A/N Off Piste is three long chapters, followed by 40-something drabble-style updates to complete Bella and Edward's story. Thank you to my beta, HollettLA.
"Off Piste" means skiing on virgin snow off the regular runs – often ungroomed and unmarked slopes or pistes, including unmarked or unpatrolled areas.
"Isa-bell-a," a gorgeous Austrian accented voice announces behind me. I turn to see the curves of a red lycra race suit.
"Yes, Hermann," I say with a smile, knowing full well the charm of ex-Olympic champion skier Hermann Maier. I melted at the way Europeans pronounced every syllable of my name.
"Thank you for arranging me access to course," he replies. His English is a little off, but it's sexy.
"Not a problem Hermann, hope you enjoy your run," I say with a wink.
"Oh, I will; I may be retired, but I still want to give this course a once over. You free for a once over later tonight, Isa-bell-a?" he natters with a decidedly cheeky grin. I know he's only joking. At least, I think he's joking…
"I'm all booked up tonight, sorry, Hermann. Now get to the starting gates before the course manager changes his mind and kicks you off," I laugh, giving him a nudge.
"Okay, okay, I go. You a beautiful American tease, Isa-bell-a," he snickers as he heads up to the start of the downhill ski track.
As my eyes leave Hermann's retreating form, they cast out over the view from up here at Blackcomb Mountain. I can just make out Vancouver city in the distance. As I get back to packing my gear up for the day, I shake my head at the absurdity. I used to secretly jizz in my pants over interactions with guys like Hermann – the so-called superstars of the ski world. Hermann in particular was a bit of a prodigy, given his amazing record of coming back from a potentially career-ending motorcycle crash and having four Olympic medals to his name. Now, after so many years in the sport, I was a seasoned professional and I was used to dealing with his confident, or cocky, pro-skier type. I also now benefited from a mutual respect from guys like Hermann. I had earned it not only from significant experience working in the industry, but also from proving that I wasn't a one dimensional 'ski-groupie' who couldn't hold her own on the slopes. To put it bluntly, it was nice to know a few of them had jizzed in their pants over me in years past.
I had been skiing since I was a child, growing up in Colorado surrounded by the mountains. My dad, Charlie, was the local police chief, and we were based in Winter Park Resort near Denver. I worked up at the mountain on my vacations and skied whenever I had a chance. My winter seasons doubled when my mom moved to the southern hemisphere to be with her partner, Phil. Renee was where I got my dash of crazy from. She moved to New Zealand and decided to try out every bungy jumping site throughout the country. She loved the thrill so much she now worked as a bungy operator at some crazy high bridge in Queenstown where she and Phil lived. Not one of her clients left without getting a photo taken with the nutty middle-aged lady who counted down their jump and had her naked-bungy photo framed for all to see on the wall of the office.
By the time I finished high school, I had my level one ski instructor certificate. Two years later, I had reached level three, had been competing in ski racing for four years, had one season under my belt in a management position in the snow school at Winter Park, and had started following the winter around the world. My knowledge and management capabilities got me the good jobs at all the resorts I travelled to, managing snow schools and race events. It was through doing this that I got to meet some of the world's top ski professionals. Like me, they followed the best snow and facilities for their training and needed people like me to arrange closed runs, special access and personal supervisors on the mountain.
At the beginning of 2004 I stopped working at the resorts and just skied, in an attempt to qualify for the 2006 Olympics in Turin, Italy. Most people hinted that it wasn't enough time to dedicate to an Olympic campaign, but I made it, qualifying for the women's mogul freestyle on the US team. What made it more unusual was that I didn't have the physical build typical of ski racers. Numerous coaches said I didn't have the thighs on me to get the push off the bumps. I was fairly lean by the standards of most of the events, yet the fact that I was light and flexible, as well as calm and comfortable on the snow, apparently made for a tidy and competent racer. They would eat their words.
Of course, I also had the advantage of spending my late teenage years hanging with my older brother Jasper and his mates in the terrain parks of the Colorado resorts. In the early days I was told that chicks couldn't pull tricks. I think it was their way of preventing the little sister from getting hurt, a sure way to cop an earful from Chief Charlie. After Jas gave me a ski helmet for my birthday, he started to teach me the basics. I soon learned how to hold my own on the jumps and got a kick out of the cat-calls and wolf whistles from my big bro's buddies. To this day, those boys take credit for the 180 grab and the back flip iron cross I pulled in my final run of the competition which secured me the Gold.
Jasper was now a photographer, well renowned for some amazing and artistic sports and scenic shots. His talent with a camera and as a snowboarder landed him a job with Warren Miller for his past two ski and board movies. It wasn't long until Warren had Jas persuading me to be in his next one. It would mean spending time with an awesome team of people and travelling to some of the most extreme and remote snow covered places. It would also earn me a pretty nice sum, mostly due to the risk and the fact that there had been loss of life and plenty of injuries during filming over the years. Needless to say, I was in with a grin, and we were going to start filming shortly after I finished this job working the Vancouver Winter Olympics.
I certainly enjoyed the benefits that came from my stint as an Olympian. I still had great relationships with my sponsors, even though I had finished competing. I was lucky enough to still have use of my ultimate ski car, a black Audi RS6 wagon. If I was out of state or even in another country, I collected an Audi off a dealer rep at whatever airport I landed.
One of the big names in ski gear, Head, sponsored all my equipment until a year after the 2006 Olympics. They still give me boots and accessories, which is great because their boots are still my favourite. The Dynastar development team had recently signed me up to test out their new specialised range of women's skis, and to be the face of their promo when they released them. Seeing as the target audience was women, I didn't have to do anything like some promos where the girl gets naked and holds skis across her tits to sell them.
I may have done that for the cover of SportsIllustratedthough. It was their highest selling cover in two years and I had to admit that I was reasonably proud of it. In the cover shot you could actually barely tell it was me by the time they'd made me up, and in the article shots I had a lycra race suit on, albeit unzipped. Charlie was as understanding as he could be, though he did admit to trashing a copy he found in the lunch room of the police station.
I could be a feisty tart, and I knew what I was good at, but through all of this, it was my family that kept me grounded. They taught me that I wasn't invincible, what was important in life, and that no matter what happened, when I came home I was still little Bella: dorky sister and darling daughter.
The one thing that didn't come out of my success on the slopes was a steady boyfriend. There had been boys, but none that had lasting power. I still wasn't convinced it was the best market to find Mr Right. Most of these guys had girls at their beck and call in every resort. Then there were the Olympics, where between- and within-team hook-ups were so rampant that there was a ready supply of free condoms everywhere you looked in the Olympic Village – even in the dining hall. "What goes on tour stays on tour" and all that.
Don't get me wrong, I was by no means prudish. I was the first to admit I had certainly not been a saint in my travels over the years. I wasn't one to kiss and tell, but I had gotten to know the lips of a fairly fine, yet select, list of winter wanderers like myself.
Other than those brief rendezvous, there was really only one "relationship" as such. I did a lot of my Olympic training in a group which included a guy who also hailed from and skied Colorado when we were younger, Jeremy Bloom. Forgetting the kissing and telling disclaimer, it was an understatement that he had an amazing body. At a training camp in Germany when we ended up in the communal showers alone together, one thing led to another and the result was a thirteen month relationship.
Typically, it had a hot beginning, and a fairy anticlimactic, lukewarm end. There wasn't really a convincing reason to break up, but there were undercurrents that we were about to head in different directions. So after the Turin Olympics, we went to his cabin in Keystone, fucked in his Jacuzzi, kissed each other goodbye, and that was it. I may have cried a little on behalf of my g-spot, but thankfully my travels to the next winter wonderland were soon a distraction from my man woes.
I was pleased Jeremy and I parted on amicable terms, because it meant that he was now a good friend who texted and called often and generally looked out for me. I was mostly helping with the women's ski team here in Vancouver, but I had seen him a bit the past couple of weeks in the US camp. I had a laugh when I was walking into the dining hall two days ago and I overheard him talking to his table of ski-heads. I believe his words were, "that Isabella Swan is still the hottest ass I've ever tapped." I may have emphasized said ass's attributes a bit more as I walked past them.
There was really only one guy who truly stuck in my mind and stood out amongst the rest, whether I wanted him to or not. He was permanently ingrained in me, along with his Olympic-sized attributes.
Edward Cullen and I had met in passing a few times, and on every occasion, despite the frigid conditions, a mere look from his bright green eyes or a smooth hello sent crazy hot sparks to my nether regions. Cullen was not simply hot; he was fuckhot to a point that you sounded totally ridiculous trying to explain quite how hot you meant. It was more than just that, though. He exuded something which no one else had.
When I met him at the last Olympics even my trainer said he looked at me like he wanted to strip me off and fuck me on the nearest surface. Yet I still got the distinct impression that somewhere under Cullen's smooth and sexy ways, there was a distinct charm about him. I had inkling that Cullen might be one of those rare good guys. He was a Brit, London born and raised, which may have increased his mysterious appeal. Or maybe he just oozed sex, plain and simple, and my mind was just trying to make that seem more dignified.
I had never really been able to prove my theories of Cullen from the few words we had exchanged over the years. I don't know what it was that made us dance around each other when we met, rather than to go in for the kill as most of us in the industry usually did. However, the pinnacle of our past encounters came in the most unexpected place. Six months after my Olympic victory I was on a short trip, visiting Renee while skiing and working down in Queenstown. It was a long flight, but I enjoyed going down there. They had winter when the majority of the world had summer and, for a small country, on a good day the skiing was on par with any of the top international resorts. Not to mention, I got to spend some quality time with Renee. Her brand of crazy mom was best in small doses.
On this particular visit, the South Island resorts were using me as a draw card for private lessons, which meant I had brought in some big money for them. I wouldn't let them pay me, instead asking that they use the money for free lessons for local kids who couldn't afford it. Small in the scheme of things, but positive all the same. To thank me, the after hours mountain crew let me have free run of the slopes at Coronet Peak after public closing time. It was just before twilight, so they turned on the massive spots they used for night skiing to ensure that I didn't have issues with flat light on the snow. Then they left me to it, going for hot drinks and fries in the staffroom before starting their snow grooming once I was finished.
When I came to a stop at the bottom of my first run, kicking up snow as I flicked my skis sideways, I noticed a figure standing against the wall of the base building. He had glasses and a beanie on, his arms crossed and one leg bent at the knee to prop his foot up behind him. I narrowed my eyes, trying to get a better look so I could decipher why he appeared to be smirking at me.
"The mountain's closed for business for the day," I called across to the mystery man.
"I can see that," he snickered back. "I was hoping that you might be open for business," he finished, still smirking.
"I'm not, but I'm running lessons tomorrow afternoon if you want to book in then," I replied, getting a little snarky at him.
"That's a shame," he replied, pushing himself away from the wall. "I was hoping that I could have you all to myself, in private." As he moved casually toward me, I realized he had a British accent.
"The lessons are private," I said, gripping my ski pole a little tighter in case I needed to wallop him.
"Not this private," he said, finally close enough for me to lose my shit when I recognized a jaw line that I knew to be unique to one particular man. I huffed with pleasantly shocked realization before carrying on our banter.
"I'm incredibly expensive," I quipped, playing along now.
"So I've heard. I've also heard you're the absolute best at meeting a skier's needs and giving a great experience on the slopes."
UNF. He played good.
"Depends on the extent of their needs… and the experience they are after, I suppose," I retorted.
"Oh, well I, for one, have large, large needs."
In his case, I actually didn't doubt him, deciding it would fit with his overall picture for him to have…large needs. I sighed to myself, surprised at how much I wanted to meet those needs, before mentally changing tack.
"You got your gear?" I asked, trying to sound pissed off that he was interrupting me.
He nodded over his shoulder, indicating the only skis and poles on the rack beside the building. I shrugged and turned to head towards the chairlift, presuming and maybe secretly hoping that he would follow after me. I heard the familiar click of boots into bindings behind me, allowing myself a grin whilst he couldn't see my face. By the time I pushed myself up to the loading mark for the chair, he was next to me.
We sat down and pulled the safety bar over in front of us, beginning the ride out of the junction and up the mountain. They had my favourite style of chair, one that was actually pretty damn comfortable, with padded seats and a foot rest to put your skis up on.
"How's things, Isabella Swan?" he asked casually, as if our whole previous exchange had never occurred.
"Not bad, Edward Cullen, not bad," I replied, still looking straight ahead.
We were quiet for a minute or so, both of us looking sideways at the view down across Queenstown. My curiosity encouraged me to break the silence.
"What brings you to New Zealand?" I asked.
"A vacation before I hit the American and European winters for some serious training," he replied.
"You spend all your time in the snow, but you still don't prefer to vacation on a tropical island somewhere?"
"Do you?" he questioned back.
"Fair point. I suppose not at the moment, no. Although I think I should expose more than just my face to some sun at some stage in the next five years," I thought aloud.
"I wouldn't mind being there for that," he said with impressive subtlety.
I decided not to risk betraying my cool exterior with a response. Instead, I turned my gaze ahead up the slope to where we were about to disembark.
We slid off the chair in silence, both taking a moment to fasten the clips on our ski boots.
"Teach me, tiger," Edward said, looking at me with a cheeky glint in his eye.
"Ha-de-ha. Observation and warm-up run: go," I instructed, playing up to him and nodding my chin down the mountain.
He took off pretty well, which didn't surprise me, but my knowledge of the runs here gave me an advantage. As we raced toward the bottom, I was managing to cut him off on a lot of ridges and pop down a few of the steeper drops ahead of him. Basically, I was totally holding my own, and verging on kicking his ass. I decided to attempt to rile up his competitive instinct a little more.
"Aren't you focusing on Super G for the Olympics? You better pick up your game, buddy…"
It was a little blurry to hear him with our speed cutting through the snow, but I think he said, "I'll show you a pick up, Swan."
Next I knew, he had come at me from behind, his skis on either side of mine, collecting me with his arms wrapped around my waist. My skis were floating an inch or two above the ground as he carried me at speed down the last of the slope and across the flat leading to the chairlift.
Despite us both being in ski pants, I couldn't ignore the fact that his crotch was pressed against my ass. I doubted there was much action going on down there in the cold, but it was kinda hot all the same. Especially with the added close proximity of his long neck and jaw and the kiss of his warm breath against my face.
As we came to the loading gates he lowered me and gave me a push from my hips to move me ahead of him. When he pulled up beside me to wait for the next chair to come around, I looked at him sideways. He was looking for the chair with the cutest fucking grin on his face that I had ever seen on a man. I shook my head and looked down for the seat that had come up behind us.
As we sat there I could see Edward was doing the same as me, smirking a little then attempting to stifle it, before failing and smirking again. I knew I should make conversation, get to know him better, but I was being stupidly entertained by the fact that this was even happening. Luckily Edward broke my traitorous smirking silence. What he broke it by saying was pure gold.
"I'm going to confess something. I've spent a good percentage of my time on chairlifts over the past eight years or so working out whether or not it would be possible to have sex."
Fucking-A,Cullen,touché. I was becoming increasingly fond of this guy, knowing I wasn't the only one who spent her chairlift time concocting dirty possibilities.
"Sex on a chairlift?" I clarified, knowing he'd read it as surprise.
"Yeah," he said, not meeting my face.
"And what have you determined in eight years?"
"It would be a logistical exercise, that's for sure. There would be all sorts of hurdles to actually achieving penetration. For one, there's the skis," he began, talking as if discussing a science project.
I nodded, raising my eyebrows and tensing my lips in serious agreement.
"There's the actual moving to get close enough, without falling off the chair or dropping anything, and then you're faced with the whole two pairs of pants thing," he continued.
"The temperature is a potential hazard too, ya know. If it's too cold, you could get all that way and be faced with two vaginas."
He laughed aloud, his eyes lighting up. "Shrinkage could also be a problem, very true, Swan," he snickered.
I shrugged with a smile as if our whole conversation screamed common sense. Fuck, he was insanely gorgeous when he laughed. From what I had heard, he was also a pretty good guy, which I believed so far. We were about to arrive at the top again, and I could see the large junction building where the snow flattened for people to get off before the chair turned and headed back down the line.
Edward raised the safety bar. I acted quickly. As the chair entered the cover of the building I flicked one pole away to fall against the wall. I put a hand firmly on Edward's lap, hoping the pressure and his confusion about my actions would keep him fixed to the chair. Luckily, it did. I heard a muttered "what the fuck" as I used the pressure of my skis against the flat ramp and my other pole to disconnect my boots from the ski bindings. They released easily and my skis came to a rest in the dismount zone, allowing me to drop my other pole to the side. Just as the chair took the turn around the last pillar to head back out of the building and down the mountain, I reached up and pulled the safety bar back in front of us.
I finally looked at him, and I don't think I had ever seen anyone as stunned. As I shifted myself closer and moved to straddle his lap, his green eyes bulged even further as his jaw gaped. I squeezed a leg between his knees and the bar, before getting my own knees up onto the seat so I could sit down on him.
I bit down gently on my bottom lip and held on behind him, our eyes reining each other in.
"Ho-ly fuck," he whispered.
I released my lip, moistening it with the tip of my tongue. His eyes were glued to my mouth; his breathing was deep and anticipatory.
I went in for the kill, slipping my tongue just inside his gaping mouth as I took his lower lip into mine. I ran my tongue around gently, thanking the heavens he wasn't wearing a helmet, so that I could run a hand under his beanie and through his thick hair for leverage.
As I flicked my tongue a little way into his mouth, he sucked me in and closed his lips over mine. He began kissing me in earnest, ravishing me with his attentive abilities. He moved one hand to grip my ass and the other to fork his fingers into my hair. It was the hottest fucking make out session ever, ever. Ever. Of course, this wasn't just a make out session. I knew I needed so much more of him as soon as he started nipping little kisses along my jaw, sucking on my earlobe and tickling at my neck with his warm breath. Who the hell was I kidding though? As soon as I got to the point of straddling the guy it was a given that, if it turned out to be at all possible, we would fuck on that chairlift.
I could tell from the rock hard bulge I was grinding on that we weren't going to have any shrinkage problems fucking up our progress. Luckily, the early spring temperatures meant the conditions weren't too cold. I brought my hands down in between us and started working at his pants. My insides melted a little when he adjusted to make sure he was holding on to me, seeing as I was no longer holding on to the chair. Then again, it was probably partly selfish, because if I fell off there was no way he was getting laid. When I slipped my hand down into his briefs I was convinced even more that there would be no shrinkage issues. The guy was significantly well endowed. There was a lot of dick in my hand. Even if it got a little cold, I was sure it would still be above average size and more than adequately pleasurable, if he knew how to drive the thing.
The most amazing part of this whole crazy plan? My miracle easy-access ski pants. They were navy blue and I had owned them for years. They were pretty fugly, but they held one attribute which kept them from the give-away bins each year: they had full zips down both the inside and outside of the legs.
The fact that I had unzipping, separating pants would have been awkward and made me look a laughable goof had they not served a fucking legendary purpose. I reached down to my inside ankle and pulled at the zip, running it up the inside of my thigh and around past my crotch. I think Edward may have burst a few blood vessels in his face in shock.
He got a clear message about where this was going when my lace covered pussy was visible between us. He shifted my panties away with one finger and slipped another between my folds. He stroked carefully and tickled over my clit before I felt his finger find its way inside me, so impossibly deep that he met all the spots I wanted him to.
I grabbed his spare hand in one of mine and pulled it around where I could see it. I uncurled his fingers and almost fell off him in amusement. He had long, slim, stupidly sexy fingers. "Long" being the key word. The other hand was doing fucking amazing things to my clit and my spot with those masterful fingers. This whole shambles of a set up was suddenly confirmed as a fucking excellent idea.
I put my lips loosely over one of his fingers and drew them open mouthed up its length. He let out a primal groan, causing me to gasp a little before I was silenced by his lips covering mine.
"Condom?" he mumbled.
"Pill," I answered into his mouth.
"Fuck," was his response.
"Yes," was mine.
I knew it was irresponsible; for all I knew he could be a typical pro ski slut, but I just didn't get the dirty vibe off him. Despite the fact he was willing to fuck me on a chairlift in a public place in a foreign country. The burning lust in my belly and throbbing wetness meant I didn't give a shit in that moment.
I pulled apart the dome of his black pants and unzipped the fly before replacing my hands on the chair behind him. He got the message and shuffled them out of the way, just enough to slide his dick over the elastic of his briefs. I felt around his waist and was pleased to find his top layers would shelter his ass from getting cold. While I wanted to do this a fucking lot, I didn't want it to be stupidly uncomfortable.
I was so wet from what he had started with his mouth then followed up with his fingers. When I finally positioned the head of his dick, it needed no further assistance, slipping inside me with surprising ease given his proportions.
We gasped in unison at the consuming feeling of being so closely enveloped in one another. My pussy spoke up, crying out for more friction against all its favourite bits. I began moving in earnest, grinding against his dick and pelvis until I found the perfect spot that made me totally lose connection with the world. When I had touchdown, it was clearly good for him too, as he let out another guttural groan rounded off with a "holy fuck, sweet heaven, fuck, Bella." I figured that meant it must be pretty all right.
I fucking loved this position, sitting up and straddling. It allowed for all sorts of good grinding contact and it never failed to give me a great orgasm. That was until I experienced this position with Edward Cullen. He and his sizeable dick made me cum good and hard in the most stir-crazy way I had ever experienced. It was fucking heavenly. Twice.
When my second orgasm began to wash over my body, I sensed his reaction to the change in me, and felt a wave of tension overcome him as he began to pump into me. The friction I was creating, combined with the natural pulsating through his dick caused him to cry out, pressing me closer to him, if that was at all possible.
As we sat panting, post-coital haze washing over us, I couldn't help but giggle at how surreal this shit was. We had sex on a fucking chairlift. The shocking part was that it was incredible. Lose your shit amazing. I had thought that if it was even possible to achieve, it would at best be good. It was so good that I thought I could go again. I lifted my forehead from where it rested on his shoulder and looked behind me. It wouldn't be long until we were at the top again, and I supposed we'd better not push our luck too much longer.
Edward pieced together my thoughts as I looked back to him. I no longer had skis on, so I stayed on his lap with my arms around his neck for an easier dismount from the chair. He flicked up the safety bar then cradled my ass with his forearm. As we came into the area to disembark, he pushed us up and off, sliding expertly down the ramp despite my extra weight to throw him off balance. I was careful not to nail him in the legs with my dangling heavy ski boots.
Having him hold me was so fucking cosy. I would be quite happy to be carried around by Cullen like this regularly. I was gazing into his face while daydreaming about him holding me like this and fucking me against a wall, when I felt him twitch inside me. It was a welcome reminder, but it also cleared my Cullen-induced dreams enough to notice that he was gazing stupidly at me, too.
"You want to ski all the way back like this?" I asked with a smirk, somewhat regretting breaking the moment.
"Ha," he snickered. "Go reclaim your skis, hot stuff," he said, finally lifting me up to remove himself, before letting me slip down his body until my boots met the snow again.
I leaned over to zip my pants up before I did anything else, not fancying the cool air on my hoo-ha any longer.
"Shall we take this off piste?" he questioned after we had readjusted ourselves.
"Sure, but we'll only get one run in before we lose the light too much. The flood lamps don't reach out east very far," I explained.
We headed off down a variable slope, finding undiscovered pockets of snow and finishing with my favourite run which had a dusting of powder over a firm base. Cullen had taken a little detour up the side of the bowl as we neared the bottom, so I turned to wait for him to take the t-bar back up.
When he finally carved a turn in next to me, he was smirking.
"What?" I asked, nudging him in the side with my elbow.
"Nothing," he stated, oh so innocent.
"Nothing my ass," I retorted.
"Come on, Swan, let's call it a day," he said, pushing off towards to lift.
I had no idea what would happen when we parted ways and I slid into the Audi to drive back down to my hotel. Like I said, Renee was great in small doses, so despite her having a spare room, I usually stayed down the road from her place. He helped me lock my skis onto the roof rack of the car and farewelled me with a delicate, yet final, kiss. Queenstown was small, so there was every chance I would run into Cullen again. I had no idea whether I wanted to or not.
I got my answer later that night, when he walked into the pub where I was having dinner with a big group of ski instructors and locals. I presumed the fact that I felt like I had a spontaneous orgasm when I saw him again meant that my body was just fine with seeing him again.
A couple of the Kiwi instructors across from me whispered about whether he was Edward Cullen, before the ski patrol manager called out to him. Turned out they were both English and knew each other well.
"Hey, Marcus, how's it going?"
Marcus introduced Edward to everyone at our big table, and he ended up grabbing a round of beers for everyone and taking a seat opposite me. It was a fantastic night; casual, hilarious, everyone having a great chat and laugh as we shared stories.
I couldn't avoid the green eyes across from me, no matter how hard I tried. I was conscious of becoming another "ski resort fuck," but everything about Cullen was so damn persuasive. His eyes, his lips, his words, his actions…the bulge in his pants that was noticeable in ski gear…all of it cried out, "Yes, do me!"
So I did. Again.
He walked me back to my hotel room after a few beers and the rest went down in sexual history. In the morning I felt a kiss on my forehead and heard the door click shut, and that was it. There was a note beside the bed. Planetocatch.BeSafe. x
Edward had gone off to pursue his Olympic dreams, which was running on a textbook timeline as he won all the World Cup and warm up events that he needed to and, by all accounts, having a dream run with training. I knew that he was going to be competing here in Vancouver, and there was all likelihood that I would see him. I pretended to be nonchalant about the idea, but I knew damn well that Edward Cullen was the one ski pro who still held power to make me salivate and melt away my panties with his mere presence.
The dirty minx in me screamed, "Melt away, Cullen. Melt. A-way…"