Chapter 8 #2
We step out into the cold. The air bites at my cheeks; the sky over the village is a soft, cloudy black, streetlights turning the falling snow into static. He walks beside me, hands in his pockets, close enough that our shoulders almost brush.
“Where are we going?” I ask, though I already know.
“My place,” he says. “Well, my room. Chalet across the road.”
We wait at a crossing for a car to pass. My breath fogs in front of me; so does his. It feels suddenly very quiet.
I tilt my head. “So how does it usually work, then? Under normal circumstances. How does a fan get from the finish area into your bed?”
His mouth twists, half amused, half resigned. “Usually?” he says. “There’s a bar, or a party. Someone flirts, or a friend introduces us. Sometimes there’s a DM. It’s… blurry. Faces, names. Fun, but not very precise.”
“And you talk about it?” I ask.
“Not really.” He shrugs. “A couple of guys like to brag. I don’t.”
I huff out a breath. “So I’m already weird,” I say. “No bar, no party. Just me harassing you about Alta Badia splits and then climbing into your lap in a storm.”
He doesn’t answer, and jerks his head toward the chalet, breath steaming in the frozen air. “Come upstairs with me, then.”
I eye the warm glow from the windows, a promise or a dare, then meet his gaze. “Lead the way.”
Inside, the silence is deafening. He holds the door, then the lift, close enough that his heat radiates through our clothes. In the mirrored elevator, we stand shoulder to shoulder, stealing glances while our reflections betray us—cheeks flushed, eyes hungry.
My heart hammers, not just from nerves, but from the thrill of the unknown, the wild spark that sent me here, that made me touch him first, that craves the edge of danger. This might sting later, but right now, it’s all I want.
***
His room is cozy: a bed, a worn sofa, a desk cluttered with his life: lanyards, ski wax, the musk of laundry powder. None of it matters but the charged air between us.
He tosses his keycard, kicks off his boots, and turns to me. We stand there, hearts pounding, neither willing to break the tension.
“Hi again,” he says, voice gravelly.
“Hi,” I whisper, and then he’s on me, devouring the distance in a stride.
The first kiss is ravenous, nothing like the cautious brushes at dinner. His hands grasp my face, lips demanding, teeth grazing. I gasp into him, fingers fumbling with his shirt, desperate for skin. He groans—low, feral—and presses closer, his cock hard and insistent against my hip.
His hands dive under my sweater, pushing it up. I break away just long enough for him to tear it off. He barely glances at the discarded sweater, too busy tracing my ribs, thumbs brushing my bra’s lace edge, sending shivers through me.
“Fuck,” he breathes, eyes dark. “You’re incredible.”
“Less talk,” I pant, tugging at his shirt. “More action.”
He obliges, shrugs off the shirt, pulls me against him, and the contact is searing. I scrape my nails down his back, and he growls, pushing us toward the bed, kissing me in sloppy, feverish bursts.
We tumble onto the mattress, laughter melting into moans. I straddle him, grinding down slowly over the bulge under his boxers, savoring the friction, the power. His eyes flutter closed, lips parted in a silent plea.
“Zlata,” he groans, hands clutching my thighs. Hearing my name like that sends electricity sparking through me. I have never felt more powerful than now, feeling this man under me, begging for my body.
I lean down and brush my lips against his ear. “Tell me what you want.”
His eyes snap open, heated. “I want to taste you.”
I sit back, heat pooling low in my belly. “Then ask nicely.”
He swallows hard, pupils blown. “Please, Zlata. Let me taste your sweet pussy.”
I smirk, slow and filthy, then climb off him, shimmying out of my jeans. He watches, rapt, as I hook my thumbs in my panties and slide them down, kicking them aside. He reaches for me, but I bat his hand away, kneeling over his chest instead.
“Like this?” I tease, lowering myself onto his mouth.
He nods, eager, hands gripping my ass. His tongue delves in, lapping, exploring, and I gasp, arching my back. He moans, the vibration sending sparks through me. I ride his tongue, reckless, taking what I want, until I’m shaking, close to the edge.
Then I climb off, leaving him panting, lips glistening. He starts to protest, but I cut him off with a kiss, sharing the taste of myself on his lips.
“Now what?” I ask with a mischievous grin.
“Now,” he rasps against my mouth. “Will you please fuck me?”
“That’s the plan,” I grin, reaching for his belt.
He lifts his hips, helping me tug off his jeans and boxers. His cock springs free, thick and flushed. I wrap my hand around him, stroke slowly, watching his face. He swears, thrusting into my grip, then grabs my wrist, reaching onto a nightstand with the other hand.
“Rules are rules,” he grins, and pushes a condom packet into my palm.
I tear the packet, roll the rubber onto his shaft, and I sink onto him, gasping at the stretch, the burn. He grips my hips, urging me to move. I do—slow at first, then faster, harder, chasing the friction, the heat.
He thrusts up to meet me, hands roaming, pushing my body to his face, mouth to my breasts, teeth grazing my nipples. I cry out, nails digging into his shoulders, the room spinning.
“That’s it, baby,” he growls. “Use me. Take what you need.”
I do, riding him hard, his filthy words pushing me higher, closer. When I come, it’s with his name on my lips, body convulsing around him.
After I collapse against his chest, boneless and breathless, he rolls us, pinning me beneath him with a wicked glint in his eyes.
“My turn,” he murmurs, nipping at my throat. “On your knees. Now.”
The command sends a jolt through me. I obey, crawling to hands and knees at the edge of the bed, heart racing with anticipation.
He kneels behind me, one hand firm on the back of my neck, the other running down my spine, possessive, lingering at the curve of my ass. “God, look at you,” he groans, palm coming down in a teasing slap. “You’re dripping for me. Did riding my face get you off that hard?”
I whimper, pushing back against him, aching for more. He tugs at my hair, forcing me to arch.
“I want you to remember this every time you even think about that gondola,” he growls, lining himself up. “That this is what you missed then.”
He slides his cock through my slick folds, teasing me until I’m trembling.
“Please,” I gasp, desperate.
“That’s right. Beg for it.”
“Please, I need you. I need you to fuck me. Hard.”
He rewards me, thrusting in all at once, filling me to the hilt. I cry out, clutching at the sheets. He sets a punishing rhythm, his hips snapping against me, his grip on my hips firmly sinking into my flesh.
“You’re mine right now, Zlata. Say it.”
“I’m yours,” I moan, voice ragged.
He leans over me, one hand fisted in my hair, the other slipping between my legs to rub tight, ruthless circles on my clit. “Come for me like this. Show me you can take it once more.”
The rough pace, the hand in my hair, the filthy words—I unravel, coming hard around him, legs shaking, vision going white. He groans, slams into me even deeper, riding out my orgasm.
“Good girl,” he pants, voice thick with pride and hunger.
He fucks me through the aftershocks, chasing his own release now, breathing harsh against my back.
I push back, giving him everything, and when he finally comes—deep, hard, shaking—he collapses over me, mouth hot against my shoulder, still holding me tight.
He eases out of me gently, his grip loosening, then pulls me back into his arms. We’re both spent, still trembling, skin damp and hot where it touches. I tuck myself against his chest, ear over his heartbeat, trying to slow my breathing to match his.
The weirdness hits in the quiet. Not the sex—that felt brutally, gloriously right.
This. Him stroking his fingers through my hair, my body instinctively leaning closer like it belongs here.
Like I’m allowed to have this, not just steal it for a night.
I don’t want it to end. I don’t want the moment where reality kicks down the door and reminds me who he is, who I am.
“I’ve never come more than once before,” I say into the silence. It comes out lighter than I feel. Praise. Safe territory. Men like knowing they were good, right?
His fingertip traces a slow line down my spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake. “Then your ex was not very good,” he says after a moment. “Because you weren’t exactly hard to please.”
“Perhaps you just know what you’re doing,” I say, smiling against his chest.
The smile wobbles. The urge to undercut it, to shrug off the compliment before it can be taken away, rises like muscle memory.
My mouth moves before my better judgment catches up. “Well. You’ve had plenty of fan girls to practice on, right?”
His finger stops midway to my lower back.
There’s a pause, long enough for my stomach to drop. Then, calmly, “I don’t like that self-destructive talk of yours,” he says. “But I like it even less when you drag me into it.”
His voice isn’t gentle, exactly. It’s firm, steady. Not angry—just done with the joke.
“I just—” I start.
“Zlata.” The way he says my name makes me go still.
It’s a tone I haven’t heard from him before—quiet, unflinching.
“I just had the best sex of my life. With a woman who responds to my touch like she was born for it. Please don’t ruin that memory by implying it was some mindless practice run on a fan. ”
The word woman lands somewhere deep. My throat tightens.
“It was the best sex of my life, too,” I admit, voice small now that the bravado’s gone.
He slides his hand up, cups my chin, and nudges my face up just enough that I have to meet his eyes. They’re dark, clear, and completely focused on me.
“Then let’s stick to that, shall we?” he says.
I nod. That earns me a soft, lingering kiss—nothing frantic, nothing demanding. Just a seal on the moment, an agreement to call this what it is instead of what my old fears want to label it.
He settles back, pulling me with him until my head finds the hollow of his shoulder. His hand rests warm and heavy at the small of my back.
“I’m leaving for Adelboden tomorrow,” he says into the dim room. “I’ve slept like shit since Alta Badia.” A beat. “I think I’ll sleep okay tonight.”
I close my eyes, feeling his heartbeat under my palm, the slow, honest weight of those words. For once, I don’t argue with them. I just breathe with him, letting the quiet stretch, and somewhere between one breath and the next, the wild thought slips in:
Maybe, just this once, I don’t have to steal the good thing before someone takes it.