The dry, fierce heat prickled over Jim's skin and he sighed, wanting to roll like a cat and stretch out sun-limp limbs in a last sprawl. His cheeks felt the press of the hot air like a touch, and his mouth was parched and sticky.

He gave in to the impulse and turned to his belly, parting his legs, the shorts he wore clinging to him, damp with sweat. A whisper of breeze cooled the newly exposed flesh and he shivered pleasurably.

Blair began walking up the stairs, a drink in his hand, ice clinking against glass, a clear, cool chime contained within what Jim's nose told him was a powerful kick of alcohol softened by a cushion of fruit, juicy and sweet. He sat up, a pillow wedged behind him, and Blair brought him the glass, slippery with condensation and decorated with a whimsical paper parasol and two straws.

Jim drank and felt the cool burn spread out deliciously through his chest and belly.

He smiled, set the glass down and breathed in again. Blair's skin was oiled with sun screen, spiced with insect repellant and his hair held a crackle of heat. Jim ran a glass-cooled hand over Blair's warm, slippery skin and thumbed a nipple until it was hard, a point surrounded by crinkled skin and flattened, slicked hair.

He drew Blair closer with a murmur that didn't need to be a word and Blair came willingly, eagerly to lie beside him. Jim's hand stroked skin and his mouth sought out bare places to lick and kiss until his head swam from the heat and the sweet ache in his balls.

Then he pulled off the sleep mask and blinked up at Blair. Winter-white skin gleaming… And outside, in the night, the snowflakes whirled and beat soundlessly against the windows.

Jim breathed in deeply and smelled wood and ash and flame, not sunshine. But Blair was closer, still smelling of summer, his hands bold and eager, and Jim gasped, breathless, hot, and arched up.

Let it snow.



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