Chapter 20 #2
“So demanding,” I lean in, teeth scraping her shoulder, one hand sliding between her thighs. I circle her clit, slow, relentless, until she’s shaking.
“Say it,” I demand. “Tell me what you want.”
“You,” she gasps, barely coherent. “Your dick. Please—”
I tease her entrance once more, spreading her folds, stretching her, circling.
“If you ask so nicely…”
I let her lie there, enjoying her helpless squirming, while I unzip my race suit and pull it down together with my boxers.
I reach for the condom she prepared on the edge of the bed and tear the wrapper without further comment.
Roll it on my shaft and lean closer, teasing her entrance with it.
She is so slick that my resolve is ripped away with the touch.
I thrust in all at once, burying myself to the hilt. She cries out, back arching, hands fisted in the covers, but still where I told her. I set a punishing rhythm, hips snapping, one palm still pressed firm to her lower back, holding her exactly where I want her.
“You’re not coming until I say so,” I warn, voice thick with anticipation, but she only grins over her shoulder—a challenge, as much as a promise.
She rolls her hips back into me, grinding slowly, taking me even deeper with every movement. I groan, nearly losing my rhythm as her muscles flutter around me, the control suddenly more hers than mine.
“You like that?” she gasps, looking at me through her hair, eyes wild, hungry. “Like it when I take you all the way in?”
“Fuck, yes,” I breathe, bracing myself, hands gripping her hips, but she reaches behind her, catches one of my hands, and pulls it up her body until my palm rests across her heart. I can feel it pounding, wild and unguarded.
She rocks against me, long and slow, making me work for every inch. I match her pace, letting her set the tempo—sometimes slow and deep, sometimes fast and urgent, our bodies tangling and untangling as we both chase the edge.
Her hand slips between her thighs, fingers circling her clit in tight, fast spirals. Her voice breaks on a moan. “Harder. Don’t stop. Right there—”
I slam into her just the way she wants, matching the rhythm of her fingers. The slap of skin on skin is music, her breathless cries an anthem. She pushes back with every thrust, greedy for it, taking and giving in equal measure.
“God, Zlata,” I pant. “You feel so fucking good—don’t stop, please, don’t stop—”
She twists, reaching for me, dragging my mouth down to the back of her neck, her fingers tangled in my hair. “I want you to come with me,” she whispers, voice raw, urgent. “Want to feel you lose it, too.”
I let go, everything else blurring out. Her body milks me, tight and slick, and the pleasure hits hard enough that I almost see stars. She shudders beneath me, coming hard, hips bucking, cries muffled by the pillow.
We collapse together, tangled and sweating, limbs trembling, the room thick with the scent of sex and the sound of our hearts racing. She turns in my arms, kissing me—deep, slow, lingering—her fingers tracing lazy patterns over my skin, neither of us ready to let go.
I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, smiling, breathless. “Missed you.”
She laughs, soft and satisfied, pressing her forehead to mine. “I think you proved it.”
I pull her close, letting our bodies cool, still joined, the aftershocks echoing sweet and slow between us.
***
ZLATA
The room is very quiet. His arm is heavy across my ribs. The sheet is somewhere at the foot of the bed. I don't look for it.
I stare at the ceiling, feeling wrung out in the best possible way, and try to remember the last time I felt this straightforwardly okay. Not performing okay, not managing okay. Just... okay.
"So," I say finally, to the ceiling. "Is this it?"
"Hmm." He shifts, chin finding the top of my head.
"Our happy ending," I say it a bit like a joke, because saying it straight feels too big.
He's quiet for a second. "There's no such thing," he says. "Not the way they sell it."
"Fabio."
"I mean it." His hand moves, thumb tracing an absent line along my arm. "We're going to fight tooth and nail for this. We're going to piss each other off. Screw things up. That part doesn't go away."
"You really know how to set a romantic mood."
"I'm serious."
I tilt my head back to look at him. He's watching the same ceiling I was, jaw relaxed, eyes soft from the particular tiredness that comes after everything—races, seasons, reunions.
The globe is sitting on the nightstand, glass catching the light from the bathroom door I left ajar.
I can see our reflections distorted in its surface, tiny and curved.
"It is a happy ending," he says, more quietly. "For me, at least. Two globes and my golden girl in my bed." His mouth curves. "That's about as much as I ever knew to want."
Something tightens in my chest in the good way, the way that used to frighten me.
"That's sweet,” my eyes sting for a moment. I didn't expect to be let off the hook so easily.
He lifts his head then and looks at me properly. "For you, though," he says, "we're not done yet."
"What does that mean?"
"Masters Finals," he says, like it's obvious.
I blink. "What?"
"There's still time to sign up.” He shifts his weight, propping himself up on one elbow, and now he's looking at me with that particular focus I've only seen him aim at start lists and course maps. "So. Masters Finals."
"Fabio—"
"I'm free," he says simply. "Season's over. I'll take you to the Stubai glacier. We train."
I stare at him. "You'd do that for me?"
Something in his expression shifts, softer and a little exasperated at once. "Most beautiful place in the world," he says. "Beautiful girl. Skiing and—" his mouth curves, "—other things, all day. I'd hardly call it a sacrifice, Zlata."
I should say something dry back, something to match his tone and keep us both on safe, lightly sarcastic ground. Instead, what comes out is: "I don't know how to just accept something nice without looking for the catch."
He doesn't laugh at me. He just looks at me steadily. "I know," he says. "That's okay."
"That's not okay," I say. "That's a problem you're signing up for."
"I know what I'm signing up for." He reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, unhurried.
"And I mean it—save the gratitude for when I actually make a hard choice for you.
This is nothing. Stubai in spring with you is nothing.
Don't make it into a grand gesture. It's just skiing and time. "
My throat does something inconvenient.
"I already screwed up," I say, before I can stop myself. "Before I even gave this a real chance. I ran. Broke it off by text like a coward."
He's quiet for a beat. "It wasn't your best moment," he says finally, mouth twitching. "Texts suck."
"I know."
"But." His hand stills on my arm. "If you hadn't done it—if you'd stayed and let me pull you along in the circus instead—you wouldn't have dealt with what you needed to deal with." He pauses. "And I doubt the old messy Fabio would now have a crystal globe to polish."
The words land somewhere deep and quiet. I've been carrying the guilt of the text, the abruptness, the look on his face in the photos from Adelboden after. Hearing him say this doesn't exactly erase it; it just makes it smaller. Manageable.
"You don't have to absolve me," I say softly.
"I'm not absolving you," he replies. "I'm telling you how it is. You were right." His eyes find mine in the dim light. "But Zlata?"
"Yes?"
"Don't do that again."
Not a threat. Not even quite a demand. Just two people who have both done enough running to know what it costs.
"I won't," I say. And I mean it in a way I haven't meant many things.
He holds my gaze for another second, checking, then nods once, satisfied, and lies back down. His arm pulls me in again, and I go without a fight, cheek finding the warm skin of his shoulder, his heartbeat steady under my ear.
Outside the window, the last light is leaving the mountain. The room gets dimmer. The globe on the nightstand catches the last blue of dusk through the curtains and throws it back softly, as if keeping it safe.
I don't say anything else for a long time.
Neither does he.
It's enough.