The Shaver

The après-ski party thrummed with the kind of chaos that only a mountain bar packed with ski-bum locals and weekend warriors could muster. Diane laughed as she swirled her third glass of pinot noir, her scrubs long forgotten after a brutal week wrangling ER patients. Her friends tugged her onto the makeshift dance floor, where the bass from some indie rock playlist rattled the rafters. She let loose, hips swaying, ponytail bouncing, the warmth of the wine buzzing through her veins.

Across the room, The Shaver nursed a beer, his lean frame slouched against the bar. He'd ditched his suit for jeans and a flannel that hinted at the tattoos snaking up his arms—remnants of a wilder phase before law school tamed him. Spotting Diane, he grinned. She moved like she owned the floor, carefree in a way that cut through the party's haze. He sidled up during a lull, offering a quip about how the DJ was clearly auditioning for a snowplow manual with that beat.

Diane turned, eyes sparkling under the string lights. "Lawyer, huh? You must be great at arguing your way out of bad decisions." His jokes landed easy—something about depositions and double black diamonds—and she found herself leaning in, impressed by the sharp wit behind his confident smirk. The Shaver matched her energy, his hand brushing her waist as they joined the dance. Bodies pressed close amid the crowd, the heat building between them. Her friends whooped encouragement, but Diane barely noticed, lost in the rhythm and the way his thigh grazed hers.

By the time the song faded, the pull was magnetic. "My place is just down the slope," she said, voice low over the music. The Shaver nodded, grabbing her hand. They stumbled out into the crisp night air, the party's roar fading behind them, both riding the high of drinks and flirtation. The short cab ride to her cabin blurred into giggles and stolen kisses, the mountain's quiet blanket of snow muffling everything else.

Inside, Diane flicked on a lamp, kicking off her boots. The cabin smelled of pine and leftover takeout, cozy with a fire she'd stoked earlier. She poured them each a glass of red from her stash, the wine's tart bite hitting just right. They clinked glasses on the couch, but the small talk evaporated fast. The Shaver set his down first, pulling her onto his lap. Their mouths crashed together, hungry and unpolished, tongues tangling as hands roamed.

Diane's fingers worked his belt loose, the zipper rasping in the quiet room. She slid down, kneeling between his legs, yanking his jeans open. His cock sprang free, thick and already hard, veins pulsing under her gaze. She wrapped her hand around the base, stroking slow, feeling it twitch. Leaning in, she licked the tip, tasting salt and heat. The Shaver groaned, fingers threading into her hair—not pushing, just holding—as she took him deeper. Her lips stretched around him, sucking with steady rhythm, tongue swirling along the underside. He was vocal, breaths turning to curses. "Fuck, Diane, that's good." She hollowed her cheeks, bobbing faster, one hand cupping his balls, rolling them gently. The tension built quick; his hips bucked once, twice, and then he came, hot spurts filling her mouth. She swallowed it all, pulling back with a satisfied hum, wiping her lips as he panted above her.

"Damn," he muttered, hauling her up for a messy kiss. But the night wasn't done. "Bath?" she suggested, leading him to the small bathroom off the living room. Steam filled the space as hot water ran, the tub's curves inviting. They stripped quick—Diane peeling off her sweater and leggings, revealing soft curves and a thatch of dark curls between her thighs. The Shaver shed the rest of his clothes, his tattooed chest lean and marked from old ski accidents in this very town.

They sank into the water together, her back against his chest, his arms wrapping around her. Bubbles popped lazily as they kissed again, slower now, his hands tracing her breasts, thumbs circling nipples until they peaked. "I want to shave you," he whispered against her neck, voice rough. "Make that pussy smooth for me."

Diane hesitated, a flicker of reluctance tightening her gut. She'd never done that, not even for exes. But the wine, the heat, his fingers dipping between her legs to tease her clit—it chipped away at the doubt. "Okay," she breathed, turning to face him. "But make it good."

He grabbed her razor from the edge of the tub, the one she used on her legs, and a squirt of shaving cream from her shower caddy. Diane spread her legs over the tub's lip, water lapping at her ass as he knelt between them. He worked methodically, foam spreading cool over her mound. The razor glided smooth, stroke by stroke, exposing skin inch by inch. His free hand held her steady, thumb brushing her inner thigh, occasionally dipping to part her lips and check his work. "Look at that," he said, rinsing the blade. "So fucking pretty." The vulnerability mixed with the intimacy, her pulse racing as bare skin emerged, sensitive and new. He nicked nothing, just the careful scrape of metal, his breath hot on her freshly smoothed folds. By the end, she was slick—not from the water, but from the slow build of arousal, his fingers lingering too long on her clit.

They dried off haphazardly, towels discarded as he guided her to the bathmat on the floor. Diane lay back, legs parting instinctively. The Shaver dove in, mouth latching onto her pussy with zero preamble. His tongue was relentless, flat laps over her clit, then circling the hood. She gasped, hands fisting the rug. "Shit, yes." He spread her wider with his thumbs, sucking the nub between his lips, teeth grazing just enough to spark. Then his hand joined—two fingers first, sliding into her wetness, curling up to hit that spot inside. She bucked, but he pinned her thigh with his other arm.

Deeper he went, adding a third finger, stretching her as his tongue flicked faster. The full hand pushed in slow, knuckles brushing her entrance, the pressure intense and filthy. Diane's world narrowed to the slide of his tongue, the fist pumping shallow thrusts, building that coil tight in her core. "Fuck, The Shaver—don't stop." Her hips rolled, chasing it, breaths coming in sharp bursts. The orgasm hit like a wave, crashing hard; she came with a cry, thighs clamping his head, pussy clenching around his hand in pulsing waves. Juices coated his chin as she shuddered through it, the release leaving her boneless.

He pulled back, licking his lips, eyes dark with want. They collapsed together on the floor, bodies tangled in the steam-hazed bathroom. Diane caught her breath, a lazy smile spreading. "That was... intense."

The Shaver chuckled, kissing her forehead. "Worth the razor burn?"

She laughed, pulling him toward the bedroom. "Only if there's more."

Morning light filtered through the cabin windows, but they weren't rushing. Over coffee—black for him, loaded with cream for her—they talked law cases and hospital horrors, the night's edge softened into something easy. Diane felt the subtle thrill of her smooth skin under her robe, a secret reminder. As he dressed for the drive back to the city, she caught his arm. "Come back soon. Spontaneous sessions are my thing."

He smirked, leaning in for one last kiss. "Deal. Next time, I'll bring the good wine—and maybe some rope." The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Diane grinning at the empty room, already plotting their encore. Who knew a ski party could rewrite her weekends?