Ice Capades

The arena wasn't busy---the parent and child activity schedule for lessons in the middle of the afternoon was the same every week, but school interfered with regular lessons on Mondays. The two of them had been there twice before on Wednesday evenings. She recognized several others, smiled, nodded greetings, exchanged the usual banalities...she seemed content to acknowledge familiar faces among the other parents and children attending the group this week, but maintained a focus on her son and mostly kept to herself and her boy. In brief conversation while the kids chattered, he'd observed that her skates weren't rented and asked if she preferred them to the rented equipment. She replied that she'd had them for years since taking figure-skating lessons as a teenager, but that it hadn't been a skill that stuck with her. If she were lucky... some of the grace might be reacquired with practice. She was hoping that her son would take to the activity because any interest to improve his physical conditioning would be welcome. She didn't feel particularly coordinated on the ice, either---she claimed to have a better understanding of her son's reluctance to risk injury now that she was older, because she felt the same aversion to falling! She spent more time up than down, but it was apparent that her interest was primarily in relating the activity to her son than in recovering a lost skill.

She was articulate and smiled easily, but an underlying measure of reserve gave him the sense that she was accustomed to managing on her own: the other parents sensed it as well. He'd overheard one of the other women talking to her and she'd laughed ruefully when they remarked that she struck them as "one of those Loner Moms". He couldn't tell if she was offended by the description or agreed with it. She offered no personal information to the conversation, and changed the subject simply by volunteering a mint to the observer. A natural air of competence tinged with independence, a sharp wit and the ability to communicate easily drew others to her, but she was clearly more content to participate with her son than be drawn into a social exchange with the other adults in the group. His impression of her was that she was attractive and intelligent, and he liked the direct way she looked at others when she listened---but because she broadcast no overt signals to encourage interest, he assumed that she was not available or lacked a desire to reciprocate. He noted that there was no symbol of commitment on her finger... no jewelry, no partner in attendance.

He understood what it was like to be responsible for raising a child on his own. His own interactions with the opposite sex, dating or even casual relationships with friends had always been balanced by the responsibility he bore as a single parent. Raising a child alone meant separating risk from security, and introducing any third party to the equation wasn't something he had ever been able to do lightly. It didn't prevent him from looking, but it prevented him from acting on impulse, and it made him less open

to involvement. A stranger's capacity to disrupt the balance of stability, routine, financial or long term emotional security of family couldn't be weighed positively against the short term advantages of fleeting companionship, occasional sex or uncommitted involvement. Getting to know someone meant letting them get close enough to wreak potential havoc in too many ways. As much as he sometimes longed for more...and occasionally glimpsed in the lives of others... he doubted that his future contained the ingredients for the type of relationship he wanted...not if it involved taking the same amount of risk to find it among the ones that he didn't want. But a pretty woman could still be appreciated from a distance, and there was no harm in keeping an open mind.

HER

The man was one of several parents attending. He arrived with his daughter, which set him slightly apart from the other hockey-oriented Dads chaperoning potential NHL stars preparing for the next decade. There was no sign of a wife sitting on the sidelines, no ring on his finger...she assumed that he was a single parent or someone who shared custody and made an effort to do more than pass the time when he had an opportunity to share it with his daughter. The little girl shared an easy, laughing camaraderie with her

father, which was what caught the woman's attention first. She had no intention of dividing her focus from the purpose of being there in the first place---they'd come to skate---but it was easy to appreciate the way this father and daughter interacted together. He had been courteous and friendly when he engaged conversation with her, but not over-confident or flirtatious, and his attitude demonstrated a respect for boundaries that often weren't observed when men approached her. His unassuming demeanor was contradicted by the spark of honest interest in his gaze when he glanced in her direction, and by the unmistakable affection reserved for his daughter when they spoke. She found herself watching the way laughter transformed him. A hint of mischief characterized their behavior together on the ice, and the woman found herself thinking about what it might be like to be the recipient of such unreserved affection, what it might be like to be that relaxed and connected. There was humor and intelligence in his eyes, and so much more... sadness, promise, responsibility, longing, fatigue...interest. Very expressive, those eyes.

Bedroom eyes.

She regretted allowing the thought to surface as soon as it did: it was immediately accompanied by mental imagery of graphic proportions. It had no place here--not in the middle of the day surrounded by children or families, and not in her day-to-day schedule, either. She hoped that her own eyes wouldn't betray what she was thinking each time she glanced in his direction. What might he be capable of doing with those hands? His body was larger, broader, more solid than hers...a place to cling and know what it meant to yield. Those eyes...something about those expressive eyes and the shape of his mouth made heat slide in her abdomen. It had been more than a year since she'd been physically intimate with a man, and for reasons she couldn't fathom...the thought had begun to rise in her mind more and more often at inappropriate times. It imposed itself as an unwelcome physical ache that could no longer be denied by ignoring it or seeking distraction, but until now...it had only been spawned by conjecture and not related to anything tangible outside her imagination. Her awareness of him as a man made it difficult to

focus on everything else that she relied on to maintain a sense of balance... order... control of her own body. She wanted to ignore it, but her attention was divided by the reality of what was missing in her life. She had good friends. Two part-time jobs that provided an income, if not the career she'd been trained for. A wonderful son. An education. Possessions, not that she placed a great deal of importance on things. Her health. She'd worked hard to realize the value of emotional independence in circumstances that required her to be strong, honest and unselfish making decisions for herself and her son. She made an effort to do what she felt was right even when it was often harder than taking the easier route. But she'd never completely been able to put aside the wanton little part of her that sometimes reminded her that she didn't have it all. She wanted---

Her knee twisted as she hit the ice and the impact robbed her of the ability to breath for a second. Her son was right there...the instructors...hovering faces filled with worry as she struggled to catch her breath. Serves you right, she thought...laid out on a slab of ice...THAT ought to cool you off! Bedroom Eyes leaned over her and helped her to her feet. The sensation of being held, protected, cared-for was

foreign but welcome...she was afraid that it would give her a reason to want more, and tried to wave them all off. "I'll be fine...I'll just go sit for a minute and let circulation come back to my knee before trying that again."

The instructors reassured both of them that her son and his daughter would be safe and supervised if he helped her to the exit from the ice, and she blew a small kiss to her anxiously watching son as the man helped her towards the rows of benches just beyond the arena entrance.

She couldn't tell if she was shaking a little because of the fall or because of the cold in the air, or because of his proximity...she was acutely aware of the supporting arm as he wrapped it around her shoulder, the hard shape of his body pressed against her side and the contour of his shoulder where her own hand rested for support. The scent of his soap and the mint on her own breath fogged her senses: she could feel the cold bite through the unfastened halves of her jacket, the cold tips of her fingers, and the heat of his chest pressing against the outer curve of her own breast where the jacket fell open. Her nipples had contracted to visible spears straining beneath the fabric of both the shirt and bra beneath, and she wanted to draw the jacket closed to conceal the obvious, but didn't want to draw his attention to the fact that she was this conscious of what was happening to her body. She couldn't think. She felt hot and cold...Could he tell? Was it the chill in the air, or just her own unwelcome arousal?

He helped her to one of the benches, and she sat awkwardly, thanking him. Her voice sounded a little breathless. "That was some fall you took. Maybe you should have a look at that knee." She nodded, willing to focus on anything that took her mind off the juxtaposition of his body and the rattled nerves in her own. The strained knee protested as she began to lift it, intending to raise it to the bench, but the weight of the skate and the extending blade prevented her from finding a comfortable place to stretch the limb.

"Here...let me help."

He removed his cap as he leaned down and carefully grasped the blade portion of each skate, then gently wheeled her around on the bench. Still holding both feet by the blades of her skates, he stepped back until both legs extended past the end of the bench on which she was seated, pulling gently until her backside slid to the end of the bench...then considerately lowered her feet to the rubber mat. He sat on the end of the bench now facing hers, ran one hand self-consciously over the hairless surface of his

scalp, and leaned slightly forward to gaze at her with a question in his eyes.

Her mind had already shut down. Something hot and liquid seethed at the core of her being. When he'd lifted her legs to pull her to the end of the bench, her pulse coalesced to a molten spear of need so explicit and focused on the man standing in front of her that her breath caught. She forgot about the throbbing in her knee and for a fraction of a second...instead of waiting for a lack of oxygen to put out the fire, she imagined it overtaking everything. If he'd kept drawing her forward until the weight of his body subjugated everything weak and craven in hers, she couldn't have been more consumed with the physical evidence of need. She was instantly, shockingly wet.

Her pupils dilated until they filled her eyes and she exhaled, but the breath was broken, ragged. She felt charged with heat and cold, shivering and ready to burst into flames all at once. Lacking the will to direct it, she watched her own hand close the distance to his jaw, and he felt the chilled tips of her fingers trembling a little as she leaned forward. He didn't understand exactly what she was doing or why--- was she in shock? Was she hurt? He leaned in a little to ask, and his eyes dropped to her lips as her tongue moistened the bottom curve and they parted. The sharp scent of mint assailed his senses as her mouth drew close enough to mingle with his own breath. He felt the cup of her palm against his cheek as her fingers splayed hesitantly, almost reverently molding the shape of his jaw. He realized that she was about to kiss him, and the sheer unexpectedness of the encounter prevented him from drawing back.

Her hands bracketed his face as she kissed him, and the soft hitch of her breath glissaded across his jaw as she seemed to suddenly realize what she was doing, the boundaries she'd violated... the expression of yearning she'd just taken without permission from a stranger. "Oh God. I'm so sorry. I don't know what's wrong with---"

He didn't let her finish. If he thought about it or if the rest of whatever she intended to say made sense, he didn't want to hear it or question why he liked it. This type of thing just didn't happen.

There were no rules for extraordinary circumstances unless people paused to think. For just this moment, he decided not to question: he kissed her instead, and felt everything in her yielding, straining, willing, barely suppressed. Her hands had slid to his shoulders, then climbed the nape of his neck, and he felt the draw of her fingers stroke and sculpt the back of his head, unable to settle in one place. "OHgod." He couldn't tell if it was an entreaty for more or begging for sanity to intervene.

He drew back a little, and her hands slid from his neck to where his own hands rested on the denim covering her upper thighs. His knees were drawn into the angle between her legs where he'd placed them on both sides of the bench, and the heat of her arousal filled his nostrils with the unmistakable scent of sex. Her eyes flickered blue, but were glazed with what he recognized now as something raw, exposed and filled with inarticulate expression. Shame, desire, vulnerability, shock. Her fingers curled into his

own hands against her thighs and held on as if they'd had a desire to move. They didn't.

Their eyes met. His mind was rioting. Complete strangers, now thinking the same thing. It was a public place. If it were even possible...where could they go? How did this happen? He found his voice: "Now would be a good time to get up and go if you plan to. Right now."

"I don't. I want to be anywhere less public. Right now. With you." Her hands tightened reflexively, and he had a sense of how difficult it was to put into words whatever she hoped to say. "I can't think of anything more sordid than.... I'm not even....GOD. I want you. Do you want me? Right now?"

"Can you walk on that knee?"

"I think I can barely stand, but it has nothing to do with my knee."

He stifled a smile and stood, using their still-clasped hands to pull her up to her feet before him.

"Over there," he pointed to a door with a wheelchair access symbol. She pivoted, releasing only one of his hands and paused just long enough to raise an eyebrow. "I've never seen a wheelchair on ice."

"Me either," he murmured. "Maybe it was meant for people wearing skates who've injured one another trying to do what we're about to try."

He closed the door and hesitated as they surveyed the bathroom together. The sink looked unlikely. The porcelain looked unsanitary. She looked equally repulsed by the facility, but didn't release his hand.

"I'll be careful with my skates if you will. I have nothing communicable, and I'd like to keep it that way. Please don't touch anything in here. Except me. Please touch me."

She turned in his arms so that her back rested against his chest, carefully positioned her bladed feet so that they didn't obstruct his own, and leaned back so that the full line of their bodies connected, his front to her back. She turned her head to gaze up at him and swallowed convulsively as she laced her shaking fingers across the backs of his hands and filled his hands with the weight of each breast through the shirt she wore. He needed no additional encouragement. The shape of his erection burned against her buttock as he unfastened the top three buttons, dragged the bra down without bothering to unfasten it, and buoyed the naked flesh beneath in the palm of each hand. Her eyes fluttered and she mewled as his fingers closed on the erect spear of each breast and gently made them belong to whatever shape his hands made them. She was hot and shivering in his hands as he released the snap to her jeans, dropped the zipper in one swift motion, and his hand slid down slowly from her abdomen. He reached the juncture of her thighs and found the barrier of panties, but his fingers pried them aside and formed a cup to hold the secret to everything she was about to yield to his hand. He pressed lightly to part her and was shocked to find his hand filled with hot, wet, swollen flesh. She rocked in his hand and tried to suppress the moan that filled the back of her throat, but there was no concealment for the intensity of the sensation on her face as he stroked her, relentlessly holding her pressed against the erection now

straining hard against his zipper as she bucked in his hand. She was trying to turn towards him, her face upturned against his jaw, one arm raised in supplication against his neck, the other trapped beneath his where both of their hands crushed the white globe of one naked breast. The erotic rapture in her expression as he held her was like a narcotic.

He let her turn in his arms without shifting his balance against the door at his back, then lifted her effortlessly and reversed their positions so that her shoulders were pressed against the door instead, then bent her against his braced arm to stroke her from belly to breast, parting the halves of her shirt so that it fell open. Her own hands cupped and lifted her breasts from the bra he'd pushed aside, offering herself to his mouth as he bent over her, rasping the flesh under his cheek as he found first one nipple and then the other. She didn't care if he was gentle now, she wanted to be consumed, gasped in ecstasy as he branded both breasts with his hot open mouth, taking everything she offered with as much force as her own fingers crushing her breasts, then clinging mindlessly to him, clasping his head in her hands and murmuring wanton encouragement as she strained against his mouth. She felt like an animal, primitive with need against the ravenous pull of every nerve straining between his lips and tongue and teeth. When he raised his head and drew her upright again, the chill air against her raw, deliciously swollen nipples felt both cruel and welcome. She felt possessed in every way that mattered...except one.

Mere minutes had passed since they'd closed the door pressed against her back, yet it felt as if time had nearly stopped in this room. It seemed almost surreal that this could be happening: he didn't even know what to call it. He stroked a strand of hair from the corner of her mouth and she rose a little on the toes of her skates to hover with her lips close to his, breath mingling, eyes half-lidded but gleaming with sensuality. The cradle of her hip fit perfectly against the outline of the erection still separated by their clothing. He reached into his back pocket with one hand, shook open a leather wallet with one hand, and pried a small square of worn foil from one of the pockets, then dropped the wallet without breaking her gaze. "I used to call this wishful thinking. It's been there for a few years. I never thought I'd actually use it, but I'll take it if you want to give it to me."

"Bedroom eyes," she murmured against his collar, and drew a trembling fingertip across his forehead to smooth one eyebrow and then flattened her palms sweetly to the contour of his head and stroked his scalp almost lovingly, "...if you have just one chance to make a wish, I'd say you already know how to make it count. I've never wanted anything more."

He meant to hand the condom to her so he could unfasten his jeans, but instead of taking it from him, her fingers dropped to fumble with his zipper and she bit the corner of the foil in her teeth, not releasing it as he gazed back. He was semi-aware of the foil tearing open slowly between her teeth as her hands freed him and then closed around him, stroking, measuring with such reverence that he forgot that they