Après Ski

  APRÈS SKI

  KT MORRISON

  CONTENTS

  About the Author

  Also by KT Morrison

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Afterword

  Other Books by KT Morrison

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  KT Morrison writes stories about women who fall in love with sexy men who aren’t their husband, and loving relationships that go too far—couples who open a mysterious door, then struggle to get it closed as trouble pushes through the threshold.

  Visit My Blog!

  sparrow3dx.blogspot.com

  ALSO BY KT MORRISON

  SERIES

  Maggie

  Obsessed

  The Cayman Proxy

  Landlord

  NOVELS

  Cherry Blossoms

  Learning Lessons

  Going A Little Too Far

  Pool Party

  SHORTS

  Watching Natalie Cheat

  Taken While He Watches: On Their Honeymoon

  Taken While He Watches: At The Combine

  Taken By His Best Friends: At The Hockey Rink

  Measured Next To Her Ex

  Size Curious Brat

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  Models on cover are meant for illustrative purposes only.

  Après Ski

  A MFMM hotwife novel

  41,500 words

  First Edition. April 11, 2018.

  Copyright © 2018 KT Morrison

  Written by KT Morrison

  Cover by KT Morrison

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE DOOR to the room clicked open with one smooth swipe of the access card and four grown adults tumbled into the sprawling suite laughing like they hadn’t since college, Cam’s wife Amberly held in the arms of another man.

  “Whoah, steady,” the man who wasn’t her husband chuckled, holding onto her narrow waist with both his big, tanned hands.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine,” she sang, tip-toeing in her heels across the Navajo rug, throwing her clutch onto the pine stand in the short vestibule. Then the click-click-click as she transitioned into the living area’s stone tile floor. She led the way, and now five men stood by the door, Cam slowly closing it behind them as they all watched her strut a path to the couch.

  Amberly wore a slim dress in a hot, vibrant pink that hugged her slender curves, the skirt ending short, above mid-thigh, showing off her bare legs, her feet in pointed pumps. Very unlike his newly-thin and ardently Tomboy wife, but she wore it better than anybody he could imagine.

  Next to him, a young and boyishly handsome man they met at the hotel’s lounge said, “Don’t you dare sit down, Amberly.”

  She stopped dead in her tracks, frozen like a convict in a spotlight, body almost toppling to the studded leather couch anyway, arms outstretched for balance. “I’m not,” she said, facing away from them, but her smile evident nonetheless.

  The one who’d supported her coming in, the tallest one, a striking blonde-haired young man named Ryan, a lawyer from Barstow, said, “She was just going to get the fire stoked.”

  Now she turned to face them and she said, “Not in this dress, I’m not,” laughing and looking down at the skimpy thing she wore. In the moment she’d turned though, Cam had seen something flash in her eyes, something akin to fear but also excitement. She’d turned and witnessed four successful good-looking dudes all jammed in a small square space burning her with laser-beam eyes. She’d deflected with her joke, threw up a shield, but that instant of intensity he saw sparkle in her excited him in a way he couldn’t comprehend; just as he’d sat at the hotel lounge earlier this evening and watched as she’d taken turns dancing with each of the young men that accompanied them back to the room.

  Truth was, Amberly could stoke that fire, dress or no dress. She chopped wood, stacked it; he’d winter camped with her in the mountains and she single-handedly built a fire while he’d set up their tent and packed their gear. Amberly was a fit and capable young woman who preferred the comfort of flannel and denim, often sweats, tattered T-shirts, old ski fleeces. This Amberly tonight was a chrysalis-emerged beauty, something awakening in her newfound weight loss and their recent enormous financial successes.

  Every minute of his life he’d spent with her was a new and amazing revelation, and as frightened as he was, he couldn’t wait to see what she would do next.

  RYAN, tall, blonde, and smart, smirked at her with a devilish slant and said, “You weren’t going to sit down, whatever it was you were doing—not when we were having so much fun.” He strode toward her, his long legs making the trip short, and she stepped back but put her arms out to be received. As she suspected, he took her waist and one hand and spun her. Ryan was good on his feet; when she’d complimented his skills on the lounge’s dance floor, he’d whispered, “Seven years of classical dance before high school, but if you tell anyone I won’t be your friend anymore.”

  “I’ll get the fire,” Lawson said.

  He winked as he passed by her and Ryan still dancing old black-and-white movie dances with no musical accompaniment. This guy Lawson looked young. She met him on the slopes yesterday and she swore he was in high school. She’d talked to him a moment thinking how those girls in his high school must swoon for his boyish perfection; then they see him in the lounge tonight—sure enough, he gets carded. Turns out Lawson was twenty-six, and a junior exec at Regent Outdoor who was one of their company’s purchasers.

  Three days ago, she and Cam attended the National Ski and Outdoor Retail show in Boulder. The show was an enormous production for them, their booth at the show alone took a week to put together (they had a great team!) and cost almost a quarter of a million. But, shit, was it worth it. The Stroud brand of fleece and Gore-Tex shells was this year’s mega-hit, and they booked twenty-five percent more orders than they’d even hoped to anticipate. So, like a lot of the show’s attending executives and owners, they’d wanted to blow off steam in the aftermath. They booked an extra week in Colorado, shooting down to Telluride and hitting the slopes, Amberly and Cam booking a four-day stay at the slope-side boutique five-star hotel, the Inn At Walker Hill, steps from the Village Express Lift 4.

  Ryan looked into her eyes as he dipped her again, and she said, “I’m a much better dancer without my shoes.” God, Ryan’s eyes were the craziest mix of blue; a deep azure but flecked with slivers that shone like turquoise.

  He said, “You want to get comfortable?”

  “Do I?” she laughed. He let her up, held her hand and twirled her one more time then let her go, walking back to the vestibule and slipping his suit jacket off his shoulders, hanging it on a curved iron hook. Beyond him, she caught her husband Cam smirking at her.

  “What?...” she said, kicking off her high heels and then tapping them with her toe till they hid under the couch where no one would trip on them.

  That smile of her husband’s stayed, and he shrugged his shoulders with animation and said, “I don’t know.”

  “You know how to get some drinks?” she said with mirthful snark.

  He retorted similarly: “You know how to turn on a stereo?”

  AMBERLY RAN out her pink tongue at him. You could put her in the fineries of Telluride’s five-star nightlife but she was still a bong-ripping powder-hound. As she made him laugh hard enough to shake, the remaining visitor, a northeastern outdoor retail chain
rep named Sasha, said, “Hey, man, point me to your bar, I’ll do it. You chill.”

  “Thanks, man,” he said, thumping his arm with a fist. To their left was a kitchenette with a counter and tall iron-leg stools. He pointed out the mini-bar to Sasha and then joined his wife on the far side of the couch as she still shimmied her hips to an internal beat while bent at the waist trying to read the digital display on their suite’s stereo. He laced his arms around her waist and chest, pressed his crotch against her rump, making her giggle and sigh.

  “This thing stump you?” he said near her ear, watching her fingers tweak buttons.

  “I’m trying to find something good,” she said, the display shooting through Sirius channels.

  “You have fun tonight?”

  “I did,” she said, attention still locked on the music maker.

  Cam was no dancer, that was for sure. Not simply a matter of not being good at it; he hated it. Thought it was stupid. That might be the only place where he and his wife diverged. Amberly liked to dance, and since they’d been together that fun part of her had been gradually choked off. Sometimes she would go out with her girlfriends and they might rip it up, home in Seattle, but those times were less and less, and he’d bet it had been a year since she went out and boogied.

  Now one of her hands ran nails over the back of his wrist and she asked him, “You have fun tonight sitting there watching me dance?”

  “I loved every minute of it,” he said, trying to be as truthful as he could, really wanting her to know that she was beautiful out there.

  “You weren’t bored?”

  “Not even a little. I could stay up and watch you till dawn. You going to dance some more for us?”

  “Maybe,” she sighed, finding an EDM station and turning it up moderately. “We can’t be too loud,” she said, looking to her Fitbit that wasn’t there because you wouldn’t wear one with a YSL cocktail dress for chrissakes, Amberly. “What time is it?”

  He swayed with her, still clutching her from behind and said, “It’s three-thirty.”

  “Holy shit,” she said. “Should we have brought them back?”

  Now she turned in his arms, but looked over her shoulder at the male congregation. Amberly knew what time it was. They’d just been in the Mountain Village lounge, dancing under the shadow of the gondola until the staff kicked them out because they were closing. But it was Cam who invited them all back to hang, Amberly joining in after him, saying, “Come up and have one more drink.”

  None of them were drunk, hardly had that many cocktails, but it seemed like the neighborly invitation you would offer when the bar you were at closed after last call.

  OVER HER SHOULDER and behind her, Cam’s hands still on her waist, she spied their guests. Handsome Ryan in slim black pants and V-neck shirt had a knee up on the fireplace’s rocky mantle, talking to boyish Lawson who stoked the fire, putting in some thin strips of kindling. The fireplace was a walk-around dome near the center of the suite, with a short copper visor that hooped right around it, the base in cemented river stones. On the far side of the fireplace, the Nordic-blooded Sasha walked with a beer bottle, having set down drinks on the coffee table and now moving to the double doors that led outside.

  When she looked back, Cam stared in her eyes so intensely he startled her. “What?” she fumbled, feeling caught for some reason.

  “You wanted them to come back.”

  “I guess,” she said, seeing now Sasha walk behind her husband and open the doors to the outside, stepping down onto the cedar plank balcony that ran along their penthouse corner unit.

  “I invited them because you were having so much fun with them and I was having so much fun watching you with them.”

  Her eyes darted back and forth over his, feeling there was some deeper meaning to his ominous words but not quite connecting with them. She whispered, “What do you mean?”

  He smirked now, crooked like Ryan, said, “Have fun with them. I want to watch you have fun with them.”

  Sasha laughed, “Holy shit, this view!”

  To her husband she said, “Okay, I will,” letting her brow come down as she seemed to glean his meaning but then narrowing her eyes because she must not understand; he couldn’t mean what it seemed.

  His arms came away and he said, “Have as much fun as you want, okay?” Only now that rakish smirk was replaced with a certain distress—then it came back; he turned, a lightness to his step as he left her to cross to the wide open doors, Sasha standing out on the deck in the falling nighttime snow.

  She wiggled her bare toes on the cold hard tile as she watched her handsome husband out there, clapping Sasha on the back, the two of them looking up at the snowy slope. What the heck was he getting at?

  Next to her, the music station scrolled, leaving her quiet electronic beeps and settling on something slow, seductive, and lubriciously Latin. When she turned, she caught Ryan changing the station, finding something he wanted to dance to. Latin was fine. It was too late for loud music anyhow, right?

  “We have to keep it quiet,” she said.

  He took her hands now, her little fingers swallowed up in his huge, warm grip. God, he was so much taller without her heels, she could rest her chin below his chest. He swayed with her, looking in her eyes and giving her that weird smile. What was it? Mean ... Menacing ...? No, predatory.

  He twirled her with a hand above her head and she fell with her back against him, watching out the wide windows to her husband and Sasha talking on the deck as this sexy man began grinding his hips against her.

  And there it was again: what she’d thought she’d felt a few times out on the Mountain Village dance floor: under the crease of her ass, something very thick running sideways in his pants pressed into her.

  CHAPTER TWO

  EIGHT MONTHS AGO IN NORTHERN CALIFORNIA

  ONE HOUR and a half on the Trinity Highway and she and the two Cassidys were in the National Forest, heading into the Klamath mountains. Girl-Cassidy, Cass, said, “How many years?”

  She said, “In this van?—almost three. Almost three years living out of this old box.” She squeezed the comfortable wheel of the Sprinter in her grip. “Three great years,” she said, smiling now.

  Boy-Cassidy, behind them in the back of the van, said, “That does sound fucking awesome. Yo, I’d so fucking love to do something like that.”

  The two Cassidys were wrangled off Model Maelstrom on a sudden excited whim. Model Maelstrom, a subscription website, could hook her up with models wherever she might find herself, like last night after she envisioned a series of photos to show off the new Kestrel fleece jackets and Gore-Tex shells she’d come all the way down to Eureka to pick up. Just a bunch of prototypes—custom-patterned fleece she’d had printed overseas, shipped from San Fran to Eureka where she had real American stitchers put together their brand. The Maelstrom website showed her there were about a dozen active and available models in the Eureka area and after a flurry of e-mails then texts she arranged to pick her two models up this morning, take them into the mountains for an overnight camp and photo shoot. The money she offered was good (better than good) and both her models were currently unemployed, so to say they were stoked was an understatement. The fact that they were coincidentally both named Cassidy was at once entertaining and simultaneously frustrating. She’d tried calling them Boy-Cassidy and Girl-Cassidy but Girl-Cassidy was uncomfortable at the gender-focus and thankfully agreed to be Cass for the next forty-eight hours.

  Amberly said, “Do it if you can. Do it now, seriously—it won’t get easier when you’re older.”

  Cass turned in the passenger seat to look at Cassidy, said, “I thought you don’t ski?”

  “I don’t,” he said, “I just would love to see the country. Hey, Amberly, all you did was ski?”

  She said, “No. Mostly ski, I guess. We drove all over looking for good powder, but we did all the sight-seeing stuff. And not just skiing, we’d go hiking, rock-climbing, mountain biking, kayaking, you k
now, just whatever seemed fun.”

  Cass said, “What did you do for money?”

  She turned to look at her, sitting in the passenger seat with her long, tanned legs crossed, posing a lot like she had when Cam would drive and she was sitting up front with him. “My husband, Cam...? He was out of school one year before me. He worked, worked like crazy, saved every penny for the whole year. Then ...” Now she smirked.

  “What ...?” Cass asked.

  “We started a social media platform. On a whim. For fun. Mostly Instagram, but Youtube and Twitter too. It took off. Soon we had an income, sponsors ...”

  “Yeah, that’s how I would do it, Cassidy said, and she could hear him sighing, leaning back, as if he were wistfully contemplating.

  “You could ...” she said, her tone curling up at the end, not wanting to burst the guy’s bubble, “... but for us I think it was just catching lightning in a bottle.”

  “What does that mean?” he said, leaning forward again, resting his forearms on the back of her and Cass’s seats.

  “Like, if I tried doing it again, I’d never catch it. Like Cam and I just got super-lucky, you know ...?”

  Cass asked her, “You miss it?”

  She laughed. “Living out of this van? No. It was so fun while it lasted but I like my comforts too.” With a big nostalgia-induced smile on her face, she added, “I do miss the freedom.”

  Ahead of them, the road crested another bluff and all they could see out the Sprinter’s big wide windshield was bright NorCal blue skies, the road framed by towering white-bark pines.