Cold wind stings my face. No goggles today. Stupid, but I’m no rookie. Skiing Val d’Isère’s greens at 2500 meters. Sharp turns. Powder flies. Spot a guy godilling like a pro. He veers close. Bam! Snow explosion in my face. Asshole. Cute one, though. Frédéric Grant, cousin Simon mentioned. I track him. Deep powder. Push poles. Chalet emerges under snow blanket. Tiny, hidden gem. Simon’s mazeau. I slip in first while he fumbles skis. Key in crack. Door creaks. Inside, dim light through snow-clogged window. Cozy trap. I peel off my lilac suit. Double skin drops. Saumon panties hug my ass. Feel the shift brewing. Day mask cracks. Lawyer by day, fierce queen by night.
He bursts in. Clueless. Drops gear. Tries fire. Smoke bombs. White haze chokes. I laugh. ‘Better at shows than fires, cowboy.’ He jumps. Boxer briefs only. Stunned. Eyes water. I advise. ‘Don’t splash. Let cork melt.’ Arms limp. I finish stripping. Boots off. Bend over. He gawks at my cheeks peeking. ‘Close mouth. Make mulled wine.’ He snaps. ‘Who are you? My chalet?’ ‘Gwenaëlle Le Quillec. Simon’s cousin. Yours too, Fred.’ Tension sparks. We clear snow. Fix window. Fire crackles right. Wine warms throats. Chat flows. Old friends vibe. He flatters my skiing. I rise. Brush him. Sweat scent mixes. Boom. His hands grip my hips. Pulls me in. Pulse races. Life’s short. Tomorrow I leave. Mask shatters. Secret heroine awakens. Power surges. I drop glasses. Twist free. Bras snap off. Panties slide. Tits perk. Bush trimmed black. Eyes lock his. Command.