Melted and Whipped

Melted and Whipped

Cleo Pietsche

She’ll need more than a safe word to survive Porter Loughton.

Too broke to fly home for the holidays, ski instructor Emily is stuck on the slopes, giving lessons to the rich and the privileged. She doesn’t expect to see Porter Loughton, a former friend who broke her heart in college, ten years later and half a continent away. The mesmerizing billionaire suggests dinner, and Emily soon discovers how it feels to be bent across his knee, to be dominated by him. Their chemistry is hotter than in her dirtiest fantasies.

Emily knows it would be foolish to let him get too close after what happened before. She’s broke, her career nonexistent. The last thing she needs is to be in love with a man who doesn’t feel the same way. But when she receives distressing news, Porter is there to soothe her, and he won’t leave her side. Soon she has no control over her feelings.

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MELTED AND WHIPPED

Bound To Be Naughty Series

Copyright © 2015 CLEO PIETSCHE

ISBN: 978-1-943576-47-0

All Romance eBooks, LLC Palm Harbor, Florida 34684
www.allromanceebooks.com

This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or business establishments, events, or locales is coincidental.

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever with out written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

First All Romance eBooks publication: December 2015

Below my dangling legs, skiers and snowboarders carve their way down the mountain, the snow crunching and swishing. One figure in particular catches my eye, a man dressed in black.

His form is perfect, his movements easy and confident. I can’t take my eyes off him.

Despite the distance and his insulated jacket and pants, he’s clearly in good shape. His skis trace graceful waves on the mountain.

The man is almost out of sight before I tear my gaze away; I’m working, and I should be paying attention to the spoiled eleven-year-old boy on the seat next to me, the one who stares sullenly into space when I look over at him.

Scooter crosses his arms over his chest. “What?” he asks, almost aggressively.

“Just checking on you,” I say as I pull out lip balm and slick it across my mouth. The scent of lavender is soothing, which is what I need right now.

“I didn’t fall off,” he says, then mutters, “unfortunately.”

I pretend not to hear. I don’t know Scooter’s last name or even if “Scooter” is short for something, but there’s something familiar about the kid. I’m sure I’ve never taught him before but it’s been nagging at me since ten in the morning, when the private lesson started.

The whole lift comes to a halt. I don’t have to look to know that a newbie fell while getting off. It’s two days before Christmas, and the slopes are full of new skiers as well as people who haven’t touched powder in years. For an instructor, this is the best time of year. Everyone is in a good mood, and the tips are bigger.

“So, Scooter,” I say, trying to keep my energy level high in the hope that my enthusiasm will be even a tiny bit contagious. “Where’s your favorite place to ski?”

“Not here,” he says. “I hate this crappy little resort.”

That’s a surprise.
My guess is his mom figured if she could dump him into a private ski lesson, she could go off to the spa or whatever it is rich women do when they’re free of their kids. Lucky me.

“Where
do
you like, then?” I ask. “Vail? Squaw Valley?” He doesn’t react, so I try to think of someplace more exotic. “Chamonix?”

“Sure,” he mumbles.

I give up. All I can hope is that his parents appreciate how impossible it is to make him happy, though I have a feeling I won’t get any tip at all. That happens with a certain segment of the richest of the rich.

At this point, it almost doesn’t matter. Despite picking up lots of extra shifts, I still don’t have enough money to fly east for the holidays—during peak travel season—to see Dad and my sister, who is having a difficult pregnancy. It’ll take more than a hundred bucks from Scooter’s mom to change that. Instead I’ll go for an extended visit in the lull after winter sports have ended and spring sports haven’t yet begun. I’ll miss the birth but will be able to help out with childcare. Come spring, I’ll be back in the mountains, ready to start leading groups on horseback treks through the beautiful Montana landscape.

With a jerk, the ski lift begins moving again.

“I want to do moguls,” Scooter announces suddenly.

Finally a complete sentence out of the kid. “I don’t see why not,” I say. It’s easy for me to repress myself, to mold myself into the perfect “yes, sir” servant that some of my clients expect… even when they’re children.

And he is just a child, even if he’s spoiled.

He’s a damned good skier, too. I don’t have to worry about telling him he’s not ready for moguls. I’ve been giving him some little tips here and there, but the kid’s a natural.

Suddenly Scooter gives me a sly look. His light brown eyes… There’s something so familiar about them. If he didn’t have on a ski cap and helmet, I’d be able to get a better look at him. His parents are probably famous—movie stars or something. It would explain a lot.

“I have a better idea,” Scooter says.

Oh, I don’t like the sound of that, but the ski lift is slowing, and it’s time to push up the bar.

“We’re going to the right,” I say brightly, trying to ignore the whirlwind in my stomach that signals impending doom. “Then we can ski to the next lift and catch a gondola to the top of the mountain. That’s where the best moguls are.”

“Change of plans,” Scooter declares. “We’re going to the terrain park, and I want to try the half pipe, too.”

Before I can protest, he zips away, to the left.

He knows exactly where he’s heading. I’ve been set up.

Visions of unemployment dancing in my head, I clear the lift area and speed after my willful charge.

Scooter is halfway down the hill, and soon he’ll whip to the right and be out of my sight.

If he gets seriously hurt, unemployment will be the least of my worries. Lawsuits, for example. And if Scooter’s parents are celebrities, I’ll be forever known as the awful ski instructor who let an innocent kid (because they’re all innocent angels the second something happens to them) break his neck.

It’s not too late; I know a shortcut through the trees.

A twinge of protest arrows across my knee as I make a tight turn. It’s been seven years since college, since a torn anterior cruciate ligament ended my dreams. The surgery should have fixed me, but I was one of the unlucky few. I can still ski, but not competitively.

I dodge a class of snowboarders kneeling in the powder, and for a moment I’m neck and neck with the man in black. He sure got back to the top quickly—must have taken a mid-mountain lift. Advanced skiers often don’t bother to go all the way to the bottom. I don’t even need to look at him directly; I recognize his easy grace. He’s tall, maybe six-two or six-three. I’m dying to take a closer look, but if I turn my head, it will be too obvious.

Then our trajectories diverge. Just as well.

Less than ten seconds later, the terrain park is in sight. No Scooter, though.

Arriving before him is the easy part; I still have to find a way to make him behave.

Sighing, I come to an abrupt stop a distance from the line. Biting the fingertips of my glove, I pull my hand free to shove up my tinted goggles. My blonde hair, hanging to my collarbone in two thick braids, is probably a mess, and I know my cheeks are red, whipped by the wind. There’s also a good chance my nose is running, but I can’t actually feel my face, so I don’t know.

I pull a tissue and lip balm from a hidden pocket in my jacket.

Scooter crests the hill. I wave, hoping he won’t just go past me.

He sprays snow over me as he stops.

“How’d you get here so fast?” he asks, his mouth in an open grin.

Only an eleven-year-old would think I’d play his game, but I’m not going to pretend to be his buddy after what he did. I’m the one in charge. In theory. “I’m not allowed to take you in there,” I say.

He looks up at me, brown eyes pleading. “No one has to know.”

“We’re not doing this, Scooter,” I say, my tone abrupt. “If you’re going to give me a hard time, then the lesson is over.”

To my horror, Scooter skis off. He cuts the line. The people waiting don’t seem inclined to stop him—they’re too busy flirting with each other. I watch in mounting frustration as he makes a beeline for the half pipe just beyond the terrain park.

“Go ahead, crack open your stubborn little head,” I mutter. “See if I care.”

I become aware that someone is stopping beside me, and I figure it’s one of the other instructors, come to commiserate.

A deep voice says, “Emily?”

“Yeah?” I don’t take my eyes off Scooter. The guys working the half pipe are on alert for unaccompanied kids. Someone will check his pass, see he’s not fourteen, and send him packing. Then what will he do?

“Emily Frank Dooley? I thought that was you a minute ago.”

My entire upper body snaps around.

No one at the resort knows about the “Frank.” I was born the day after my grandfather died, and my father has said more than once that he regrets the sentimental choice of middle name. It’s certainly not listed in my office work files.

The man dressed in black is standing beside me. My analysis from the lift was right; the bulky ski jacket can’t even begin to hide his broad shoulders. In fact, he looks like he’s all muscle underneath his clothes.

With goggles over his eyes and a scarf covering his nose and mouth, his frame is pretty much all I can evaluate, but I know he’s not an instructor. This man holds himself like someone used to commanding wealth and power. Plus he has a platinum pass that would allow him to go to the front of the lift lines. It must be how he got back up so quickly.

Could he be someone I gave a lesson to? I’d remember a body like his…

“I’m sorry,” I say politely. “Do I know you?” My heart begins to pound as I consider that my sister’s pregnancy has taken a turn for the worse—it’s a strong possibility given the family history—and this man has been sent to find me, to escort me to the lodge. But I talked to Stacy only a day ago and she was fine.

The muscular stranger’s face moves under his scarf, like he’s smiling. “You don’t remember me? That’s hard on a male ego.”

I frown. “To be fair, I can’t really see you.”

He pulls down the scarf, revealing full lips and a perfect jaw. When he pushes back the goggles, I nearly have a heart attack as I stare into his golden-brown eyes framed with dark lashes.

“Porter Loughton,” I practically whisper. “What are you doing here?”

His smile is hot enough to thaw the base layer of snow. The polar ice caps, too. “I live here.”

“Here?” I repeat stupidly. I haven’t seen him since college graduation, and we haven’t talked since our senior year, the day I asked him out. I do my best to shove the humiliating memory out of my mind. “The last I heard, you had a job on Wall Street.”

I don’t know how, but his smile becomes even sexier. His face is handsome, but it’s not quite symmetrical. His nose is a bit on the large side.

But when he smiles… goddamn. He’s a perfectly balanced mix of refined and accessible. Except he never really was accessible. He went to private schools, vacationed on islands unknown to mere mortals.

“You caught me,” he says, dropping his deep voice even lower. I know he’s not actually flirting with me, but my heart pounds harder, feels like it’s trying to punch holes in my chest.

Somehow my tongue unties long enough for me to ask, “I… caught you?”

“You caught me in a white lie. Well, not a lie…” His golden eyes flicker to my lips, then back up. “I don’t live here year-round, though I’m working on it. Got a buyer lined up for my company. If that falls through, I’ll find someone else.”

“What will you do for work?” I blurt, then feel myself redden when I realize how ridiculous my question is. Porter has never needed to work, and I’m sure he’ll make a fortune when he sells his company, whatever it is.

“Oh, I’ve got plans,” he says. “I don’t want to bore you. What are about you? What are you doing here?”

“I…” Suddenly I remember that I’m supposed to be working. I turn and look downhill, but Scooter is nowhere in sight. “Shit,” I mumble. “I have to go.”

Those are four words I don’t have time for. Already I’m moving, racing down the slope as I pull my goggles back down, looking for the boy who clearly wants to get me fired.

I find Scooter at the bottom of the half pipe, trying to argue his case to Simon.

“Absolutely not,” I say, yanking at the hood of Scooter’s jacket.

A group of men turns around to see what the commotion is all about, but when they notice the red and white jackets that mark Simon and me as employees, they turn around again.