Page 23 of Powder
He slipped away, leaving me hard as a telephone pole and dazed as hell. I removed my TEAM USA jacket, tied it around my waist backwards, and headed to my room to dive into that cold shower, then take a nap, if I could fall asleep. I was pretty wound up, but the dreams of what tonight might bring would be incentive enough to drop my head to a pillow. I’d built a world where there was more of Tian, even romance, but if all there was on offer was sex in dark corners…
Was I ready for that?
Of course I was.
Starry raised an eyebrow when I slunk in. “You wanna talk about…?”
No fucking way.
So, I did what every sane grown man does when faced with his whole world slipping on its axis. I hid in the shower.
TWELVE
Tian
The basement gymin the US team complex was massive, the kind of place that could swallow an entire football field, with rooms branching off for every kind of training. In one corner room, the ski team was bent double in a hot yoga class, the windows fogged from their breath. The lighting was all artificial, buzzing overhead in a way that set my teeth on edge. I hated being boxed in under fluorescents when I could have been out on the mountain with snow under my board and fresh air in my lungs, but today was all about flexibility drills, core stretches, bands tugging at my limbs, and rolling out the tight spots so in my first event my body would respond when I asked it to.
Really, I was down here because I was too restless to sit in my room. Team meetings, sponsor schedules, hours with Abel reviewing footage—it was nonstop. All I wanted was ten minutes with Jack. Just enough for me to explain where my head was at, to let him know it wasn’t just sex for me, even if that was all he wanted. He might have been satisfied with another night together, but I knew deep down I wanted more.
Brett sprawled on a mat beside me, halfway through a stretch, talking a mile a minute like usual. “Hey, you hear aboutRoth?” I tried not to think about my biggest rival, because it would just mess with my head, but I was too wound up to stop Brett talking. At least when he was background noise I could stop my brain from working overtime on what had gone down with Jack. On kissing Jack.
On wanting him.
“Mmm,” I said as I finished a final rotation on my glutes.
Brett lowered his voice and checked to see if anyone was listening. No one was. Hell, apart from the sweating US skiers, we were the only idiots down here at seven a.m. when there was a perfectly good breakfast waiting upstairs. “Word is he’s lining up the same big jump you’ve been training. Like, exact same rotation, same grab. He wants to throw it in finals.” He grinned as though this was gossip and not a direct shot at my Olympic dreams. I felt a surge of adrenaline—half nerves, half challenge—curl hot in my stomach. If Silvan Roth wanted to go head-to-head with me on the same trick, then fine. We’d see who stomped it cleaner when the lights were on and the world was watching.
My turn to take gold.
“I can handle it,” I lied, already thinking about how I could push the trick further—add an extra grab, tweak the axis into an off-axis cork, even float a nosebone in the middle spin—anything to make it harder, sharper, something that would set me apart when it mattered.
The door opened and ten men sauntered in, their laughter carrying ahead of them, and I didn’t even need to see Jack to know he’d just walked into the room. I felt it—like static in the air, prickling over my skin. Or maybe I’d just wished it hard enough that it became real. My eyes caught Starry first, the massive D-man, lethal in front of the net and cocky as hell. Then I saw Jack, and I knew the exact second he saw me. He was in slim-fitting training gear that clung to him, his steps stutteringjust enough to give him away. This time, he didn’t look anywhere else, though his glance slid over to Brett, who was staring openly at the new arrivals.
“Is it just me who finds hockey players hot?” Brett whispered, grinning, and I made a show of rolling my eyes at him.
The hockey players split off immediately, some heading to the weight racks for upper-body sets, while others stretched out with resistance bands, their trainers barking instructions. They still had five days before their first game, but no one slacked—they were building strength, keeping sharp, maintaining that balance of power and flexibility. I forced my attention back to my own stretches, to the pull in my hamstrings and the burn in my core, trying to ignore the way my pulse raced every time I risked another glance at Jack.
He tilted his head.
Did he tilt his head?
Am I imagining it?
He spoke briefly with the trainer working with his small group, then pointed toward one of the back rooms. The trainer nodded, clapped him on the shoulder, and moved on. Jack peeled away, sauntering over to one of the side doors without glass, slipping inside and leaving it slightly ajar. From the main floor, it was hidden from his teammates, and Brett was still rambling beside me.
I grabbed Brett’s arm. “You didn’t see this,” I muttered. “Can you watch our backs?”
Brett blinked at me, then nodded, wide-eyed, and I strode off in the same direction, quickening my pace.
I shut the door behind me, heart hammering, but it was Jack who reached past and locked it with a sharpclick. He turned to me, breath rough, a half-smile nothing like calm tugging at his mouth.
“Yoga,” he said quickly, voice low and dark. “Wanna try a pigeon pose with me?” Then he dropped to his knees in front of me before I could answer, shoving me back against the wall.
This wasn’t smooth or sweet like in the island. This was raw desperation and need, his hands hard on me, his eyes burning, and every inch of me answering with the same hunger. His mouth was on me before I could breathe, hot and hungry, and when he dragged my shorts down I buried my fingers in his hair, holding on as he sucked my brains out. The scrape of his teeth, the wet heat of his tongue, it was filthy and perfect, and when he looked up at me with those gorgeous blue eyes, it nearly undid me. My thighs trembled, my head smacked the wall, and still I pushed deeper, needing more, needing him.
I came hard, breathless, shaking as the orgasm tore through me. I slumped, chest heaving, vision blurred, but before I’d even finished dragging air into my lungs, I went to my knees, yanking him close with a rough kiss, tasting myself on his tongue. In a blur, I forced him back until his shoulders hit the mat. I straddled him, kissing down his chest, biting at skin, desperate to mark him, to own this moment. Then I slid lower, between his thighs, and wrapped my lips around his cock, taking him deep, greedy for the taste of him, for the groan rumbling out of his chest as his hands clutched at my hair.
He was rambling, praising, more vocal than I remembered, his words tumbling roughly between gasps—dirty encouragements, choked curses, my name dragged out on his tongue as if he couldn’t stop himself. The sound of it made my skin prickle, made me ache to push him further. He stared at me, wide and wild, and every desperate noise he made drove me harder, hungrier, until I wanted nothing but to wreck him completely.
