Thin Air

The chalet appeared out of the blizzard like a ghost, and I almost drove past it. The road had been a mistake, a shortcut suggested by a gas station attendant who'd probably never left the valley. Snow swallowed the headlights, and my hands were white-knuckled on the wheel when I saw the warm glow of a window.

I found her in the kitchen, barefoot on the cold stone floor, a wool sweater swallowing her frame. Her name was Lena. She was a photographer, stranded two days now, and she laughed when I stumbled in shaking snow from my jacket.

"You look like a yeti," she said, handing me a mug of something steaming.

"Feel like one." I wrapped my hands around the ceramic, let the heat seep into my bones. "I'm Mark."

"Lena." She tilted her head, studying me with eyes the color of the pine forest outside. "You're not going anywhere tonight, Mark. The pass is closed."

The wind howled against the windows like something hungry. She lit a fire in the stone hearth, and we drank her whiskey, and the conversation came easy — too easy, the way it does with strangers when the world outside disappears. She told me about the eagle she'd photographed at dawn, the way its shadow rippled across the snow. I told her about the city, the noise, the endless hum of other people's lives.

"Quiet here," I said.

"Too quiet." She looked at me, and something shifted in the air between us, a current I could feel on my skin. "You get used to your own company. Then someone walks in, and suddenly the silence feels loud."

The fire cracked. She was close now, close enough that I could smell the woodsmoke in her hair, the faint sweetness of the whiskey on her breath. My hand found hers, and she didn't pull away. Her fingers were cold, and I rubbed them between mine, watching her watch me.

"I haven't touched anyone in days," she whispered.

"Me neither."

Her lips were soft and tasted like smoke and something sweeter. The kiss started slow, tentative, two strangers testing the edges of each other. But then her hand curled into the collar of my shirt, pulling me closer, and the tentativeness burned away. My tongue found hers, and she made a small sound against my mouth that went straight to my cock.

I slid my hand under her sweater, found the bare skin of her waist. She shivered, and not from the cold. Her skin was warm, impossibly warm, and I traced the curve of her hip, the dip of her spine, while she undid the buttons of my flannel with shaking fingers.

"God, you're freezing," she murmured against my neck.

"Warm me up."

She laughed, breathless, and pushed the sweater over her head. She wasn't wearing a bra. Her breasts were small, perfect, her nipples already hard from the fire's flickering heat. I cupped them, thumbs grazing the peaks, and she arched into my hands with a moan that was half surprise, half hunger.

I pulled her down onto the sheepskin rug before the fire. The wool was rough against my back, and she was soft and heavy on top of me, her thighs straddling my hips. She ground down, and I felt the heat of her through her jeans, through mine, a promise of what was coming.

"Mark," she breathed, and my name on her lips was the sexiest thing I'd ever heard.

I sat up, pulling her with me, and unbuttoned her jeans. She lifted her hips to help me slide them off, and then she was just in thin cotton panties, and I could see the dark patch of hair through the fabric. I hooked my thumbs under the waistband, and she watched me, lips parted, eyes dark.

"Please," she said.

I pulled them down. Her pussy was slick, glistening in the firelight, and I could smell her — musky, female, intoxicating. I ran a finger through her wet slit, and she gasped, hips bucking.

"You're so wet," I said, throat tight.

"You did that. You and this fire and this whole impossible night."

I pushed a finger inside her, and she was so tight, so hot, that I nearly came in my jeans. She rode my hand, her head thrown back, her hands braced on my shoulders. I added a second finger, curling them, and she cried out, a sharp, desperate sound.

"Fuck, Mark, I need you inside me. Now."

I pulled my hand out, and she whimpered at the loss. I fumbled with my belt, and she batted my hands away, undoing it herself with quick, deft movements. She pulled my jeans and boxers down, and my cock sprang free, hard and aching.

"Jesus," she whispered, wrapping her fingers around it. "You're beautiful."

She stroked me once, twice, and I thought I might lose it right there. Then she positioned herself over me, and I felt the head of my cock press against her entrance. She sank down slowly, inch by agonizing inch, and we both moaned as her tight heat swallowed me whole.

"God, yes," she breathed. "You feel amazing."

She started to move, a slow, rolling rhythm that had me gripping the sheepskin, my knuckles white. Her pussy gripped me like a fist, and I could feel every ridge of her as she rode me. The firelight danced across her skin, her breasts bouncing gently with each motion.

"Faster," I grunted, grabbing her hips.

She obeyed, picking up the pace. The sound of our bodies slapping together filled the room, mixing with the crackle of the fire and her breathless moans. I reached between us and found her clit, swollen and slick, and she cried out as I rubbed it in circles.

"I'm close," she gasped. "Don't stop, please don't stop."

I didn't stop. I fucked up into her, meeting her thrusts, driving deeper. Her inner walls fluttered around me, and she came with a scream that was swallowed by the howling wind. Her body convulsed, and I felt her orgasm ripple through her, milking my cock.

"Your turn," she whispered, her voice ragged.

She slid off me, and I was about to protest, but she turned around, presenting her ass to me, her pussy glistening with our combined wetness. She looked over her shoulder, eyes wild.

"From behind. Please. I want to feel you deep."

I positioned myself and slammed into her, and she moaned, a deep, guttural sound. I grabbed her hips, pounding into her, the angle perfect, hitting her deepest spot. Her fingers clawed at the rug, and she pushed back against me, matching my rhythm.

"That's it," she gasped. "Fuck me. Harder."

I gave her everything. The world narrowed to the heat of her, the smell of her, the sound of her moans. I felt the pressure building, coiling in my gut, and I knew I couldn't hold back.

"Me voy a venir," advertí.

"Inside me. Don't you dare pull out."

I buried myself to the hilt and came with a groan, my cum flooding her. She shuddered beneath me, her own climax rippling through her body one more time. We collapsed together, a tangled mess of limbs and sweat and firelight.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The wind had died down, and the fire was just embers now.

Then she laughed, a soft, surprised sound. "I don't even know your last name."

"Mark," I said. "Just Mark."

She rolled over, propping herself up on an elbow, and smiled down at me. "Well, Just Mark. The pass won't open until morning."

I pulled her close, feeling her heart beating against my chest. "Then we have time."

The embers crackled. The snow fell silently outside. And I knew, with absolute certainty, that I didn't want to leave.