Maisy

Blaze goddamn Bellamy. Actually, her name is Bernadette. Which is the most ill-fitting thing I’ve ever heard. Bernadette is someone’s grandma, or maybe a waitress in a backwater diner. She’s far more a Blaze than a Bernadette or even a Bernie. She’s certainly set me aflame.

When’s the last time I made out in a bar? Not since the last time I was with Blaze in Sapporo, that’s when. That kind of public display is not something I do. I don’t think I saw my parents ever hold hands or kiss in public . . . maybe not even in our home? When I’m away from them and training, I loosen up a bit, but I never make out with someone in a bar. And yet when it comes to her . . . That’s okay. I’ll have her my way shortly.

It’s been fifty-five minutes since I left her kissing other people at the village bar. How many people could Blaze kiss in fifty-five minutes? Is she still kissing them or has she allotted some travel time to get back to her room?

I want to be bothered by it—the sight of her lips on other people’s—but I’m not. Not turned on by it really, because voyeurism and sharing have never been my kinks, but it was a gesture. She was trying to make things better because she knew I’d be uncomfortable about what had transpired. She was right, and I won’t be angry at her for handling it the way she did. Got the job done, for sure. Also, it’s Blaze being Blaze. Her body is her currency and she uses it to trade for what she wants. As a fellow athlete, I get it. It’s what we have to offer the world.

It’s not the way I choose to trade mine, and my first reaction to her stunts is always teenage wrinkled-nose disgust. Like, ew, who does that? But my grandma told me once that the first thing that comes into your head is what you’ve been taught, it’s what comes next that’s what you believe. My grandma was a pretty smart lady, and I like to think—despite raising my dad who did not inherit her wisdom—she knew what she was talking about.

The thing is, we all get conditioned. We all have knee-jerk responses. One of mine is to judge other women—and harshly—for how they choose to use their bodies. More grown-up Maisy, the one who isn’t afraid to wear a FEMINIST shirt to practice and thinks slut-shaming is some misogynistic hooey—that’s who I choose to believe I am for real, and that’s the one I listen to as I head over to the suite Blaze texted me.

It’s not easy to ignore the voices in my head, the ones telling me I shouldn’t call attention to myself, that I shouldn’t even be seen with a girl like Blaze, never mind be involved with her. I shouldn’t appear to have a private life at all, and if I have to, couldn’t it be with some nice, respectable man instead of a flashy lesbian lover? Too bad and oh well. I shove the echoes down, put my head down into the wind, and walk.

She’s a few buildings over from me, but not so bad in the scale of the village. Not too far for a late-night booty call if it comes to that, and it might, because even now my belly’s glowing with the aftermath of that kiss. Reckless, yes, but even had the room been empty, I think I would’ve had heat coursing through me. Hell, if the room had been empty, I find it unlikely we would’ve stopped at a kiss.

It’s possible I stopped by my own room, picked up a few things, and while I was there stroked myself off while thinking of banging Blaze for the first time in four years. Will she be as good as I remember? Or better? Better might render me useless but at the volume my libido is crying out for her, I’d probably be useless anyhow. Only way to douse this fire is to let it consume me, perhaps leave me a crackling pile of charcoal.

Blaze

There’s a knock at my door, but I don’t even reach it before the door is opening and Maisy is striding through. So that’s how we’re going to play this? Fine with me.

She shuts and locks the door behind her, trusting I’ve made arrangements with my roommate, which I have, because I’m not a dumbass. I expect—want—for her to stalk across the room, take my face in her hands, and kiss me for all she’s worth, not even saying a word. She doesn’t, though, just leans against the door, her arms crossed behind her back, staring at me.

I’d like to imagine she’s clasping her elbows because her hands are itching and if she doesn’t put someone’s flesh in them, she’s going to lose her mind. This is how she’s holding herself back.

“Ground rules. If you want to do this, we’re only fucking each other while we do. I know you’re not the monogamous type, and that’s fine, so if you want to sleep with other people, we can be done, no hard feelings.”

She blinks at me, her gaze expectant, and her posture a little unsure. Does she think I’m going to turn down that offer? Yeah, on a day-to-day basis, I’m not inclined to be a one-lay kinda girl, but Maisy’s not your everyday fuck. I’d have to think about it long and hard if this were a marriage proposal, because I’ve always considered myself poly even if I haven’t had a whole lot of time to put that into practice, but it’s not. I don’t think? But people have SIG spouses. I could roll with that.

“You mean for the duration of the SIGs?”

Maisy nods, a crisp short thing while she keeps holding onto her elbows. She does, however, draw the spike heel of her boot up the door behind her until her knee is jutting out. It makes me want to walk up to her, grab that knee, and hitch it up to my hip. Rock my pelvis against her and kiss her, thoroughly.

“Yes. I’m leaving in the afternoon the day following the closing ceremony. Think you can make it through three weeks of fidelity? Or do you anticipate getting bored after a day or two?”

She looks way less nervous now, downright ballsy, actually, as if she knows there’s no way I’m going to say no and if I’m stupid enough to, it’s my loss. I may be reckless, but I’m not a moron.

It’s fun to tease her, though, so I lift a shoulder. “I mean, I guess I can handle it. If you make it worth my while.”

Maisy shakes her head, her top teeth sinking into the side of her bottom lip. “Oh, just you wait, Blaze. Just you wait. Which reminds me of my next and last stipulation.”

“What’s that?” There are very few things that would make me say no to her, especially at this point when I’ve been waiting for what feels like days of walking through the desert, and there she is, a tall drink of water. Well, not so tall, because she’s shorter and slighter than I am, but my god, her sex is the only thing that’s going to quench my thirst.

“Be careful where you mark me, and I’ll do the same. Nothing that can show outside our uniforms.”

I narrow my eyes and cock my head. “Well, that’s not exactly an even trade now, is it?”

My uniform covers basically everything but my face, and she knows it. Her costumes, on the other hand, don’t leave me much to work with. In return, she shrugs. “I didn’t say it was fair, I said it was something you had to agree to. So do you or not? Because I’d really rather be taking your clothes off than leaning against this door. And you know you don’t want me standing like this for so long my fingers go numb.”

No, I do not. I know what she can do with those slim, dexterous fingers, and I don’t want those abilities compromised in any way. If I only get one lover for three weeks, then dammit she better be at her best.

I walk toward her until we’re nearly touching, raise a hand to grasp her neck, and hold her still, but she tuts at me. “Ah-ah. No touching until you’ve agreed to the conditions.”

There’s a growl in my throat, and I grind out my question. “Do I need to sign a contract or will a verbal agreement be good enough, Your Highness?”

“A verbal agreement will suffice. I’ve never known you to break your word. But—” Oh my god, will she get this over with? I can smell her, that satsuma smell mixed with the subtle musk of her arousal, because she wants me and is toying with me now. She’s a cat, I’m her mouse, and she can bat me around all she likes, but if she could get to the actual batting instead of having me pinned here by her evil paw, that’d be great. “If you’d rather have a pen and paper document, I’m sure I could have one drawn up.”

I bark a laugh, but it’s smothered by her finger over my mouth. “Also, I like that. Your Highness. For right now, that’s what you’ll call me.”

Christ. I’m pretty switchy—mostly I like to play, feel things, anything, and it doesn’t matter so much where on the spectrum I’m doing it from—but there aren’t many people I’d go that far down the subby line for. But for Maisy? Anything.

“Yes, Your Highness, I acquiesce to your demands.” My voice is a verbal curtsey, so pretty and polite it kills me.

“Very good,” she pronounces with an upward tip of her chin that makes her look downright regal. Then she’s grabbing me by my shirt and yanking me down to kiss, wrapping her booted calf around me to draw me in closer, closer until as much of me is touching her as humanly possible.

Maisy

Blaze calling me “Your Highness” made something inside me squeeze hot. As if I needed anything else to get my motor running. I want her so bad I’m practically vibrating with it, although she’s clutching me so hard, there’s no need to fear shaking apart.

It doesn’t take long for our kiss to go from a reacquaintance of our lips to a filthy-as-sin intimation of the sex we’re going to be having in short order. Hot, wet, desperate, and oh so delicious. She must’ve been chewing gum, or brushed her teeth before I got here, because there’s the subtle trace of mint on her tongue as I sweep mine against it. Not that I’d object if she tasted like herself, but I appreciate the gesture.

Blaze is . . . a lot to take in. She’s taller than I am, with her bright hair, broad shoulders, thick thighs, loud voice, and pushy attitude. I like her precisely the way she is, but it still takes me a minute to acclimate to all of her. Lucky for me, she likes it when I’m in control. It means she lets me anchor her against me with my leg wrapped around her so I can explore her with my hands, my mouth, and take her in one detail at a time, all the while plastering myself to her because I can’t stand not to touch her now that I’ve been granted permission.

I suck on her tongue and lick at her in the same way I’d like to do to another part of her anatomy—okay, basically all of her, but a few places in particular—and realize I’m still grasping a fistful of her shirt. And why, when she shouldn’t be wearing clothes at all?

I use that handful of leverage to shove her away after dropping my foot, and we stand there, facing off, breathing hard, like wrestlers who’ve been called off each other but are keen to go at it again. It’s been four years since our last bout and I’m eager for our rematch.

“Clothes off, I don’t want a stitch on you.”

She pulls a face I’m hoping is only a reflection of how much she’d rather be pawing at me than taking even a minute away to disrobe. But who am I kidding, Blaze is a pro at getting naked, and she’s done in thirty seconds flat. Helps that I think she might pick out her clothes with easy removal in mind. If there’s a woman out there more brazen than Blaze, I haven’t met her.

Then she’s there, all skin, and god, her build is incredible. Muscles for days, her abs are carved out of the plane of her stomach, and fucking hell those thighs. Those thick thighs I have every intention of sinking my teeth into, marking and bruising from how hard I’m going to suck at her skin. Of course, she’s got some bruises already because she wouldn’t be Blaze without giving something her all, and “all” includes her body. She’s probably been practicing hard, and like mine, her sport involves a lot of involuntary contact with ice. Not exactly a soft landing, especially when you’re going at the velocities we are. At least the boards are padded on the short track. Not so in figure-skating, but we’re unlikely to smash into them, whereas for short track competitors, it’s a fact of life.

All those bruises—they’re badges of honor, evidence of playing hard, and if she’s like me, she probably looks at them in the mirror, savors them. She’s one of the few people I feel comfortable telling precisely how much I admire those marks that turn from red to purple to blue and then fade into a greenish yellow before melting away entirely. I don’t think many people understand how much they satisfy. But Blaze gets it, might enjoy them more than I do.

She’s so gorgeously muscled, a powerful woman who is so not afraid of being “too bulky.” What the fuck even is that? She looks badass and like she could bench press two of me, and . . . maybe I’ll ask her to later, for kicks. I love her bulk, enjoy how brawny she is. And I’m in awe of her big attitude made flesh and how unapologetic she is about it. You want me to do what I do? This is how I do it, and I’m not even sorry. How dare you suggest I should be? I am hot shit and you should be so lucky as to get even a piece of this.

I am lucky.

“Look at you.”

It could be my imagination, but I could swear the faintest flush lights up the rise of her cheeks. Blaze Bellamy blushes? I think not for everyone, though. Only for me. The thought is . . . exciting, and turns up my desire for her to eleven.

With a jut of my chin and a placement of my hands on my hips, I tell her, “Turn around.”

She does as she’s been bid, and as she does it, I get to see a profile of that cut torso, her ridiculous ass, and yeah, the contour of exactly how built her thighs are, which makes me want them around my head while I taste her and make her scream, because you better believe Blaze is a screamer. Nothing is quiet about her, except right now. Right now, she’s my puppet to be told what to do and she gives me her back in silence.

Her powerfully built back, proud shoulders, heart-shaped ass, and well-developed legs. I stare at her for a minute because I can, and finally she looks at me over her shoulder. “Get your fill?”

“Of looking at your incredible body? No. But I can do it some more after you’re lying comatose in your bed because I’ve fucked all sense and reason or even upright mobility out of you.”

Surprise jolts her expression but only until she smooths it out, and then she gets that look on her face. The one that tells me sass is coming. “Are you secretly an agent from South Korea?”

“No.” I make my vowel broad, a caricature of what people think of as a Canadian accent. “I’m from Canada. Born and bred.”

Instead of repenting, her eyes narrow and she cocks her head. “You sure you haven’t been hired by the Dutch?”

“Positive. Ca-nay-dee-enn. Maple syrup, moose, hockey, poutine, Mounties. Canadian, eh?”

“Okay, but speaking of Mounties . . .”

That earns her a laugh.

“Fine, impatient one.” I walk by her, my boots clacking on the floor, and smack her ass on my way by. “Get over here.”