Thomas
I see her leave.
Not overtly. Not dramatically. Just a shadow passing the edge of the bar, the press badge slipping sideways against her dress, the flats tapping too quietly.
For half a breath, I feel it.
That pull.
The desire to get up, chase her to that door, and tell her I did it for her.
But I drown it. Fast. Champagne helps. So does the perfect curve of the model’s ass in front of me.
She leans in. Laughs. Doesn’t ask for anything but attention.
So I give it.
Let Katharina play her game.
Tonight I’m the King of Kitz.
And she is not my queen.
Not anymore.
***
Katharina
The hallway is quiet. I feel safer here, away from the roar of the afterparty, the heels, the diamonds, the champagne breath of victory. Lukas’s door is slightly ajar, soft yellow light spilling into the corridor like the room itself is too tired to close up properly.
I knock gently. “You decent?”
“Barely,” comes the reply. Muffled.
I step inside.
Lukas is sprawled on his bed in sweats and a hoodie, one sock half-off, one hand holding a half-eaten protein bar like it betrayed him. The TV is on mute, showing looping highlights of the race he didn’t finish.
“You skipping the glitter and glory?”
He shrugs. “Didn’t feel like wearing a tux with a limp and medical teams waiting to scan my knee first thing in the morning.”
I nod. I get it.
“I came for a quote,” I say, holding up my phone. “Something for the sponsor wrap. You were still technically one of the team’s podium contenders this week.”
He groans. “Sure. Here’s your quote: ‘Not finishing sucks. Also, my right ski can go to hell.’”
I smile faintly. “I’ll clean that up.”
He watches me for a second. Then says, out of nowhere, “You know he was somewhat lost before Solden.”
I blink. “What?”
“Thomas,” he says. “The guy was losing motivation. Didn’t care about points, thinking he had nothing more to prove. And then you showed up. Things changed.”
I sit at the foot of his bed. “I don’t think I’m the one who fixed his racing mindset.”
“No,” Lukas says. “I think you scared the hell out of him, and that was a good thing.”
That pulls me up short.
He continues, voice quieter now. “He’s been untouchable on the hill this season because he had something to prove.
To you. That’s what you gave him. And yeah, he got weird and possessive and jealous, but that’s just Thomas.
Emotionally constipated, competitive idiot.
Doesn’t know how to want someone with no need to own them. ”
I stare at the muted TV. Thomas flying through the air like he was built from sinew and fury.
Lukas says, “You’re scared too. But you do want him. Don’t pretend you don’t.”
I look down at my hands. “He’s surrounded by people who want him now. Celebrities. Sponsors. Half of Europe. He doesn’t need me.”
Lukas gives a dry laugh. “Katharina. I have known you since October only, but you look like a fighter. So maybe fight for what you want.”
That lands. Hard.
I stand.
Thank him for the quote and head for my room.
I look at the mirror. Straighten the dress that suddenly feels just right. Not fancy. But sharp. It just needs a little set-up.
I kick down the ridiculous flats and step into my heels, those that nearly dissolved in the Wengen mush.
This is their moment. I brush my hair, think about curling it and letting it fall down my back, but no.
I put my hair up in a high ponytail, which leaves my neck and my collarbone exposed.
Let him remember where I like to be kissed.
I put on a black velvet choker with a small silver pendant, not very trendy now, but I know it makes my collarbones shine.
I decide for the silver earrings he gave me and spend a few minutes with my makeup.
I am happy with my image, but not as happy as I am when I step into the lobby, where I find Lukas ordering a beer.
“Holy shit,” he greets me with a sly smile. “That’s the best battle dress I’ve ever seen. Poor bastard doesn’t stand a chance.”
I don’t smile.
But my heart is racing.
And this time, I’m not walking away.
***
Thomas
The fan lounge pulses with sweat, champagne breath, and the faint metallic sting of sparklers hanging in the air. The bassline thrums low in my ribs. My shirt is unbuttoned just enough.
Niko’s still flushed from his third-place podium, hair damp, grin wide. Laughter ricochets off the walls. People crowd in, hands clinking glasses, flashes going off. Everyone wants a photo, a toast, a taste of the golden boy.
I give them what they came for.
A blonde model leans in, perfume thick and sweet, finger trailing lazily down my open collar. She pouts when I get her name wrong. I grin, offer a non-apology. Pretend the warmth in my chest is joy and not static. Pretend the night means something.
But there’s no voltage.
Just fizz. Noise.
And the ache of wanting something I don’t see yet—
—until she walks in.
Conversation stutters like the DJ hit pause. Even the camera flashes seem to wait.
Every head turns.
Martin clocks her, gives me a conspirator’s nudge. “There she is.”
It takes me a second to recognize her. The same black dress as before, but her hair’s different. And with the slash of deep-purple lipstick, she gleams like a vampire who just spotted prey.
God, I hope it’s my blood she’s after.
It’s not just me. Every man in the room tracks her like she’s the only line worth skiing tonight. She doesn’t hurry. Just scans the lounge, composed, unbothered, until her gaze lands on me. One slow, knowing smile. Then she turns away.
The bar swallows her, and her perfect ass sways as she walks in those heels.
I lose the thread of the conversation beside me. Forget where I set my drink.
Most of all, I forget why I ever tried to forget her.
The dress hugs the exact curve of her hips, my hands have mapped. The thighs I’ve held in Hintertux. I remember the weight of her breast in my palm as clearly as the shape of my ski boots.
Then she turns.
And walks straight toward me.
“Is this seat taken?” she asks the blonde sitting at my side, eyes locked on mine the entire time.
The air between us snaps tight. This isn’t about a chair. It’s about a challenge. A claim.
I scramble up like a schoolboy caught watching porn. “Uh—sorry, if you don’t mind…”
The blonde blinks, disbelieving, but stands. Katharina slides in as if the seat has always belonged to her. Maybe it has.
The other women watch her like vultures, sizing up the prey that just bit back.
I sit, too slow, too stiff. My knees aren’t steady.
Her perfume hits me first—musky, sensual, warm with a whisper of spice. Heat. Skin. The air shifts. Under the table, her thigh brushes mine. Not by accident.
My cock hardens on contact. The tux pants weren’t made for this.
She doesn’t look at me. Just traces a fingertip along the stem of her wine glass, slow enough that I can imagine those fingers curling around my cock. My pulse spikes.
A slide of silk against my calf. The deliberate press of her knee. Intentional. Unapologetic.
I grip my own glass tighter, glass cool against my palm, mouth suddenly dry. Thank God for the tablecloth that hides my hard-on.
She leans toward Anton Fuchs, the legend himself, voice rich with genuine admiration. “I’ve always respected the way you took the Hausbergkante—no one else carried speed like that.”
Pure fan energy. Pure devotion. And somehow, it still turns me on; the way her lips part around each syllable, the sparkle in her eyes.
I should let her have the moment.
But fuck that. I want that spark turned on me.
I reach for her hand, letting my fingers graze hers; just enough to feel the warmth of her skin. Small. Electric.
“Sure, Anton’s a legend,” I say, my voice a shade tighter than I want it. “But I wasn’t bad today, right?”
Her breath catches. I feel it in the space between us before I hear it. A tiny, dangerous sound that punches straight to my cock.
Fuchs smirks. Old bastard knows.
“Easy, Kern. Let the lady pay her respects to the old lion before she returns to her king.”
I almost laugh. Almost.
Then she turns back to me—eyes molten.
“You know you’re the only one for me.”
I can’t laugh it off. She’s not smiling. She means it.
“You know it, right?”
I nod. Useless. Numb. Owned.
Her fingers brush my forearm, lingering just enough to leave heat in their wake. “I see someone I need a word with. I’ll be back.”
When she leaves, the rest of the room turns to noise and glitter again. Models laughing, champagne fizzing. And all I see is her at the bar with some tuxedoed prick. His hand grazes her shoulder. The dress clings to her ass, and I realize she wears no panties. My jaw tightens.
Gosh, I want her so much it actually hurts.
They clink glasses. Her earrings, my earrings, catch the light when she laughs. I’m already halfway out of my chair, ready to intercept—too scared she’ll leave me standing again.
But she comes back.
Doesn’t sit. Just leans close enough for her breath to brush my ear.
“Thomas. I want to leave. You’re coming?”
Not a question. Not a tease. A command.
I’m already moving. No words. No goodbyes.
My blood’s molten, my hands tight with restraint, my legs itching to run her through the dark streets back to the hotel, press her into the door, and taste every inch I’ve missed.
Medals? Cameras? Models?
They never stood a fucking chance.
***