...“I am Jean-Pierre Godet.”

The god-like alpha male sitting across from me in the gondola defrocked himself of ski gloves and held out his hand. He pronounced Godet like “go-day” so I would understand his seriously sexed French-Canadian accent. If he had any concerns I wouldn’t accept his openly friendly gesture, I dispelled them immediately with a smile and total acceptance. In fact, I understood him only too well.

Jean-Pierre was one of those wildly extreme Frenchmen I’d heard about, described in super-human proportions by world cup watchers and Olympic hopefuls who skied the snow-covered Laurentian mountains every winter. These men were a breed apart. Fun-loving, carefree consumers of large, greasy portions of something called poutine and gallons of high-test Canadian beer and still be able to huck off a twenty-foot cliff, execute a perfect, flat 360 before touching down like a swan landing on a calm lake. I’d also heard about their legendary consumption of apre-ski nightlife. There, Jean-Pierre was no exception, at least according to the local sports channel, news-net flashes and JP fans on YouTube. But there was one very distinct exception, one I intended to share with him.

Jean-Pierre talked with his eyes. From the moment I climbed into the gondola with him to begin our ascent to the top of the mountain, his gaze settled on my body as if he’d just purchased me at auction. I felt his bright, aqua stare drilling through my designer ski jacket. Was he playing a “does he or doesn’t he” guessing game?

It was an open secret that he waxed his body—all of his body—prior to competition. I doubted you could slide into one of those endorsement-splattered, spandex skins without total depilation and a gallon of ass-lube. He looked thoughtful, almost amused, as I unsnapped my jacket and ran my finger over the top of my turtleneck, just enough let a few dark hairs peek out. His focused eyes blinked. His Adam’s apple bobbed. Yep, the rumors were accurate. He was a teddy-chaser. I’d been a real hair-bear since puberty.

At last his gaze slid to my crotch. There was no doubt about it, he was engaging me in a major eye fuck.

I finally I shook his hand. Warmed by the heat of his gloves, even his fingers were smooth. “Patrick Hollingwood.” His brows arched at the sound of my Yankee accent.

“Bienvenue…welcome, to Tremblant. ’Ave you been here before?”

“Never. I usually head to Aspen but my cousin couldn’t get a time-share this year. Tremblant was the only property free the week we wanted.”

I tore my gaze away from his wind-beaten face with its full lips, weathered creases and finely sculpted cheeks and chin. His flawless skin beamed a rosy hue from the cold. My ass involuntarily clenched. I felt my balls swelling. I concentrated instead on the snowy scenery below me. The twitching flesh of my semi-hard cock refused to follow suit. Where Jean-Pierre was concerned, clearly my dick had a one-track mind.

“It’s really beautiful here,” I commented. Yes, rather polite, antiseptic, inane—safe conversation.

“So…you are staying here in the Village?”

He posed the question in that quaint, lyrical, French-Canadian accent laced with hypnotic undertones of sexual timbre.

I nodded. “I should say, I’m sleeping here in the village. That is, when I can sleep. I can’t believe how wild it is at night.”

“People come here to enjoy the night life as much as they do the skiing. It’s one big party, if you’re into messing up your head like that.”

“Are you?” Gondola rides were short. They required an economy of words with an expanded understanding.

He barked out a short laugh. “Yes. But only when I’m out partying with my friends. If you want something more…intimate, quiet, maybe a little off the hetero path…” He paused, giving the chance for his words to touch home. “Then I would not come here.”