The Figure Skater #3
The windows were tinted, but the garage lights still filtered through enough for me to see his face.
We sat side by side for a moment.
The absurdity of the situation pressed in all at once.
I had spent the entire summer arguing with this man over ice quality. Now I was in the front seat of his truck with my dress already halfway up my thighs.
He looked at me.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re thinking too loudly.”
“I’m reconsidering every decision that led me here.”
His hand settled on my knee.
“Want me to open the door?”
I glanced at his mouth.
“No.”
“Good.”
He kissed me again.
His hand moved higher, pushing the dress along with it. I turned toward him, one knee sliding across the seat.
The position was awkward until he caught my waist and pulled me onto his lap.
My breath left me.
He leaned back against the driver’s seat, hands firm on my hips. His hands moved beneath the hem of my dress, palms warm against my thighs. I shifted closer, and the hard evidence of what the morning had done to him pressed between us.
We both stopped.
His head fell back against the seat.
“Still think I was only watching your skating?”
I rolled my hips once.
His hands tightened sharply.
He slid the straps of my dress from my shoulders and kissed the newly exposed skin, first one side, then the other. His mouth moved down slowly, taking its time despite the risk and the lack of space.
His mouth found mine again while his hands slipped beneath my dress, gripping my inner thighs. The windows began to fog slightly around us, trapping the heat.
I tugged at the waistband of his sweatpants and leaned down until my mouth brushed his neck.
“I want you.”
That was enough.
He lifted his hips and pushed his sweatpants down to his knees. I wrapped my hand around his cock before lifting my hips, pulling my panties to the side and lowering myself down on top of it. I yelped as the full length of him slid inside of me, and he groaned.
His hands trembled slightly where they gripped my hips.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Tell me if—”
I kissed him.
Then I moved. Slowly at first, then increasing the pace.
His head dropped back against the seat.
The reaction went straight through me.
I rose slowly and sank back down, watching his jaw tighten.
His fingers pressed into my hips.
“You’re enjoying this,” he said.
“Immensely.”
I moved again.
His reply disappeared into a rough breath.
The truck shifted faintly beneath us. The steering wheel pressed against my back whenever I leaned too far, forcing me forward into him.
His mouth found my neck.
I gripped the headrest behind him, using it for balance while I built a steadier rhythm.
The seat creaked.
His breathing turned heavier beneath mine.
Every movement made the dress slide higher. His hands followed it, spreading across my bare skin as though he could not decide whether to guide me or simply hold on.
I rocked my hips back and forth across him, rolling them in a fluid motion.
His gaze dropped to the movement.
“That,” he said. “You keep doing that.”
“It feels good.”
“Do it again.”
The command was quiet.
I did.
His mouth caught mine as I rolled my hips, drawing a broken sound from both of us.
He shifted one of his hands between us, using his thumb to rub my clit while I rode him. The feeling was sharpened by the angle and the sight of him beneath me.
His hair was disordered from my hands. Sweat had begun to gather again at his temples. The controlled athlete from the rink was disappearing with every movement.
I loved that I was doing it to him.
His grip changed.
He began helping me move, pulling me down harder each time I rose. The rhythm became less controlled, the truck rocking slightly with it.
His eyes held mine while I continued, refusing to let me hide from what we were doing.
Every argument we had ever had seemed to exist between us, transformed into the pressure of his hands and the rough encouragement he breathed against my mouth.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Keep going.”
My thighs began to burn.
I refused to slow down.
He noticed.
A faint smile touched his mouth.
“Competitive.”
“Shut up.”
“You’re shaking.”
My head fell forward onto his shoulder.
He kept his arm around my waist, supporting me as pleasure increased rapidly.
I bit down on the fabric of his shirt.
His mouth moved to my ear.
“Don’t stop.”
“I hate you.”
“Show me how much you hate me.”
I lifted myself again.
His breath caught.
The friction pushed me closer to the edge.
I moved harder, chasing it now, no longer caring about control or the garage or whether someone might hear the faint rocking of the truck.
His hands held me firmly.
The sound of my name in his mouth pushed me over.
Pleasure hit hard enough to steal my breath. I clung to him, body tightening as I buried my face against his neck.
He held me through it, one hand at the back of my neck and the other locked around my waist.
“That’s it,” he said. “I’ve got you.”
The words undid whatever restraint I had left. My body shook against his.
He followed soon after, pulling me down tightly as his own control gave way. His face pressed to my shoulder, breath hot against my skin.
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
The garage remained silent around us.
The truck windows were fully fogged now.
I stayed on his lap, head resting against the seat behind him while my pulse slowly settled.
His hands remained at my waist as he looked pointedly at my dress.
I pulled the straps back over my shoulders and smoothed the fabric down as much as possible.
My hair was beyond saving.
His was worse.
He glanced toward the rearview mirror.
“We look guilty,” he said.
“We are guilty.”
He laughed.
I climbed off his lap and settled into the passenger seat, tugging my dress into place.
He adjusted his clothing and ran a hand through his hair.
Neither helped.
“You’re back next week?” he asked
“I won’t be back here until August.”
His thumb brushed mine.
“What time?”
“Seven, Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
He smiled.
“I’ll book eight.”
“You’d better stay off my ice.”
“No promises.”
I opened the door.
Cooler air rushed into the overheated cab.
I stepped down, collected my skating bag from the concrete and turned back toward him.
He remained seated, one arm draped over the steering wheel.
His shirt was wrinkled.
His hair was still damp.
He looked entirely too pleased.
“This doesn’t mean I like you,” I said.
“Of course not.”
“And you still destroy the ice.”
“You still put holes in it.”
“They’re toe-pick marks.”
“See you in August, princess.”
I closed the truck door harder than necessary.
As I walked toward my car, I heard the window lower behind me.
He called my name.
I turned.
He rested one arm along the open window.
“Hold the layback longer next time.”
I raised my middle finger.
His laugh followed me across the garage.