Page 8 of Powder
I moved then, grinding up against him, my nails raking down his back, forcing his eyes wide. “Move, Jack,” I panted. “Move.” When he bottomed out, my toes curled. “Fuck,” I gasped, nails biting into his back. “Fuck!”
“You good?” he asked, sweat beading on his temple.
“Better than good. Move.”
He did. Long, slow thrusts that stole my sanity, building a rhythm that had me meeting him eagerly. Every push lifted me closer to the edge, his weight grounding me, my cock trapped between us, delicious friction with every thrust, rubbing against the ridges of his abs and the coarse hair on his belly, making me cry out as his mouth silenced my moans with desperate kisses. I was lost in him—his size, his strength, the way he seemed to hold all of me and give me everything back.
When release tore through me, it was with his name on my lips, my body clenching hard around him, dragging his climax out of him with a guttural growl. He buried himself deep,trembling as the condom caught the heat of him. He stayed there, holding me, kissing me softly as we both came down, until I could only sigh and collapse under him, utterly undone.
“Fuck, that was…”
“Okay?” he asked, and there was that fear back in his tone, as if he needed reassurance.
He eased himself out as he asked, and I rolled with him to lie on top of his broad chest. He let me sprawl there, his big hands rubbing lazy circles over my back. I took my time kissing him deeply, then pressed my forehead to his.
“That was the best casual limited-time on an island fuck I’ve ever had,” I confessed, breath still shaky.
“You have a lot of casual limited-time on an island fucks?” he asked.
“Nope.” I kissed the skin I could reach. “Your cock is fucking amazing, and what you do with it… Wow.”
“Really?” Christ, he sounded so doubtful.
I lifted my head, searching his face. His expression was shadowed, a wince flickering across his features. Had someone told him otherwise? Maybe his ex? Or other hookups like me? The thought made my chest tighten. I stroked his jaw gently, willing him to believe me. “Someone did a number on you, didn’t they?”
“No, I…” He closed his eyes again. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Shit, Jack, you’re perfect,” I murmured, kissing him again, sealing the words with my mouth. “I’m going to enjoy every single second of the next two weeks with you—every kiss, every touch, every time we fuck until neither of us can move.”
“You want to do this again?” Again, doubt flickered in his eyes, as if he couldn’t quite believe I’d want him again. I hated that. I’d prove it to him, show him what I craved, and if that wasn’t enough, I’d tell him outright until he understood.
I chuckled, then buried my face into his neck and hung on like a limpet.
“Yep, you, me, tangled up together for fourteen days straight—sex, sweat, kisses, every filthy, perfect thing we can cram into the best damn holiday hookup ever. Then home. Work. Win.”
“Yeah,” he said on a sigh. “Best hookup ever.”
By day two,we gave up on the idea of me having my own room and shoved all my things into the corner of his suite. By the end of that second day, I had closet space—my riot of bright colors hanging beside his neat rows of navy and gray—and by the start of day three, we were already making a run for more condoms and so much lube I doubted the island had any left. Maybe I was exaggerating, but I couldn’t get enough of him. We took each other everywhere—on the cool tiled floor when we couldn’t make it to the bed, over the arm of the sofa, half-submerged in the bath, and once he even had me braced against the shower door, slippery with oil from the couples massage we’d booked on a whim. Not that we were officially a couple, but two-for-one was too good to pass up, and the way he kissed me before and after, I could almost believe we were.
Not sure how that would work. I didn’t do relationships—I never had. I’d always been focused on one thing and one thing only: securing a spot on the Olympic team, pushing myself harder than anyone else, X Games gold, being the best. That was the plan, the dream, the only thing that mattered. Everything else—dating, hookups, messy feelings—was just noise in the background. Or at least, that was what I told myself. But lying in Jack’s arms last night, his heartbeat steady under my ear, I wasn’t so sure anymore. Somehow, without me even realizing it,he was slipping past every wall I’d built in my battle to get to the top of my game, prying open the locked doors, making me want more than just sex and gold medals. He was working his way under my defenses, and the scariest part was at that moment, right there, I didn’t want to stop him.
“I’m not sure about this,” he said for the tenth time as we stood on the sand with boards tucked under our arms. We were going surfing—something I’d done a few times before. Not a whole lot of surfing in Colorado, where I grew up, and I hadn’t had many chances since—training, competitions, always on the mountain instead of the beach. I had some transferable skills from snowboarding, enough balance and awareness of edges to make me decent on a board, but he was adamant he’d be down and out in seconds, convinced the ocean would eat him alive.
This was Jack’s first time, and the way he eyed the rolling waves made me grin.
“Come on, big guy, you strap knives to your feet and face down guys who want to knock you into next week. You can handle a board and some water.”
“Why can’t we just go snorkeling again?” he asked, a little desperate, shifting his board under his arm as if it might bite him, eyes flicking to the waves as if they were plotting his demise. The way his voice cracked made me laugh, but there was a kind of boyish charm in how the big, fearless Railers’ captain was so wary of a surfboard.
We paddled out together, me cutting through the water while Jack wobbled on his board, shoulders tight with tension. “Relax,” I called over, water dripping into my mouth as I grinned at him. “It’s just like skating—find your balance, trust your stance.”
He muttered something about preferring to face down a six-foot defenseman, but he followed me anyway, powerful arms pulling through the surf. When we reached the break, I showedhim how to turn the board nose into the swell, how to feel the lift before pushing up. “Don’t think about it too much—just ride it like you own it,” I encouraged, steadying his board when it rocked.
When the first small wave came, I popped up easily, riding it for a few seconds before splashing back into the water. Jack tried, legs stiff, arms pinwheeling, and he toppled with a shout and a splash. I laughed so hard I almost lost my own board. He surfaced, sputtering, glaring at me, but there was a spark of laughter in his eyes too. “Again,” he growled.
Each time he clambered back on his board and tried again, a swell of pride rose in my chest. It wasn’t just that he was willing to keep going; it was the determined set of his jaw, the way his laugh broke through his frustration, and how damn good he looked out here in the sun, dripping and fierce. My heart kicked harder than the waves beneath us. Affection welled up alongside the pride, sharp and unexpected, leaving me grinning like an idiot as I watched him paddle out for another try.
This was supposed to be a hookup. Fourteen days of freedom, bodies and heat and nothing more, before the grind started again. This wasn’t meant to be some fairytale, no white picket fences or promises whispered under the stars. And yet, watching him fight the ocean with that stubborn grin, feeling my chest ache with pride and something that felt dangerously like longing, I couldn’t stop the thought that maybe—just maybe—it could become more than I’d planned.
