Why does it sound like we’re not talking about wrestling any more? A throbbing heat forms between my legs, and I wiggle around uncomfortably to avoid having to rub them together.
“Oh.” This time I do whisper and sigh.
“Yeah.” The mattress dips again as he rolls toward me. “Oh.”
“Is it a power trip thing?”
I can feel him considering the question. “Not at all. For me, the thrill is all mental, knowing I can calculate how someone is going to react before they do in order to gain the upper hand physically.” Then, as an afterthought, he adds, “It’s more about controlling my own body and its movements rather than someone else’s.”
The room is silent.
“Does my size…scare you James?” His voice is reluctant and full of worry, as if the thought just occurred to him.
“No. No, your size doesn’t scare me.” Quite the opposite; it doesn’t scare me—the sheer size of him thrills me and my traitorous body. I don’t mention how it’s become harder and harder to breath when we’re together. How I’ve begun fantasizing about him when we’re apart. How lying here in the dark is a test of my resolve.
I want to touch him.
I want to let him touch me.
Whisper his name as he…
“I might be big, but I don’t ever want you to be afraid of me, James. I would never hurt you.”
“I know.” He would never.
“My dick would never hurt you either. He’s very gentle.”
Great. Now I’m going to be lying here thinking about his penis.
“Oh my god, Oz, you are so—”
“Good in bed.”
“Why must you do that?”
“I’m just stating the facts, Jim.”
“Go to sleep, Oswald.”
Sebastian
Holy shit, Jameson is good.
No. Scratch that.
Not good. Fucking. Great.
I’ll be the first to admit: when I heard James was a good snowboarder…I didn’t believe it. Granted, all my assumptions were based entirely on her conservative looks. Her preppy sweaters. Her pearl necklace. Those classy, demure, diamond earrings. The leggings or whatever those pants are that she’s always wearing.
None of those things scream, “I shred it going down a mountain riding a snowboard.”
But shreds it.
She does.
She really, really fucking does—and watching her today was unbelievable. I couldn’t take my eyes off her: dark brown hair in two of the sexiest braids I’ve ever fucking seen, peeking out from underneath her black helmet and sleek goggles. I happily trailed down the mountain after her, chasing every movement of her blue tie-dye coat and bright blue snowboarding pants.
Struggled to keep pace as she nose crailed a 360 in the terrain park. Marveled when she banked it off the slider. Cheered when she slid skillfully on the down rail.
I consider myself a decent snowboarder, but even I can’t do an Ollie. Jameson nailed three of them.
She removes her bright blue coat as we walk into the warm ski chalet and my eyes browse around, noting all the people inside escaping from the frigid cold: several youngsters that are obviously siblings, a married couple sipping coffee, and the same MILF with huge silicon tits and botoxed lips that accidentally bumped into me this morning when I was putting on my lift ticket. She may or may not have been giving me come fuck me eyes.
Scratch that—she definitely was.
The black straps of Jameson’s snowboarding pants draw my attention; they’re pulled taut over her shoulders, running up the front of her tight, black wool under layer, showcasing her boobs. They’re not huge or fake—not like the MILF’s—and I admire their size and their smooth, round shape beneath her sweater.
An entire handful.
Next comes the helmet. Jameson reaches up and unsnaps the strap cradling her chin before sliding it off and shaking her two brown braids so they hang over those gorgeous tits, stray hairs flying haphazardly around her flushed face.
Fucking sexy.
I close the distance between us, reaching for her coat and helmet. “Here. Let me go put these in our locker. You have the key?”
She glances up at me, surprise widening her pretty eyes. A smile widens her mouth, and she bites down on her lower lip to keep it from spreading. A faint blush tints her cheeks that wasn’t put there from the cold. “Sure. Yes. Thank you.”
Reaching into the pocket of her jacket, she produces a small silver locker key. It dangles between us on the ring.
“Oh! Would you take my pants, too?” Jameson pulls the straps of her pants down, sliding them down her arms until they fall at her side. “I don’t want to roast when we’re in front of the fire; I’ll die of heat stroke.”
I watch as she pops open the front buttons, glides down the zipper, and thrusts the black vinyl pants down her hips with a seductive little shimmy. Underneath, she’s wearing nothing but tight, black wool tights.
Oddly, I find the whole thing incredibly erotic.
Stepping out of them, she bends at the waist, sticks her perky ass in the air, and picks them up off the floor, handing them to me with an appreciative smile.
Naïvely. Like she wasn’t just shaking her ass in the general direction of my junk.
I hold a hand up to halt her. “Wait. You’re not seriously going to run around here in just that underwear, are you?”
Jameson bends her head, glancing down her torso at her stocking clad legs—her gorgeous, long legs—before looking up at me.
“Uh, you mean my itchy wool leggings? Yeah. This is what I’m running around in.” Her laugh is full of humor. “Why?”
“They’re not decent.”
Her hands go on her waist and she juts out a hip. “What do you care?”
I stare down at her inner thigh. “I don’t. I’m just picturing you naked, and so is everyone else. If you can live with that knowledge, then I guess we don’t have a problem.”
“I highly doubt everyone is picturing me naked.” Jameson laughs dismissively. “But I guess I’m okay with it if they are.”
I cross my arms over my broad chest in disagreement. “You don’t think Chad over there is checking you out? And that Blaine kid?”
Her face screws up, bewildered. “It’s Brandon, not Blaine.”
“Same thing,” I argue, because I honestly don’t give a shit what the kid’s name is.
“You know what, Oz? You’re really weird sometimes. No one is checking out my goods, so you can lay off the big cousin routine.”
“The feelings in my groin are hardly familial,” I joke, finally reaching for her gear. “Suit yourself if you want to date them, but don’t come crying to me later.”
Another soft laugh and she’s giving me a little pat on the arm. The brief contact sends heat straight to my—
“I think I’ll manage, but thanks.” She pats me again, running her fingers up the sleeve of my cotton under layer. “And thanks for taking my stuff to the locker room. I’ll go find us some seats.”
So off I go like a good little Boy Scout, transporting Jameson’s pants, jacket, and helmet down to the locker area. I insert the key into the metal door and toss everything into our rented locker, including my own coat, pants, and helmet. I chuck all our shit in before locking it up and stuffing the key into the pocket of my loose athletic pants.
Turn from the locker.
Across the warm locker room, I’m not terribly surprised to discover MILF leaning against the far wall, appraising me. A coy smile tugging the corner of her red lips, her bleached blonde hair is braided underneath a black knit skullcap. The rest of her outfit is pure white: white turtleneck, white ski pants, white socks.
If she’s going for the virginal look, it’s not working—and let’s face it, she knows she’s not fooling anybody.
I pass MILF and shoot her my sexiest smirk, knowing she’ll be around later if I get bored.
Taking the stairs two at a time, I make my way to the main lobby, sans boots, and search the cavernous, rustic lodge for those thin black leggings. I find them propped on the large, gray stone hearth of the blazing fireplace. James’ cute little toes and cute little feet are in gray wool socks that are yanked up her calves.
Catching me watching them, she wiggles her toes when I approach. Patting the seat on the massive leather couch, her feet hit the ground as she makes room for me to sit.
“Here, I got you a hot chocolate,” Jameson announces, handing me a white, steaming mug. Whipped cream is dolloped on top. “This is for taking my things downstairs.”
Our fingers brush when I slide my palm around the cup to remove it from her grip, and with an easy grin, I plop down next to her on the couch. I settle onto the well-worn leather, spreading my legs wide so our hips and thighs touch with satisfying heat.
“So, Oz man, how’s your season goin’?” asks some kid in a red Burton sweatshirt. Stocking cap pulled low over his forehead, his goggles still rest on his head.
“It’s a bitch. I’m lucky I was able to get away for the weekend.” It’s partly true; the truth is, I had to lie like a mother to get the weekend off from my trainer. I concocted some bullshit about my left hamstring being too tight and not wanting to pull it before our next meet.
Which is in exactly six days. Against the powerhouse Penn State.