“Seriously. I’m not going to scratch that itch, I’m going to obliterate it.”
“Great. Can we get this over with?”
There’s the awkward sound of a record scratch in my brain. “Wait, what? Like now?”
Jubilee checks her watch and smothers a yawn with her hand.
“I mean, yeah, I guess. I’ve got nothing better to do and you seem like you’re in a pretty big hurry to prove yourself, there, big boy.”
Wow. If there was ever anything that could encourage a guy to get hard less than this lack of enthusiasm, I don’t know what it could be. Maybe when she said us fucking would be efficient. That gave me chills, and not in a good way.
I’ve heard Jubilee called the Ice Princess before—have maybe called her that myself out of her hearing—and gotten in on some jokes about how she’s a frigid off the ice as on. I’ve never cared much as long as she can keep up with me on the ice, and she can. But it’s just become my new mission in life to get Jubilation Lee Buford all hot and bothered. Not in the I’ve - annoyed - her - during - practice way, either, because that I do basically without trying. No, I’m aiming for the best - sex - she’s - ever - had way. Yeah.
“Okay then. Just, you know, give me a minute.”
Jubilee’s eyes get big and doubtful, and she heaves what is probably the most massive sigh possible given her small frame. “Sure, Beckett. You just let me know when you’re ready to blow my mind. I’ll be reading my book.”
Well, shit.
Jubilee turns and flounces away, parks herself on her bed and cracks open her Kindle. Me? I’m standing here like a dumbass. My duffel’s still on the floor, I’ve been traveling for the better part of the day, she’s just insulted me—multiple times—and now she wants me to fuck her? Except “want” seems to be too strong a word. She’ll tolerate me fucking her. This is not what I’m used to. Is any dude? I mean usually my partners are pretty into getting dirty with me, like, enthusiastic. Not a shrugging well - I - guess - it’s - efficient. Like, what the fuck, Jubilee? Argh.
But then it occurs to me that maybe, much as I’m fucking with her, she is fucking with me. That’s not going to work. I much prefer being the fucker to the fuckee, or whatever. The point is, two can play at this game.
First, I pick up my bag from the floor and start putting stuff away, making it clear that no matter what else happens, I’m staying here. No, it shouldn’t have happened, but with thousands of people showing up and expecting to be fed, housed, clothed, and otherwise provided for, it’s not surprising there’s at least one bump in the road. Truth is that if either Jubilee or I had much in the way of friends, they’d likely be other athletes and one of us could shack up with a friend while we were waiting for this to shake out.
We don’t, though. Have friends, that is. Acquaintances, yes, people we nod to and exchange pleasantries with at competitions, but we’re both such workaholics that friends—even inside the sport—don’t come so easy. So here we are, barreling toward an encounter of the sex kind because we’re both too stubborn to bow out. There are worse things that could happen, I suppose.
The other reason I’m putting my shit away—laying it away in drawers, hanging up some things in the closet, shoving my headphones and my tablet in a desk drawer—is that some women I’ve been with can’t really enjoy themselves if things are nagging at their brains. Are her keys still in the front door lock? No dice. Did she send that e-mail to her boss? Sorry, buddy. A container of takeout still on the counter instead of in the fridge? No joy. My stuff strewn about will have Jubilee peering over my shoulder, wondering when I’m going to get my socks off the floor.
Big stuff, though, is a different story. Stress that’s not going away, say like a high-pressure job, overarching angst at the state of the world or—just saying—the pinnacle of their athletic careers? That’s when a lot of them want to fuck to forget, find abandon and relief in the form of an orgasm. Or three.
Jubilee peeks periodically over her Kindle, maybe wondering what exactly I’m up to. Being sly like a fox, that’s what. Don’t count me out yet.
When everything’s put away, I head for the shower. If our positions were reversed, I wouldn’t care if she scrubbed up beforehand, but Jubilee seems kind of . . . what’s the word . . . fastidious to me. Like she likes things clean and neat and smelling good. Which is funny considering she spends most of her time sweating in workout clothes with her hair frizzing out of her messy buns. But I bet that given the choice, she’d have things just so, and that would include her sex. Fine. I can take a shower. Plus, I wouldn’t be sad to get this travel grime off me. I don’t know what it is, because it’s not like you’re exerting yourself, but being on planes or in taxis always makes me feel a little gross. So into the shower it is, where I’ll try to figure out what be the magic ticket to getting Jubilee to crack—either in my bed, or out of it, doesn’t matter to me, but I’m going to break her one way or another.
Jubilee
Beckett takes a good long while in the shower. I’m not sure what he’s doing in there, but whatever it is, it’s distracting me from my book. I did appreciate that he put his things away instead of leaving them on the floor, but that’s barely softened the brick of animosity in my stomach. And now he’s going to try to seduce me? With what? Tossing that head of curly hair isn’t going to do shit for me, winking will make me want to punch him, I’ve already seen his body plenty of times and have a pretty good feel for what it can do, so there’ll be no impressed swooning on that front. I wish he’d just give up, but if he’s anywhere near as determined now as he is when we train, I’m shit out of luck.
When he finally emerges, it’s in a towel. Some part of me is shocked by it, which is ridiculous. I’m no puritan, and god knows he isn’t, either. Plus, it’s not like I’ve never seen a man’s body before. I have. And even his in particular. But there’s something different about seeing him with a sheet of terry wrapped around his waist, grinning at me with intent, that’s different from his shucking his clothes to do a quick change, or him in just shorts because we’re busting our asses during a run or a training session.
Beckett jerks his chin up and then points at his towel, still smiling like he’s getting paid for it. “Efficiency, right? Thought you’d like that.”
Most of his jokes are bad, but that was in the neighborhood of funny. I’ll give him some credit, but not enough to laugh.
I close my Kindle, place it on my bedside table, and then cross my arms and my ankles. “So are we going to get this show on the road?”
Not that I have anything better to do exactly, it just seems like we could get this charade over with sooner rather than later. It’s not like he’s actually going to go through with this. He’s not, right? Not if his now-brittle smile is any indication. If I give him another minute, he’ll crack. No way we’ll actually end up having sex. No fucking way.
“Yeah, definitely.” That’s what his mouth says, but his expression is far less certain. Almost as if he has no faint clue what he’s doing. I appreciate him not treating me like the other women he must’ve been with, using his best lines and turning up the charm, because god knows that wouldn’t work. He tried for about a split-second and then gave up the ghost. I’m hoping if I wait long enough, I’ll get him to give up entirely. But maybe a little nudge would move things along so I can get back to my book . . .
“Okay. I mean, I’ll totally admit that it’s been a while, but I’m pretty sure we can’t fuck if you’re standing all the way over there.”
Beckett has the good grace to blush—or perhaps merely the anatomical inability to stop it. The pink graces his cheeks and he looks more boyish than usual. A distance of four years between us isn’t much, but it’s times like this that make me feel like an ancient and jaded crone.
“Right, yeah, of course. I know that. I’ve had sex a lot of times. Like, all the times.” He’s nodding, trying to look convincing. I believe the final countdown to Beckett giving up has begun. Three, two—“A
nd since I’m such an expert, I know you have to take all your clothes off. Or, at least some of them.”
Ugh, fine. If he’s going to play this out until the very last second, so can I. And dammit I will play it cooler than he is. I know what people say about me, and I can play the Ice Queen if they want.
I stand up and strip off, leaving all my clothes in a pile on the floor, not bothering to be sexy about it because this is miles away from seduction. And then I sit back down, not knowing what else to do.
Things with Stephen had never been this awkward. It always felt right, natural . . . inevitable. Not that things were never awkward, because sex can be awkward and hilarious, and if you’ve never been the least embarrassed while doing it, you’re either some golden deity or a sociopath. And sure, there’s been some inelegance when I’ve picked up a random guy, but it’s never been this bad. Not even close.
Beckett takes a few steps toward me and I start to feel like I’m a pit full of vipers. If I darted out a hand and clamped my fingers around his wrist, I’m pretty sure he’d scream. God, is that tempting. But no, I’ll play fair. Try not to crack up as he edges toward me, clutching his towel around his waist though I’m stretched out on my bed like I’m sunning myself at a nude beach.
Then finally he’s standing within touching distance—if I stretched anyhow, which I’m not inclined to do. With a look of some consternation, he drops his towel. I take my time looking at him, mostly because I can, and he’s sure as hell perusing me like I’m a sushi boat that just got delivered to his table. Although judging by the look on his face, it’s maybe at the end of the night at a counter not known for its freshness in the first place. Way to make a girl feel wanted. Though I suppose I’m not doing much better.
Beckett is objectively handsome, attractive. Broad shoulders and a good coat of hair curling across his chest, making him look like he’d be good to cuddle up to on a cold night, like he’d definitely keep the chill away. Of course he’s got those arms and shoulders thick with the muscles he uses to lift and toss me into the air, and a whole line of abs marching side by side, because you can’t do any of the things he does without a hell of a lot of core strength. At his navel, the thatch of hair that had trailed down to his waist picks up again, leads down to straight hips and thick thighs, and a penis that while perfectly reasonably sized appears to be in no way excited to see me. Okay, then.
His lower legs look like some sculptor’s dream come true with their shapely and defined cuts of muscle, and his feet . . . they’re not pretty. Never mind that most men don’t have pretty feet, we’re elite figure skaters which means we spend an inordinate amount of time with our feet shoved into close-fitting boots. Which may not be uncomfortable, but it takes a toll. I won’t pretend mine look much better. All in all, there are a lot worse people I could be obligation-banging.
“If we’re going to do this, you’ll probably need to, um, do something about that.”
Beckett narrows his eyes, and emits a small huff through his nose. “Yeah. I know. You’re not the only one in the room who’s had sex.”
“That’s right,” I say, completely deadpan. “You’ve had all the sex. So, by all means, get us started, Mr. Awesome-in-the-Sack.”
Chapter Four
Beckett
Right. Sex with Jubilee. I can totally do this. I mean, she’s a beautiful woman, she’s naked right in front of me, lying on a bed, and she’s just waiting, waiting for me to fuck her. Except she’s not really. She’d probably be happier going back to reading her book. Which she could be doing if she would just give me leave to get it on with other people.
This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done in my life, and I don’t say that lightly. I have done some really stupid shit, but this might be the stupidest. But at this point, it’s a matter of pride, it’s a matter of winning, and it’s a matter of not getting dragged around by my balls by my skating partner. I’ve done it before, and I don’t want to do it again. So here we go. Sex with Jubilee, take one.
I can’t honestly look at her with that bored expression and get hard because, Christ, give a man a break. But I’m not going to do her the disservice of fantasizing about someone else either. No, I’ll close my eyes, the scenario’s the same, except that Jubilee has just confessed that she’s always had a crush on me, and that us rooming together wasn’t a mistake, she did it on purpose.
The blood starts to flow, and I take myself in hand, still with my eyes closed, telling myself this story. Instead of her being furious when I opened the door, she’d looked at me shyly, sweetly . . . Nah, that’s not right. That’s not Jubilee. She’d be more sly, pleased with herself. Rewind and start again to opening a door to a Jubilee who looks like the cat who got the canary. Practically licking those full pink lips of hers, her dark eyes intent. Wearing the same leggings and sweatshirt, sure, because she’s confident enough I’ll want her no matter what she’s wearing. Which wouldn’t be crazy, except that it’s fucking crazy.
I blink open my eyes for a second to check out the real Jubilee, and she’s still draped across her bed, but she doesn’t look quite so bored anymore. No, her gaze is definitely riveted to where I’m stroking myself to a full hard-on. That’s makes this easier. Not such a fiction.
Closing my eyes again anyhow, because I don’t just want curiosity or the novelty of a dude jerking himself in front of her, I picture her gliding up to me, laying hands on my chest, taking my coat off, toying with the buttons on my shirt. She’d look up at me with those big luminous eyes, and she’d say, “I haven’t wanted to do this before, because I wanted to keep things strictly professional, but I can’t help it anymore. I want you, Beckett.”
Yep, that’ll do it. Get me from on the way to an erection to a rock-hard dick in three seconds flat. That’s all I need. For her to want me. And imaginary Jubilee does. I’d stutter a bit about how I wasn’t sure this was a good idea either, trying hard to keep Sabrina out of my head, because they’re not the same women. But she can tell something’s keeping me from stripping her clothes off and having her on the floor, and it’s not that I don’t find her attractive. I do. Always have. Before we were skating together, but I’d shoved it all the way down because she was someone else’s partner, someone else’s girl, dammit someone else’s wife.
And since we’ve been partners, she’s made it clear that I’m good for one thing. Not in this game though . . .
Don’t you want me, Beck?
I drop my head back in my fantasy and in the here and now, because yeah, though I don’t want to admit it, I have wanted her. Have liked holding her lithe body in my arms, in my hands, have admired her for so many reasons, and, okay, have thought she is unearthly gorgeous. Big luminous eyes and lips that always look kiss-swollen, slightly out of proportion to her other delicate features.
Yeah, but I . . .
She’d place a finger over my lips to shush me as she stood on her tiptoes, using her fingers to unbutton my shirt while she laid open-mouthed kisses against my neck in a way that has me shivering.
Shh, she’d murmur into my ear after she’d nipped at my lobe, and her hands have started roaming inside my shirt. Let’s just let our bodies do what they’ve wanted to do for all this time, and we’ll figure out the rest when the SIGs are over. But while we’re here, we can be together like this. Now please, let’s go to bed.
Okay. In real life, my balls have started to ache, and I slick over the top of my dick with my thumb, spreading the little bead of moisture over the head, which only makes me harder for her. As frosty as Jubilee can be on the outside, I bet she’s all slick wet heat on the inside. Maybe hotter than women who radiate their sex appeal and feelings, because she’s keeping it all inside. Is she? Is Jubilee secretly as passionate off the ice as on and I’ve never bothered to see it? It’s a real possibility.
When I open my eyes, it’s to catch her tongue darting out to lick her lips as she stares at myself jerking my cock. Interesting. Maybe this won’t be so god-awful after all.
<
br /> Jubilee
. . . I’ve never thought of Beckett as sexy, but I can’t deny something inside of me that I thought was long gone has roused. Yes, I get sexual urges, and I address them with fingers or my vibrator or a random guy picked up from a bar, but this isn’t like that. It’s not a gnawing, purely physiological need. Not a baser, animal instinct or a biological urge. It feels a little like . . . want. Which is weird and unfamiliar and wildly uncomfortable. But he’s been standing there with his eyes closed, stroking himself to hardness, and some utterly ridiculous part of me is hoping he’s not thinking of another girl as he does it.
Why do I care who Beckett masturbates to? It shouldn’t matter, and I shouldn’t want it to be me for any reason, and yet I find myself wishing for it. At least right now. It seems a little rude for him to be getting ready to fuck me while fluffing himself with the images of some other woman. Though it’s not like I’ve given him a whole lot to work with. Whatever, it’s none of my business. Except that it looks increasingly like he’s actually going to go through with this.
He’s still got his hand wrapped around his cock, still slowly stroking, but something about his posture has changed, and I look to his face to see him watching me. Shit. Say something, Buford. You’re never at a loss for words.
Nodding toward his erection, I finally find my tongue. “Well, that will certainly make things easier. Shall we?”
He smiles at me in a way that pokes at something in my insides, and I shove it away pretty hard. Nope. Even if he ends up going through with this, it’s a ridiculous arrangement that I’m tolerating so I don’t have to deal with someone else in my space, or with Beckett disrupting my schedule more than he already is. This is about saving my sanity, and if I have to have some meaningless sex to do that, well, fine. It’s just my body, right? It’s how I make my living. Why shouldn’t I use it to purchase other things like peace and quiet?
On the Brink of Passion--Snow & Ice Games Page 3