“I look like Bambi on cocaine.”
“Sexy cocaine.”
I roll my eyes and try to keep upright.
Halfway down, I call out, “Hey, Reaper!”
He spins around. “Yeah?”
“You still gonna blow me? Or did the three wipeouts void the deal?”
Brandt skis right up and tugs me by the collar of my jacket until our helmets bump. His voice drops low. “I’d blow you with a mouthful of snow. Don’t test me.”
And fuck me, I almost fall again. But not from skiing. From that stupid heart-lurching feeling that hits me when he says shit like that.
Yeah. I’m in trouble.
Payoff
Brandt all but drags me off the slope after the last run. I’m barely vertical, legs like overcooked noodles, goggles fogged to hell, and the only thing I can feel is the pulse in my thighs and the fact that I’m still alive.
Which means Brandt owes me a blowjob.
He yanks open the heavy lodge door and stomps inside, glancing over his shoulder at me like I’m the prize he just won in a raffle. My boots squeak across the floor. I feel like a roided-out duck waddling into a trap.
“Bathroom’s empty,” he says, low and gleeful.
“No shit. It’s three in the afternoon and everyone else is still skiing.”
He holds the door open and follows me into the little single-stall restroom at the back of the main lodge. It’s warm with ugly tile, one baby-changing station mounted to the wall, and a mirror that looks like it’s been punched.
“Romantic,” I mutter.
Brandt kicks the lock with his boot, slides his gloves off, and starts unzipping his jacket with purpose.
“God, you’re serious,” I say, already laughing.
He steps close, peels back my jacket next, and finds the zipper of my bib pants. “You made it down the mountain. On one leg. No falls on the last run. I keep my promises.”
“This is ridiculous,” I say. But I’m not stopping him.
It’s a whole war just getting out of the layers. We’re both panting by the time my lower half is accessible.
Brandt kneels on the ugly tile floor and smirks up at me. “Wipe that smug look off your face,” I tell him.
“Make me.”
Then he wraps those frozen lips around me, and my brain short-circuits. I hit the wall behind me like I’ve been tasered. My helmet tips sideways. The jacket half-on, half-off. There’s definitely sweat pooling somewhere inappropriate.
Brandt hums like he’s savoring it.
“Jesus,” I gasp, “don’t make this spiritual.”
He glances up, mouth full of me, like he absolutely plans to make it spiritual.
I let my head fall back against the tile. Let him take over. Fast, slow, just enough suction to make me regret not doing this sooner. He knows what he’s doing. He always does.
There’s a knock at the door. We both freeze.
