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His knuckles rap against the hotel door. He has no idea if Samira is on the other side, he’s not exactly sure which outcome he wants.
He almost immediately hears the rustle of a duvet along with the pattering of sandals against the rough carpet leading his way. The white door slowly opens to reveal a freshly showered Samira, curls having a little white residue from her various creams and products.
“Hey,” she sounds sheepish, looks taken off guard.
“Hey,” he starts. “Just wanted to see how you were.”
Instantly Samira’s face darkens, it's subtle but Jack has committed all her expressions to memory, and this one rings familiar. He opens his mouth to say something, he’s not entirely sure what yet. Reassure her? Console her? Pat her back? But then Samira’s face relaxes, a small smile making its way onto her lips.
“I’m okay,” she nods.
He blinks once. Twice. “You are?”
She nods once more. “Yeah, how are you?”
He blinks in response again. How does he feel? He hasn’t necessarily slowed down to think about it, not when he had so many reporters clamouring at him for a comment after Samira’s skate. Too many people asking questions that he hadn’t even begun to think of an answer yet. He had a few other skaters to tend to, none of them placing but none of them having to handle disappointment quite like Samira would have.
“I’m okay,” he says, believing it.
“That’s good,” she says, smiling at him.
The silence afterwards is awkward, because both of them seem completely closed off to the idea of reacting to today’s event. They’re still standing in a hotel hallway, completely exposed to the public, and for some reason that fact is making him feel a little bit antsy. He finds himself leaning to the balls of his feet, rocking back and forth.
Samira, however, looks completely content. Not at all the face of someone who completely missed the podium she was highly favored for because she popped nearly half of her jumps.
“You know, actually, could you help me with something?”
Jack is almost embarrassed by how quickly he says: “Anything.”
Samira is unphased. She smiles wider, almost sinisterly. “I have a terrible knot in my shoulder, could you just give me a few minutes of your time?” She opens the door a little wider.
His breath catches in his throat. “S-sorry?”
“Just right here,” she turns around, pointing to the area right next to her neck, more on her shoulder blade than anything. When she turns back around, her lips are in a deep frown, eyes looking sadder than they have all day. “Please? It really hurts and I can’t see someone for it until tomorrow.”
Jack knows he shouldn’t. He mostly coaches women, he doesn’t go inside their hotel room, that’s bizarre. They usually have roommates or people traveling with them, so he’s never even had to think about it. This opportunity had never presented itself for him.
“You’d be a life saver, really. Especially after what happened today.”
She’s playing a tough card, and they both know it.
He simply purses his lips, nodding. She grins at this, gesturing to him to follow her as she makes her way past the small hallway to her bed. He follows her without looking down, closing the door behind him. Maybe if he doesn’t see it, he can pretend he never crossed the threshold.
On the bed, he takes in her whole frame, now sitting crossed legged on the white duvet. She’s wearing a loose white tank top, and only now is he noticing the absence of a bra, paired with navy sweatpants. He swallows his nerves dry.
He settles behind her, hoping she can’t feel his hesitancy. Or maybe she should. He’s a mess of confusing feelings as his hands rest on her shoulder, lightly roaming for the knot she claims to have.
“Move a little to the left,” she says.
His hands follow suit. She doesn’t respond, but instead lets out a satisfied hmm.
Jack takes the sign, adding feather light pressure at first, just to test out the waters. He searches for any reaction from her, but gets nothing in return. He adds a little bit more pressure, still too scared to cross any boundaries, to which she seems wholly unaware of.
“Don’t be afraid,” she barely whispers, but he can hear it like she’s yelling at him.
“Just don’t want to hurt you,” he says.
She doesn’t respond.
Jack pushes harder against her shoulder blade, kneading her flesh between his fingers.
“You won’t,” she says, her voice floatier than it has been all evening.
He focuses on the slight bump he feels under her skin, pushing and pulling at the seemingly never ending expanse of skin.
It’s not as if he’s never done this, to be completely fair. Samira has always been the type of skater to get tense before a competition, to the point where during the last Olympic quad she had a masseuse on call for her at every event. She claimed it was a cosmic sign and her body was yelling at her, but Jack was getting good at fanning away her doubt.
After all, that was his job.
However, it’s never been like this. Alone. In a hotel room. Her tank top strap slowly dropping off her shoulder, exposing more and more of her freshly clean skin. It’s so smooth under his fingers and so raw that he can see small indents press red.
He uses her sighs as a way to propel him, to continue validating his movements. Adding movement and playing with the pressure he adds and where. She’s so responsive.
It’s so unlike her. In practice she is nothing but stone faced, hardly adding her own input until the very last moment if she truly believed in something else. When asked about it, she usually forces a smile and tells him that she trusted him 100%, and that she believes in his vision for her career. It was almost scary, hearing that belief from her. He wasn’t sure if he had ever trusted anyone else like that in his life.
It’s not as if he isn’t incredibly honored. Samira is one of the most beautiful skaters he’s ever had the pleasure of watching, let alone coach. The moment she came to him, right after debuting in Seniors, in a haze because she had just fired Michael ‘Robby’ Robinavitch, he knew that he would do anything for her. She had so much potential with her artistry, but Robby had kept pushing her with her jumps, nearly demanding her to continue training her triple axel even after she mentioned how much it was hurting her.
Samira was always known for her lines and spins, choreographing a step sequence with her had always brought him so much joy. To see the way she floated across the ice with complete precision, taking detail to each edge, pulling from one element to another, even her twizzle rivaled something from an Ice Dance team. She was a once in a lifetime skater. That much had been clear since the first time she properly skated for him, performing her shitty Free Skate, nearly passing out on the ice after.
For the past 4 years, all he has wanted to do was take care of Samira Mohan.
And she knows that.
He presses down on a tendon between her neck and shoulder with his thumb when she releases a louder sigh, this one throatier than those before. His hands freeze. If Samira is embarrassed by it, she doesn’t show it, instead leaning back into his hands, as if seeking the heat of his grasp.
Jack tries to gather the last of his bearings, pressing down on the same spot to help release the tension when she lets out an even louder and deeper sound, one that Jack would even say is a bit exaggerated.
Suddenly he pulls his hands back, making haste to stand up and leave the bubble that had slowly been building around them. It’s intoxicating. When Samira turns around, her face is the same from the door, eyes widened and full of hurt while her lips pout like he just told her to do another run-through of her free skate. He feels sick.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, knowing perfectly well.
“Nothing,” he lies. “Are you feeling better?”
She shrugs, lifting her tank top strap up over her shoulder once more before rising to her feet. She takes a step closer to him, invading every barrier that they had ever built for each other. He wants to take a step back, he feels it burning in his chest, his brain is firing on all sirens to step away. But the guttural feeling, the one that feels louder than ever, is how he wants to stay right where he is.
“I really blew it today,” she starts, her voice quieter. She dropped the faux pout, but replaces it with a genuine look of defeat. One he hasn’t seen from her all day. “I let everyone down.”
He shakes his head. “You could never let any of us down.”
Her gaze moves up to meet his, it’s sharp. “Lying is a bad look for a coach.”
He shakes his head once more. “I would never lie to you.” His voice is pathetic, pleading with her for some reason. He would never lie to her. He wouldn’t.
Except when he does.
Her eyes narrow at him, like she’s thinking about it, before she relaxes altogether. “I know,” she whispers.
Silence fills the room as neither of them dare to move, dare to speak, dare to even think about what could come next. Jack has spent the last 4 years of his life learning everything he can about Samira: what makes her tick, what frustrates her, what motivates her, what keeps her going, what prevents her, what blocks her. If there was a manual by now, Jack would have written it himself.
And yet, at this moment, he can’t read a single expression on her face.
He gently feels a hand rub against his wrist, the touch bringing a heat that he’s never had the true honor of being privy to.
“What are you doing, Samira?”
She feigns complete innocence, smiling at him. “I’m not doing anything, Abbot.”
“I should go, then,” he says, his knees feeling completely locked.
“Don’t go,” she says. “Don’t you wanna talk about the competition?”
“We can do that back at the rink.”
“What if I want to do it right now?”
He lets out a shallow sigh. “You don’t, Samira. You and I both know it.”
She holds her tongue at this. He can see the way she starts to mull over the words in her mind. There have been times on the ice when he yearned to be in her mind, to see the doubt as she did, to implant his own pride in her into her belief system. If only she could feel as he did, she would take the ice with an insurmountable level of confidence.
Slowly, she stands in front of him, closer to his eye level than not. They’ve always been on the same level, but for the first time, he sees something cloudy in her irises. They’re darker than they’ve ever been.
“Do you like my skating, Coach Abbot?” she says, smiling at the honorification. She hasn’t called him that since their very first year together.
He clears his throat, which suddenly feels incredibly dry. “You know I do.”
She tilts her head to the side, her mouth turning down and her eyes narrowing, not unlike a predator setting its sight on its desires. It sends chills down his spine, but warms his veins all the same. There’s a lightness to her that he’s never seen before. He feels conflict thrumming in his blood.
“What’s your favorite thing about it?”
Everything, he wants to say.
“Your artistry.”
“Specifically?” Her fingers trail up and down his arm.
This part is easy enough. “Your edges. They’re some of the best in the entire field, let alone discipline. How you are able to get so deep without tripping or falling will always amaze me. They’re so defined.”
She nods, her lips breaking into a small smile that doesn’t yet reach her eyes. They’re as dark as ever. “Anything else?”
“How long have ya’ got?” He asks in hopes it will break the tension in the room. Though, deep down, they both know what they have to do to truly break it.
Samira, however, doesn’t take the bait. She simply shrugs, her fingers as featherlight as possible. “I dunno, Coach Abbot, how long do we have?” she asks. Her voice seems hollow, yet he knows exactly what she’s asking. And he knows the correct answer, he hears it yelling in his brain, over and over on a constant feedback loop.
He lets out a shaky breath. “All the time in the world.”
She smiles wider this time, crinkling around her eyes. “Yeah?” she asks.
He nods. “Of course, you know this.”
Her fingers wrap around his right bicep, squeezing gently. “You take such good care of me, right, Coach Abbot?”
He’s become increasingly aware of the room, of the white walls that seem to become smaller and smaller, forcing them together. He’s known how he’s felt for a long time. Probably too long. He knows he has spent far too many nights stuffing them down his throat into his stomach, hoping they’ll never resurface, that he won’t ever get anywhere close to the line.
But her eyes. They’re wild and free in a way he never sees, practically begging him to just cross that threshold. He can hear it speak in the air, the way it thrums around them. She’s usually so tight and pent up, always at the brink of unwinding. He’s in awe of her.
“I try,” he says, embarrassingly honest. He tries and tries for her, he just wants to be enough for her. He wants to bring her all the titles he knows she deserves. If he could bear all the burden himself, he would.
“You do,” she whispers. “You do so much for me.”
He’s looking at her in a way he’s never allowed himself to before, with all the love he has buried deep inside of his heart. Unearthed by her own earnestness, completely barren for her to eviscerate him. And he would welcome it. He doesn’t deserve her, he doesn’t do right by her, he’s failing her in this exact moment. He is taking advantage of her on this vulnerable evening, reveling in the way she drinks him up, knowing that she would never say any of these words were she of sound mind. He should leave this room right now, and if Samira is a forgiving soul, she would never mention it again. While there is still nothing to mention, at least.
“You’re a beautiful skater, Samira, there is nothing you can’t do. I am merely here as a buffer, for you to realize your full potential…” He says, clinging to the truth that they both know, to the idea that this is being said with the purest of intentions.
She smiles at him. “Yeah?”
He nods. “Watching you skate is one of the greatest pleasures of my life, hell, of my career.”
He watches as the words wash over her, flooding her pores with the affection he can’t help but ooze. Her smile turns into something darker, even a bit sinister if Jack didn’t know any better.
She kisses him.
And, embarrassingly, he’s dreamt of this. He’s dreamt of her soft lips against his, pushing and prodding to deepen it immediately. He’s always felt a healthy amount of shame once the moment passed, forcing himself to look her in the eyes the next morning. To watch her float across the ice with the same level of ease that loving her contains. And he really does love her.
Enough to pull back, just slightly. “We shouldn’t,” he whispers, unconvincingly even to his own ears.
She feigns confusion, like she has been all evening, all innocent and fawn looking. “Do what, Coach Abbot? I’m just paying you back,” she states, like it’s a fact. “You do so much for me, I just want to make you proud.”
The words send a shiver down his spine and he wants to pull away. In all the ways he’s dreamt it, it’s never been like this. It was never desperate, longing for a type of validation that this sport will never give.
She doesn’t give him time to think about it more, pressing their lips together again. She’s slow and deliberate with her movements, not unlike the way she sets up into her jumps. Analysts used to make fun of her, saying they could see her jumps coming from a mile away.
Block out the noise, he told her. Don’t listen to anyone else, he pleaded. Just be you.
He kisses her back, with a renewed sense of passion. He wants this so bad it burns, which can’t be good with his old age, but he doesn’t care. He wants everything with her. He wants to praise her, to show her how much he loves her, what he wouldn’t do for his devotion. He feels like a helpless man at the altar, looking up with guilt-ridden eyes, knowing that he will go to Hell either way.
His hands grab around her waist, kneading her flesh gently. He nearly moans at the softness against his rough palms, feeling himself getting harder at the stark differences between her body and his. The body that he’s watched bend and bruise day after day, the one he’s already had memorized in his mind, completely mapped out on a particularly bad night. He’s touched her stomach so many times, sculpting her take off into her triples, showing her how it should feel.
She arches, closing what little space they had left.
“This is a terrible idea,” he whispers against her lips. “I’m your coach.”
She pulls away, eyes dark and wild. “Then you’re the best person to teach me.”
Her arms circle around his neck, fingers playing at the hair on the nape of his neck. They feel so warm against his own skin, which he never anticipated. He always thought her touch would send icicles down his body, but that must have been their circumstances clouding his reality.
Another thing he hadn’t fully thought of was her own kissing skills, which have become increasingly messier. They had never discussed it, but Jack can’t help himself from wondering if she had experimented with many others before this. Jealousy burns in his gut, the desire to teach her everything he knows is ringing louder and louder with every swipe of her tongue in his mouth. She feels so unbelievably good, he tries to tell himself that it’s the Samira Mohan Effect, and has little to do with her own experience, lest he wants to make this short and sweet.
His arms start to explore her back as he leans her down onto the bed, using a collective effort of his core and good leg to support her falling backwards instead of simply pushing her down. She goes willingly, adjusting to the pillows at the head of the bed. She uses her own athletic strength to pull him down, opening her legs to allow him to slot in between. He immediately moans at the contact of his cock to her clothed pussy.
She giggles at this.
“Am I being good?” she asks with a shit-eating grin.
“You’re the best, Samira,” he says, earnest to a fault. He kisses her softly on her lips, pulling away slowly to see the way her eyes shift ever so slightly, as if they’re also taken back by his blinding honesty. He leaves a kiss on her cheek, jawline, neck, clavicle, trailing down to the tank top fabric. He looks up at her as he leaves another soft kiss over her nipple, watching the way it hardens under the white. Her eyes become cloudier as he takes her breast into his mouth. The cotton on his tongue helps ground him, nearly threatening him with the reality of the situation before a soft sigh escapes her lips to bring him back to that floaty headspace.
His right hand reaches up to knead at the flesh, his nails just barely raking over her nipple as she lets out a louder sigh this time. He’s determined now, to hear all the noises from her, he can feel himself getting antsy with it. His fingers start rolling her nipple as he pulls his mouth off to blow a light breath over the other. Both of her nipples are taut, stiff as can be and when he looks at her face, he can see the way it’s all scrunched up, her eyes screwed shut.
“Open your eyes, sweetheart,” he says softly.
She moans in reply, but doesn’t make any movement to open them.
He tsks gently, mostly under his breath more than anything. She’s always been the best at following his instructions, always so eager to please him.
He reaches down to pull her shirt up, exposing her breasts to the cool air. If her nipples weren’t hard already, they would be now. She hisses before he leans down to capture her right breast into his mouth, letting his tongue flick her nipple just barely.
Suddenly, her eyes fly open, letting out a more drawn out moan this time.
“Jack, please,” she begs.
He hums around her skin, his teeth grazing her nipple this time. He pulls away, though he can’t pull his eyes away from the sight of her spit slick boobs. Fuck, he thinks.
“Please what?” he asks, forcing his gaze up to lock eye contact with her. She looks more frazzled now, almost desperate.
“Please,” she tries again.
He shakes his head. “What do you want, baby? Tell me, what do you need?”
And suddenly it’s like the floodgates burst open, she closes her eyes again, her hands reaching up to cover her face. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think she was crying. Neither of them say anything for a moment, worry increasing in Jack’s heartbeat. Did he read everything wrong? Did he cross a line that she never invited him over? Holy fuck, what did he do?
Her hands finally fall back to her side, but he can see the drying tear tracks down her cheeks. He knows his entire expression changes, worry etched onto his features. She shakes her head before letting out a low and slow breath.
“Just make me feel good, can you do that?” she asks. “I just want to feel better.” And then, “you always make me feel better.”
And, fuck, if she doesn’t aim for the heart.
He swallows, nodding. “You’ll have to use your words, sweetheart.”
She’s silent, instead using her left leg to knock against his waist. He sees the way her eyes look so conflicted for the first time, not unlike the way she analyzes her own scores and numbers. She’s always approached everything in this sport with the same level of intensity. He never thought he would be on the receiving end.
Slowly, she pushes herself up a little bit, her lips just barely brushing against his own. He feels hunger burn in his gut, he nearly reaches up to close the gap before her hand reaches down and grabs the front of his jeans, adding pressure to his embarrassingly hard dick. The moan punches out of him, which he can hear brings her nothing short of delight.
“How about you use yours?” she asks. He doesn’t know what she means at first, looking into her cloudy irises. She’s fucking beautiful.
“C’mon Coach Abbot, tell me more,” she says this time. He almost asks what she means again, but it slowly dawns on him. It all clicks into place like a late in life epiphany. Of course that’s what he’s here for.
Her hand stays resting on the dick print through his jeans, though her pressure is very light, which is almost worse. His mouth is watering for her, everything that she would give him, he needs, it surpasses any rational desire. It’s more animalistic now. Humiliating so. Honestly so.
“Fuck, Samira, you’re the best skater I’ve ever watched, let alone coached,” he moans into her mouth, pushing her back into the pillows. They aren’t kissing so much as he’s gasping into her mouth. “Everytime you do a spiral across the ice I think that you’re the textbook figure skater, that you were the ones they dreamt of when they invented the sport.”
He pushes her hand away from his jeans, if only to preserve his dignity, but she doesn’t seem to mind, her eyes fluttering shut at the words. He can see how they affect her, the way her face starts to relax, eyebrows unfurrowing. He uses his own legs to push hers apart, hinging them over his thighs. It fucking hurts, he doesn’t have half the strength he did during his prime, even though he’s tried to keep his physique no matter what, but he still presses his body into her, rutting gently just to relieve some of the insurmountable pressure. His arm is doing most of the work now, holding him up while his right arm reaches down to her sweatpants, rubbing her gently through her clothes.
“You’re my favorite skater, ‘Mira, student or otherwise,” he whispers into her ear this time, kissing her neck after. She sighs beautifully.
“I don’t know how you continue to defy all rules of physics when you spin, oh my God. Every time you reach up into a Biellmann it’s like you can’t spin fast enough. Of course you’re one of the only skaters to get perfect +5 GOEs, it only makes sense.” He can’t get the words out fast enough.
His fingers toy with the waistband on her sweatpants, though he can see the way she starts to become a little restless with it, fidgeting under his teasing.
“I love your patience,” he whispers as his fingers pull them down to slip his hand inside. “You take your time going into jumps, where other people see hesitance, I see you timing it perfectly.” He grazes her underwear, completely soaked through the fabric. He moans at the feeling, the idea that she’s wet for him does incredible things to his ego. Him. Him. Him. Him. She left her long-term coach for him, she perfected her triple Lutz for him, she moved her entire life for him, she trusts her entire career in his hands. It’s almost too much to bear, to feel all that trust, even in the bed right now. God, fuck.
“You’re so wet,” he says.
“You’re slow,” she replies, not missing a beat. “And hot,” she adds, “really hot.” Her eyes open now, desire as prevalent as ever. “I’ve wanted to fuck you for so long,” she says, smirking at the end of her sentence.
He almost doesn’t move at her revelation. He’s not entirely sure when his devotion to her turned into this, but he could never comprehend her returning it. And even if this isn’t the same for her, he has already decided he would live with it. For her to give him this would be enough.
“Same,” is all he says, too embarrassed and shameful to say anything else.
He tries to focus on her again, moving his fingers up and down the fabric with a feather light touch. It pulls the desired effect from her, her immediately moaning out loud and arching into the touch.
“Fuck, Jack,” she says. And isn’t that fucking something.
He starts gently rubbing her clit through her underwear, relishing in all the noises she gives him. It only spurs his tempo on more, happy with the speed he’s set.
She, however, is clearly not, almost writhing in the sheets in anticipation. He even sees a few beads of sweat form on her forehead, but he pays it no mind.
“Be a good girl, Samira,” he says, like he always does in practice. “Just listen to my voice.”
Then he finally pulls her panties to the side, his middle finger entering with complete ease. She’s dripping around him, every movement inside of her echoes around the room.
“Fuck, baby, is this for me?” he asks in amazement, his finger moving slowly inside her.
Her eyes finally open slowly, making eye contact with him as she lets out another guttural moan. “Always, Jack.” She smiles at him, though she quickly lets out another moan as he adds his ring finger, lids fluttering shut yet again.
And, God, isn’t that what he’s been dying to hear for years?
He moves his fingers skillfully inside her, prodding and searching, curling his fingers when her breathing pattern changes ever so slightly. He can do this, has been doing this, listening to quiet cues from her body, watching subtle movements across her face to judge how she’s feeling. He does it when he shows her a new program, or when he can tell something isn’t working quite right at practice. On the off days that she slips off her edge just a few too many times. He falls into the familiar pattern like people fall asleep.
Closing his eyes, he almost wishes he could pause this moment, relish in her pleasure, in her submission. It’s almost too much, he nearly needs a break.
“Jack,” she moans again, as needy as ever. “Fuck,” she says again. “Fuck.” Like she’s in disbelief.
“Feel good, sweetheart?” he asks, the pet name slipping out before he can think too much further.
“I need you inside me,” is what she says instead. Her eyes open and look into his, fierce as ever, boring into his skull. He feels naked under her gaze, which is funny, considering she is considerably more naked than he is.
“Okay,” he breathes out.
She smiles, that cheshire grin. “Can I take care of you, Coach Abbot?”
And fuck, she has got to stop calling him that. Anything else would be better, anything that didn’t remind him of the blurry lines now washed away in the sand. It makes his gut twist and his dick throb. He wants it more than anything else. He wants to hear her moan his name the entire night. He wants to be the one to give her pleasure. He wants to do right by her, to serve her. It’s nearly pathetic.
“Whatever you want,” he says, bare in honesty. It’s the most raw thing he’s said all night. He wonders if she can see his heart pounding out of his chest, clawing its way out.
Slowly, like molasses, she wraps her thigh around his hip, her hands gripping his torso as she flips them over. She’s so elegant, even now, straddling his waist. Especially now.
Above him, she looks ethereal, as breathless as she does on the ice, after she goes out there and gives it her fucking all. After she throws herself into her triples, landing as if it were the easiest thing in the entire world. She’s as methodical in the bedroom, he’s starting to learn. Before he can even realize it, he’s completely naked in front of her, almost like he's in a daze.
She lowers her eyesight to his dick, standing stiff in between them. It’s so obscene, so uncouth, he wants to be embarrassed. But he can’t. Not with the desire in her eyes. It’s the same look she has when she’s determined to get something right. When she’s been tripping all day, but he knows that she won’t get off the ice until it’s done. Until she can float through it like she was gliding on the ice, where it barely looks like any effort at all.
She takes him in her hands, giving it a few preliminary pumps, maybe just for herself, or maybe for him. He’s not entirely sure. And he doesn’t care to ask. The bubble around them feels so precious, so fragile, he’s terrified that any word from him, any level of hesitancy will have her getting off, kicking him out of the hotel altogether. He lets out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding in.
Slowly, she lifts up again, pushing forward as she guides his dick into her. He can’t tear his eyes away from the sight. It’s addicting, the way she pulls him into her orbit. He doesn’t know whether to look into her eyes as she sinks down, or at the way she envelops him. It’s too much happening at once, his head is already spinning.
For that split second, when he looks up, she catches his gaze. She gives a playful wink before sinking down to the hilt. It punches a moan out of him, his chest burning with desire. He keeps his hands metaphorically chained to the bed, he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch. He’s good at that, keeping them to himself. He has all these years, hasn’t he?
“I’ve thought about you for so long,” she starts, lifting her hips up only ever so slightly before pushing back down.
“When you would tell me I did something good,” she moves her hips in a shallow circular motion. “I used to file it away, remembering the way you said it. The way you would praise me, tell me I’m the best you’ve ever coached.” She moans out the last word. As if she was thinking of them on the ice right now.
“You’re so good, Samira,” he moans out, his eyes shutting involuntarily. It’s too much. All of it. He’s drowning in her attention, bathing in her words. He’s never felt so cold. He’s never felt so hot. “You’re the best I’ve ever had.”
“Yes,” she moans out. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.” The rhythm she’s set is slow, painstakingly slow, like she wants to feel every vein pulsating through his body. Only now, has it set in that they’re not using protection. He can feel every part of her gripping him, feel the way she flutters around him. He’s drunk off the feeling, he knows that he needs to say something, but his mouth feels like cotton.
“I’ve worked so hard,” she moans out. “My entire life.” She’s breathing so hard. Like he just made her skate suicides. Every word is breathier than the last. But she doesn’t sound tired, not even a little.
“All I want to be is good!” she nearly screams as slams down.
Some part of Jack is wondering if she’s in the right mindset for this. But then she speeds up, leaning forward to use his pecs as leverage to change the angle and all he can do is moan out again, nearly wanting to throw his arm over his eyes.
He forces his eyes open, watching as she bites her own lip raw. It’s so fucking hot, he can’t help himself from surging up and capturing her lips in a messy and spit-filled kiss. He immediately bites down on her bottom lip, wrapping his arms around her waist to pull her impossibly close. They can’t have any space. He’s spent their entire relationship with far too much space. He wants to feel every part of her.
He uses what little strength he truly possesses to pull them towards the headboard, to give him his own version of leverage before he reaches down to her ass so it’s less work on her thighs. Not that she doesn’t have insane thigh strength, he’s seen her workout routine, hell, he’s seen her in shorts.
If she’s against it, she doesn’t say, instead she leans forward to bury her head in his neck. Not kissing, not leaving marks, just breathing. “Jack, do I feel good?”
He nods, not having to think about it. “Fuck, sweetheart, you’re the best.”
“Say it again,” she whispers, he almost can’t hear it over the sound of their skin slapping together.
“You’re so good, angel.”
“I’m good,” she breathes out into his skin. His disgusting, sweat filled, skin.
He can tell she’s close when she starts to slow, instead opting to circle her hips. He buries himself in her hair, wild and untamed as he reaches a hand down to rub gently on her clit. She immediately gasps as he does, though she doesn’t pull her head away, burying deeper into his skin, if that was somehow possible.
I love you, he thinks. I love everything about you.
Her hips start to stutter, though she attempts to keep a steady pace. It’s so hot. It’s so endearing. His heart aches yet again. He loves her. He would do anything for her. She wants this, she gets it. It makes sense. It’s everything he’s ever wanted.
He continues the gentle pattern on her clit as she nearly stops moving, her hands drifting up to his hair and pulling as she moans out. He can feel the O formed against his clavicle. He can feel himself getting closer, with the way her pussy spasms around him. It’s a testament to the stamina he spent so long building up that he doesn’t come right there and then. He doesn’t want to do that to her, he thinks.
She reaches down to his hand to pull him off when she gets too oversensitive. He can feel the way her entire body relaxes against his own. He’s yearned to feel this, frankly, to even see it. She’s so tense, all the time, holding everything together. For herself, for her family, for her federation, for him. He knows she walks around with a weight on her shoulders comparable only to a Greek tragedy.
She pulls her head away from his neck, a sickly sweet smile on her lips. Her arms still around his neck, flush against his body, her fingers playing with his greying curls. She’s so tender, so beautiful like this, the most open she’s ever been with him. He feels like this is the most she’s ever let him in. She’s so unguarded this way. He tries sketching it in his memory, with all the other versions of her that he loves so much.
“I love you,” she says.
And it’s like his body can no longer hold itself back, his arms tightening around her back as he comes immediately… inside of her. And if she’s overstimulated by this, or bothered, she doesn’t show it. She simply lets it wash over her, her jaw dropping slightly with a quiet moan escaping her beautifully bitten lips.
They sit in silence. Only their heavy breathing to fill the air. Only now does he notice the obnoxious air condition whirring in the far corner of the room. He wants to grumble and turn it off, but he’s glued to Samira, he can’t bring himself to let go. In fear that he dreamt this entire thing up, and the minute he pulls away, he’ll wake up. Or worse, it was real, and she no longer wants him.
Every thought starts barrelling towards him with a dizzying speed. She didn’t want this. He forced it. She didn’t like it. She doesn’t want him to coach her anymore. This was her goodbye. She’s retiring. She’s leaving him for another coach.
She doesn’t say anything else. Instead she leans forward to press a kiss against his lips. This one is slower… less frantic energy accompanying, but the passion is somehow still there regardless. His entire body relaxes.
She pulls away, just barely, exhaling deeply in front of him.
Then, before he can truly say anything, she starts pulling away, unhooking her arms first and then reaching down to pull herself off his dick, which has softened significantly. He feels the cold air hit him, every part of him, he nearly hisses as she removes more and more of him from her. He feels like a fucking loser, watching the woman of his dreams shutter away from him. It’s like she’s back to that determined look, the one she gets when she’s intensely focused.
And now it seems like she’s focused on getting away from him.
He can see some of his cum drip from her, and if he was a younger man, he knows that would stir him up for another round. Instead he sits pathetically on a barely washed hotel linen, wallowing in his own self pity. He’s an embarrassment. No wonder Samira is running away from him.
“Do you want me to go out and get Plan B?” He hears himself saying, though he didn’t hear himself even processing that thought.
Samira looks up at him, now nestled at the end of the bed, on her knees. She looks like she’s about to get off, but she pauses now, looking into his eyes for the first time since she said… that.
Her stoic expression melts into something more pleasant, her usual media smile, and shakes her head. “No need, I don’t think. I’ve been on the pill since I could get it.”
He resigns to a nod in acknowledgment.
She smiles at him once more before her expression falls again, nearly jumping off the bed as she stalks over to the bathroom wordlessly.
He truly doesn’t know what’s next. Is he meant to stay here? Should he make her kick him out herself? Should he put her out of her misery and just leave himself? It’s been years since he even attempted a one night stand. Let alone one with someone he’s in love with.
Which, he’s not even sure if she loves him. Or if she said that as a heat of the moment thing. Or if she knew the exact string to tug on to get him to finish, just so she could kick him out without doing much work. It all swirls around uncomfortably.
He’s still on the bed, unmoved, when she comes back. This time donning a pair of white underwear but nothing else. Wordlessly, she walks over to the second queen bed, the air conditioning thrumming in the background. He watches her reach over to turn off the light, darkness filling the room as he hears the rustling of the sheets, no doubt her getting underneath them.
Moments pass, the obnoxious humming unrelenting. He’s restless, embarrassed and vulnerable.
Suddenly, like a lightning strike, he hears her.
“Well, are you joining me?”