Chapter 7 #2
As we head down the stairs toward the bar, my phone vibrates in my pocket.
Habit wins. I check it.
One new message.
éLISE: Nice skiing, Mr. Reiner. I’m downstairs.
Heat hits first, low and instant, the kind that has nothing to do with podiums or trophies.
I can see it like a split-screen in my head: me walking into the hotel bar, her already there in something that makes my brain short-circuit, legs crossed, mouth curved in that knowing little smile.
Then the two of us disappearing into a hallway, a lift, a room.
Her on her knees. Her under me. Her turning a double Super-G win into the filthiest kind of celebration.
My fingers tighten around the phone.
Right behind the heat comes the irritation.
Because, of course, she’s here when it suits her. Of course, she appears now, like a bonus prize after I’ve already done the hard part. No apology for going cold after Beaver Creek. No explanation. I’m just downstairs, as if I’m supposed to fall in line and come running.
Part of me wants to do exactly that, drag her somewhere private and fuck her until she can’t talk in that cool brand-manager voice for a week.
Another part of me—the part that remembers lying awake after Beaver Creek with my heart racing for all the wrong reasons—doesn’t want to make it that easy for her.
I slide the phone back into my pocket, pulse still thudding in my throat.
If she were here on my terms, this would be one of those nights.
But she’s not. She’s here on hers.
***
The hotel bar hums with noise, cowbells, alpine pop, cutlery, but the corridor to the back stairs is quiet, carpet swallowing my steps.
I find her there, of course I do, on the plush carpet.
Leaning against the wall like she owns the place, legs crossed at the ankle, coat open over a dress that makes my brain stall for half a second. Her hair is smooth and shiny, makeup perfect.
“Mr. Reiner,” she says when she sees me, mouth curving. “Three wins it is, now.”
My chest does something stupid.
“You watched?” I ask.
She pushes off the wall, heels soft on the carpet, coming closer. “Of course.” Her eyes are bright, almost feverish. “You were… less suicidal this time. I liked your line into Ciaslat. Very disciplined. Almost grown-up.”
I snort, but the praise slides under my skin, anyway. “High compliment. And I appreciate that you learned your way around ski racing.”
She stops just in front of me, close enough that I can smell her perfume, jasmine and something darker, the same one she wore in Reiteralm. It yanks me straight back to the gondola, to her knees in skiing pants.
Her hand finds my chest, fingers splaying over my sternum, heat seeping through my suit. She looks up at me from under her lashes, all practiced poise and something sharper underneath.
“You won again,” she says softly. “Don’t you think you deserve a proper celebration this time?”
My mouth goes dry.
She rises onto her toes before I can answer, lips brushing mine in a kiss that’s more promise than contact. Then she deepens it, tongue teasing the seam of my mouth, hand sliding up to my neck to anchor me there.
I let her.
For a second, it’s just this: the taste of champagne on her tongue, the press of her body against mine, her perfume filling my head.
My hands find her hips on instinct, fingers digging into the soft fabric of her dress.
She makes a small noise, pleased, and steps closer so my thigh slots between hers.
Her fingers slide under the hem of my thermal top, nails skimming skin. My body wants to slam her against the wall, hitch her leg over my hip, forget there’s a world outside this corridor.
My brain remembers.
Downhill. Tomorrow. And her, going quiet on me the second I wanted anything that wasn’t physical.
I break the kiss, breathing hard, forehead pressed briefly to hers.
“No.”
She blinks, slowly, as if she didn’t hear me right. “No?”
I step back a fraction, enough to get air, not enough to actually want the distance. “Downhill tomorrow. Coach will kill me if I show up wrecked.”
It comes out sharper than I meant it to, defensive and brittle.
A flush creeps up her neck. “I see,” she says, voice cooling. “You weren’t too worried about being ‘wrecked’ after Beaver Creek.”
“That was different,” I snap.
“Was it?” Her eyes flash. “You had time for your American fans then.”
Something ugly twists in my chest. “I didn’t take any of them,” I bite out. “You know that.”
She looks away for a second, jaw tight.
“And you,” I add, words coming faster now that they’re loose, “don’t get to be jealous and distant at the same time. You can’t disappear when I ask to see you and then show up here and expect my dick on demand.”
The silence between us hums.
Her throat works as she swallows. When she looks back at me, the composure is mostly back, but her eyes are raw around the edges.
“My mistake,” she says quietly. “I thought this was… fun. For both of us.”
“It was,” I say, softer, then catch myself. “It is. I just—” I shake my head. “Not tonight.”
For once, I’m not letting her show up as the prize. If we’re doing this, it has to be a part of my life, not just her whimsical side quest.
She steps back fully, hands smoothing down her dress like she can erase the last two minutes. Her perfume lingers on my skin.
“Good luck tomorrow, then,” she says, crisp now. “Try not to be too grown-up. It’s boring.”
“élise—” I start, but she’s already turning away, heels clicking once before the carpet swallows the sound.
I watch her disappear around the corner, my pulse still hammering, dick half-hard, anger fizzing under my skin like a bad energy drink.
At her. At me. At all of it.
Fine.
Downhill first. Feelings later.
Or not at all.