by Jane Davitt

Blair's hands, wet from the snowball he'd hurled at Jim, who dodged, slipped on ice, and fell hard, are sun-hot on Jim's winter-chilled skin. A contrite Blair, words spilling out as dizzyingly fast as the flakes that fall around them, pats and strokes him, the layers of clothing that Jim's wearing both an obstacle and a blessing, as the only thing bruised beside his ass is his pride.

"Tell me where it hurts," Blair begs earnestly and fumbles Jim's coat open at Jim's deceitfully weak gesture and bitten-off groan. "Here?"

Even through a thick sweater and a thin T-shirt, Jim can feel the hand exploring his chest. Jim feels his nipples crisp up to points, his skin wake up from a long hibernation. He closes his eyes and enjoys that deliberate, anxious touch until he realizes that Blair has no reason to be touching him there, low down on his stomach.

He cracks his eyes open and stares up into a wicked smile and a warning. A moment later, his sweater is yanked up, taking the T-shirt and a warmed layer of air with it, and Blair's bare, cold, wet hand lands on the flinch of Jim's skin with an audible smack, his little finger taking advantage of Jim's sucked-in breath and sliding into the new gap between Jim's stomach and his jeans.

"Or here?" Blair asks, the words a dare, a challenge.

"Lower," Jim grits out and watches Blair's eyes widen and then fill with an anticipation that's flattery enough.

The button on Jim's jeans pops, his zipper is tugged down -- and then Blair's doing just what every first-aid book recommends and he's applying ice to reduce a swelling.

Except it's not working.

The slow massage that follows, Blair's gasped, panting, appreciative breath a sparkling mist in the snowy air of the forest, his full lip bitten to a bright red as Jim writhes beneath him, pushing up into that strong grip -- that works.

That works just fine.

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