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He makes drinking water sexy. I am in so much trouble.
“So,” he says in that deep, sexy voice of his, leaning against the boards. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
I bite my lip and squint at him. “I’m thinking that felt pretty freaking great.”
A smile spreads across his face and he pushes his sweat-damp hair off his forehead. “I was thinking the same thing.” He purses his lips, his brown eyes intent on me. They’re lovely, with little flecks of gold and a ring of green around the irises. I know, because we’ve been up in each other’s personal space for the better part of the morning. “Are you sure you’re ready to come back to pairs?” he asks quietly.
I roll my lips inwards, but the vulnerable words spill out anyway. “If it means skating with you, yeah.”
Something flickers across his face, something that looks almost…hungry. But then it’s gone, and he takes another long pull off his water bottle. “Good.” He moves closer, lowering his head so his lips almost brush the shell of my ear. His breath makes me shiver in the most delicious way. “Now I don’t have to beg. And I’m not normally a man who begs for anything, but for you, I would.”
He pulls away with a devastating smile, leaving me an achy mess.
Alex
Sweat crawls down my back as the music of our short program—the one Cate and I have spent the last four days learning inside and out—plays through the speakers. There are a few other pairs on the ice this morning, but it’s our turn for run-throughs, so it’s our music playing through the rink’s sound system.
In what feels like a cruel twist of fate, our music for this program is “High” by Stephen Sanchez. I didn’t choose it; the choreographer did. And it’s a great song, full of emotion and passion. But it also means I now spend hours a day with my hands all over Cate’s little body while listening to lyrics about passionate fucking.
Maybe it’s my karma for wanting her so damn bad, despite all the reasons I shouldn’t. Because it’s exquisite torment, spending all day with her, touching her, laughing with her and getting to know her and knowing nothing should come of it.
I also know that this is a mess of my own damn making, but after seeing her for the first time, I knew I wasn’t ever going to want anyone else. I’m damned to a lust-addled purgatory, but I don’t know that I’d have it any other way, because at least I get to be close to her this way.
I lower her out of the lift and we skate in sync to the music as we head towards our next element. The music swells, and the lyrics “Is it wrong for me to want this? But baby, all I do is want it,” seem to vibrate in my blood.
Because it’s true. It’s wrong for me to want her the way I do, but wanting her is all I do.
I spend all day with Cate, and then I go home and watch videos of her skating routines. I watch interviews with her. I search Google Images for pictures of her. I’m captivated.
No. It’s more. I’m obsessed.
Every night, I stroke my cock, imagining it’s her lips around me, sucking and licking and saying “thank you, Daddy” when I spill in her mouth.
Christ. What the fuck is wrong with me? I haven’t had a girlfriend in years, and I don’t date much because it’s never been important to me. Women and sex were always an afterthought. But with Cate…fuck. She’s awoken something in me. Something needy and dangerous and hungry, and I don’t know how to put it back to sleep. I don’t know how I can when I spend all day touching her, feeling her against me.
I lower her into a death spiral, our final element of the program, and then pull her close into our ending position. She smells sweet, like flowers and sunshine and I want to bury my face in her neck. The music finishes, the last few notes bouncing around the rink.
“Good!” calls Scott from his spot at the edge of the rink, making notes on his iPad. “I think it’s really starting to come together. Take a breather and then we’ll run it again.”
Cate skates over to the boards with her hands on her hips, little pink tongue lolling comically. Even exhausted, she’s adorable.
“Oh!” she says, pointing at me, ponytail swishing. “I started watching that documentary you told me about.”
“The Michael Jordan one?”
“Yeah. You were right—it’s totally fascinating. Even though I’m not really a basketball fan, it’s sucked me in. Thanks for the rec.”
“You’re welcome.”
We’ve been trading favorites over the past couple of days in an effort to get to know each other. Movies, music, foods. I love Star Wars, indie bands, and sushi. She loves 90s and 2000s romcoms, Taylor Swift, and Starbucks. She’s far more current on pop culture than I am. Because of course she is. She’s twenty.
She’s twenty.
I repeat the words to myself like a mantra as I make a valiant effort not to perve on her when she stretches her arms overhead, revealing a toned sliver of stomach as her black tank top rides up. I clamp my teeth together.
She’s twenty.
She’s fucking twenty.
