaire catalogued it as proof of a win and nothing more.
Isaline’s hand fisted in the duvet. “You ski like this, Hollis? All control, no joy?”
“Joy’s for the finish line.” Blaire’s voice stayed monotone and steady.
She bent, replacing her thumb with her tongue.
She gave a sudden, hot sweep that stole Isaline’s next taunt right from her mouth.
The taste of Isaline was just another sensation.
It was more like fuel for her soul than intimacy.
Isaline laughed, breathless as her fingers tangled in Blaire’s hair, not pushing, just anchoring. “It’s no wonder all the women chase you down the hill.”
Blaire ignored her. Focus was everything.
The way Isaline’s muscles tightened under her palm, the hitch in her breath when Blaire’s teeth grazed her inner thigh.
These were markers on a course, predicting what she should do next.
She dragged her mouth higher and slower, denying the quick release Isaline’s body begged for.
She was going to let the woman ache. Let her want.
Blaire would dictate the pace, the pressure, and the moment surrender would be allowed.
“Mein Gott,” Isaline moaned, the German absentmindedly slipping out.
The words sparked something in Blaire… not affection, but irritation at herself. Blaire hadn’t let go of that earlier moment in the lounge when Isaline had stumbled over an idiom and she had let out an unexpected laugh, showing a hint that she was smitten with the Swiss skier.
A laugh was nothing more than a distraction. Blaire quickly shut it down, sealing her mouth over Isaline’s clit, sucking hard. Isaline cried out as her back bowed off the bed. Her trembling thighs clamped around Blaire’s face.
“Ahhh, Blaire! Right there,” Isaline whispered, her soft Swiss vowels curling straight around Blaire’s heart.
Blaire sucked harder and tongued the woman’s entrance faster until the climax hit Isaline like an avalanche.
A loud and unrestrained cry tore from her throat, echoing in the quiet room.
Blaire felt it vibrate against her lips and felt the convulsive grip of Isaline’s body.
For one fractured second, surprise punched through Blaire’s walls, eliciting a near-moan of her own, and a sharper shiver right between her own thighs.
She clamped down the urge with her jaw clenched.
She eased her fingers free. The sudden emptiness drew a soft, wrecked sound from Isaline.
Blaire brought her fingers to her own mouth, letting her tongue flick over the taste of Isaline.
Then, the decision settled in her with the same clear click as choosing a race line—if she wasn’t allowed to completely lose control, she could at least decide exactly how she was going to take what she needed.
Blaire’s lips were glistening as she slid up Isaline’s body with the predatory grace of a medal ceremony ascent. Her thighs bracketed the Swiss skier’s face before Isaline could even catch her breath.
Control. Always control.
But beneath the discipline, a memory was triggered—a year ago during a qualifying event at Kvitfjell, Isaline’s cocky grin after an underdog podium finish.
Blaire had watched her untangle from a sponsor’s embrace, all easy laughter and unguarded hunger.
That spark had thrummed in Blaire’s veins ever since.
As Blaire braced a knee on both sides of Isaline’s face, Isaline’s tongue ran along her mouth, wetting her parted lips in anticipation.
Blaire gripped Isaline’s hair and tilted her head back. “Try to keep up, Swiss.”
With a half smile, she lowered herself onto Isaline’s face, relishing the first hot press of the woman’s mouth against her wet entrance. The rookie’s raw groan vibrated against her. In response, Blaire’s hips rolled once before settling into a merciless grind.
Her rhythm sharpened. Every press of her hips was meant to feed her own hunger. The broken sounds coming from Isaline were nothing but a delicious side effect. The woman’s hands flew to Blaire’s thighs, and her fingers dug in deep as she pulled Blaire down harder onto her face.
This woman is everything I dreamed she’d be. The thought rose up uninvited. Blaire pushed it down before the thought could make its way out of her mouth.
Isaline’s muffled whimper was like a wildfire to Blaire’s insides. She circled her middle finger across her own clit, adding sharp pressure to push herself over the peak.
The climax tore through her in tight, rolling waves as she came against Isaline’s mouth. Her hips rocked in short, grinding pulses. She stayed almost silent, but her thighs shook around Isaline’s head, giving her away.
When she finally rose to her knees, Blaire schooled her face to indifference. Isaline stared up, flushed and panting.
“That was nice,” Blaire said, rolling onto the bed. The sex had been nothing short of spectacular, but the lie sat cleaner on her tongue than admitting her ridiculous crush on the younger woman was alive and well.
Isaline huffed a breath that was almost a laugh. Her voice was hoarse but amused. “My English is not so good, but even I can find stronger words than nice,” she said, eyes warm on Blaire.
Blaire shook her head as she rolled further away from Isaline. Already, her walls slid back into place. Brick by mental brick.
Isaline lay beside her with her breathing still unsteady. A satisfied smile played on her swollen lips.
Blaire sat up and reached for her discarded sweatshirt at the foot of the bed and pulled it on. The cotton felt like armor.
“You should go.” The words weren’t harsh, just final. The fun ended, and the Olympian was simply drawing her boundaries.
Isaline sat up and fixed her green eyes on Blaire’s profile.
That look—part curiosity, part challenge—was dangerous.
It saw clear through the way Blaire was protecting her heart.
“Already? You’re quite efficient, Blaire.
” Her voice was husky but clear. She wasn’t showing hurt. The words were more of an observation.
“As you know, the wind delay is over at dawn.” Blaire stood, turning her back as she tugged on her team-issued Nike track pants. “We’ve missed our training day, and the pre-race inspection runs start early. I need my sleep. Don’t take it personally, Isaline.”
There was a soft rustle of the sheets as Isaline stood up too. The duvet pooled around her waist. After discarding the bedding, she pulled on her own clothes with grace as her eyes remained locked on Blaire. At the door, she paused with an expression on her face of pure mischief.
“Get your rest, Hollis,” Isaline’s voice was a playful purr. “You’re going to need the energy to keep up tomorrow.”
“Awfully mouthy for someone who hasn’t even stood on an Olympic podium yet. Win a medal, and then you can start worrying about my stamina. Goodnight, Isaline,” Blaire said, the corner of her mouth twitching before she could stop it.