“No. I’m not drunk.” When she stiffens underneath me, and not in that way she does when she’s coming, but a much less awesome way, I know I’ve given the wrong answer. Wrong-ish? I don’t even know. This is confusing, and it’s making my head hurt. But if it’ll make her feel better to think this is a one-time thing because a couple of beers have made me a little sloppy, a little I-love-you-man, then fine. I’ve got time to convince her otherwise. I’ll walk back my declaration a little to see if that’s what she’s looking for. “But I might have a little buzz going on.”
“Beck . . .” Christ, I love it when she calls me Beck. She’s never done that before this week, and it guts me every time. Especially because I don’t think she realizes she’s doing it. I used to feel like not only did she want to call me Beckett, but she’d go full on Beckett Hughes or even so far as Beckett Donovan Hughes like my mom used to say when I was in serious trouble. That’s got like a mom trademark or something. “You shouldn’t be kissing me.”
That wasn’t a don’t kiss me, or stop kissing me. She said I shouldn’t be. Why not?
My eyes have finally gotten used to how dark it is in here, and I can see her face in the gloom, the shine of her eyes. Because she didn’t say stop—I would—I run my nose alongside hers, and drop another kiss on her perfect bow mouth while threading my fingers through her hair at the nape of her neck. “Why not?”
She sighs again, but this one’s ragged and harder. “Regret.”
The word cuts. Jubilee’s not known for her subtlety, no beating around the bush with this woman, which I’ve always appreciated. Don’t waste time on getting to the heart of the matter, just get in there and fix it, no matter the cost in blood. It’ll get better, faster. But this doesn’t feel better. I kiss her again, seeking the comfort of her mouth, and she doesn’t deny me.
“I’m not going to regret this, Jubilee.”
Another kiss, this one deeper. She finally grants me entrance, and I sweep my tongue through her mouth to really taste her. The sudden grip of her small hand on my neck startles me but then makes me moan into the sweet cavern of her mouth. There’s a small gasp from her, but she doesn’t pull back, doesn’t withdraw. No, she seems to be even more into it. Not just receptive, either, but actively contributing, and it makes my chest hurt at the same time my dick is getting hard.
When I’ve stroked my tongue against hers enough—for now—I pull back just enough to take her bottom lip between my teeth and nip. Now both her hands are in my hair, and for the love of everything holy, she’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.
She’s breathing hard, and while I know she’s a sturdy little thing because I toss her around on the ice and she gets up from bad spills like they were nothing, suddenly her body feels delicate under mine. Vulnerable, when I’ve never thought of her that way before. She’s always seemed impenetrable, invincible.
We’re not kissing anymore, just have our foreheads pressed together, breathing each other’s air, and that’s when she says it. “I didn’t say you would.”
Before I can think too much about what she might mean by that, she’s kissing me again, and tugging my body insistently. Go here.
I’m used to her being bossy on the ice, so it’s not hard to follow her instructions, her cues, until I’m stretched out on top of her. I’d worry about being heavy, but I also worry about leaving her alone, untethered. At least this way, she knows I’ve got her. If the roof collapsed, I’d bear the weight of the rubble and keep her safe. So I’ll stay here, exploring her mouth, inventorying the feel of her hair, the smooth skin of her neck and the, yeah, the softness of her pajamas with the hand that’s not cradling her. What is it tonight? More unicorns? Maybe cupcakes or tiaras? Doesn’t matter. It kills me that she wears real actual real pajamas, and it makes me feel a little pervy as I reach between us, seeking the buttons of her top.
She pulls down the bed covers and then rests her hands on either side of my ribcage while I attempt to undo them one-handed. If this were a bra? No problem. I perfected that move a long time ago. But buttons? Little trickier. Eventually I get them all undone and brush the fabric away from her torso, letting my skin touch hers, and . . .
Having her under me, with nothing between us, her breasts with her nipples already drawn into taut little peaks pressed against my chest, it’s so much I can barely breathe. I am drowning in her and I don’t even care. I’d slap away a life preserver if someone threw one to me, because goddamn.
I shift my weight to one side so I can touch her, use the parts of me with the most nerve-endings to experience her, because to do any less would be a damn shame. Starting at her waist, I run my hand up her ribcage to cup her breast and thumb her nipple until she’s arching into my touch. It’s not as though I’ve had my fill of her mouth, but now I can’t bear not to be tonguing her, sucking her. So I raise my head and lower it again to work my tongue around her areola until her hand comes to the back of my head and presses me down, draws me closer, filling my mouth with her flesh. Yes, ma’am.
An order I don’t mind taking, I close my lips around her and squeeze her nipple between my covered teeth before suckling. I keep kneading at her with my hand as I do, and my name leaves her lips on a sigh. “Beck . . .”
Her nails are scratching at my scalp, and it’s all I can do to lift my head, take a breath before I settle onto her other breast. Don’t want to play favorites. Meanwhile, my cock is basically throbbing in my boxers and I want to drive into her so badly. Feel her tight warmth around me, the slick glide of her when I thrust.
Skimming my hand down, I palm her ass through her pajama pants; squeezing, kneading, pulling her closer to me so she can feel how hard she’s made me. Jubilee clearly has no patience for this because she cants her hips up and while I’m still working her nipple with my mouth, pushes her fluffy soft pajama pants over her hips and manages to kick them the rest of the way off—and without kneeing me in the crotch, which I very much appreciate.
Apparently she shoved her underwear off too because when I go to get a handful of her fantastic ass, that’s all I get. No worn cotton, no lacy confection, just Jubilee’s steely muscles encased in soft skin. It’s enough to drive a man insane. At least this man.
Through my pleasure-fogged brain, Jubilee’s voice cuts through. “Beck, I need you. Please. Now. Inside me.”
I could tease her, point a finger and say, “I told you so.” Or I could suit up and dive in, and even I’m not that big of an idiot. I can gloat later that I’ve got her begging for me.
There’s still a stash of the SIG-branded condoms in the nightstand between our beds, so I pull out the drawer and rip one off the strip. God love the event organizers for paring down my packing list.
Sitting back on my heels, I tear open the packet as quickly as I can without being careless and ripping the thing. That is the last thing we need, a little Beck-ilee running around. Although given the kid’s genetic code, skating around’s more likely. Does Jubilee even want kids?
And where the fuck did that come from? She would murder in my sleep if she knew the thought had even crossed my mind. No need to be thinking about Jubilee being all belly, and then holding a baby that had hair the color of hers but with curls like mine. Definitely shouldn’t be having thoughts about us making the little munchkin into a marshmallow on skates and taking the kid out on the ice for the first time, a tiny mittened hand grasping each of ours as the three of us stepped out onto the rink or maybe a frozen pond in the backyard of a little house.
My brain needs one of those record-scratching sound effects, because this is totally about getting my rocks off like I usually do when I get the chance, and not at all about a future with Jubilee. Before I can have any more of those ridiculous visions, I roll the rubber over my dick. It’s so hard, it almost hurts. Because I’m about to die, I don’t waste any time climbing between her legs and setting myself to press into her.
It occurs to me, belatedly, that maybe I should press a couple of fingers inside her bef
ore I go all the way, but before I can rewind and back up to an angle that would make fingering her possible, she’s grabbing my ass with two hands and pulling me closer, angling her hips to take me inside.
After easing my way inside her with one tight, hot slide, Jubilee makes this sound I love. Like having me inside her is the best she’s felt all day, like I’ve filled in a missing piece, like I’ve completed her in some way. Even if all she wants from me beyond our on-ice partnership is the D, I’ll take that praise.
When I’m fully seated, she blinks her eyes open and stares at me with those super dark eyes of hers. I didn’t know before I met her that eyes that dark were humanly possible. “Think of this as the short program, not the free skate, okay? I’m ready. I don’t need your best moves, or artistry or whatever. Just, show me you’re technically proficient.”
It’s so hot when she talks shop, and now I will be lucky if I don’t get a hard-on when I’m getting ready to go on the ice for either of our damn programs. Also I am here for that, too, because feeling her, smelling her, getting her all worked up has got me raring to go. I’ll show her technically proficient.
Pulling out almost all the way, I have to drop my head and close my eyes because she feels so fricking good. Better when she lifts her legs, digs her heels into my ass and drags me forward until I’m balls-deep inside her again. Right. Short program. I can do that.
I set up a rhythm of snapping my hips. Not big thrusts, because she’s keeping me close with her legs that are wrapped around me. It’s more like grinding between her thighs with her rocking up to get contact, gripping my biceps so hard I might have bruises. I hold out, hold out, until her noises of pleasure get louder and more urgent.
“Close, Beck, I’m so close. Little harder, please.”
I do what the lady asks, relishing the way she spurs me on and how her hands have moved to the back of my ribcage to hold me closer. She feels really good, and I don’t doubt myself when I’m with her. Because she doesn’t doubt me. Doesn’t wish I were someone else who had some other job, some other passion. Doesn’t resent the way I spend my time and money, and will never tell me to sac up and get a real job. For as much of a hard time she can give me, the bottom line is that Jubilee likes me just as I am.
That’s the thought I’m having as she comes, her internal muscles squeezing tight around me to confirm the truth of her words—not that Jubilee would ever fake an orgasm with me. Or anyone. Nope, that’s just not her style. Hell, she faked not having an orgasm. Who does that, besides my Ice Princess who’s not as icy as she’d like everyone believe? So when she says, “Yes, oh, yes, god, yes,” I take it at face value. That and her whole body shuddering underneath me, her limbs gripping me tight as she rubs out the end of her climax against me.
Which is of course followed not all that distantly by my own. A few hard thrusts, and I go rigid above her, a whole lot of tension and arousal and gratitude, and a whole bunch of stuff I can’t really put a name to, they all pour out of me and into her as I chant her name through gritted teeth.
Chapter Nine
Jubilee
Wow. When we first started this ridiculous agreement, I hadn’t wanted Beckett to be good in bed. I’d wanted him to be a lackluster lay that I could just tune out for. Roll my eyes while he pumped away, maybe mutter a couple of oh-babys, and be done after a couple of minutes because he can probably pick up women easily enough that he’s never had to develop his stamina in the sack, unlike on the ice. Well, I was wrong.
He had the courtesy to collapse partly to the side of me, though the bed’s so small he’s still partially on top of me, and I don’t mind it. Mostly when I sleep with men, the last thing I want to do is cuddle. Orgasm? Done. Check please! I don’t like their strange bodies, or their weird smells, or their inane attempts at pillow talk.
Beckett is different. He’s familiar, and I kinda like the way he smells. Even when he’s sweaty, because that means he’s working hard, and that effort is devoted in part to me.
His head is resting on my chest, his warm breath drifting across my breasts he’d devoted so much attention to earlier. Absentmindedly, I reach up a hand until my fingers are running through his curls, careful not to tug because he deserves a rest after that performance.
It’s quiet. I’m warm, comfortable, sated, and this is the closest to peace I’ve felt since—
I suddenly feel like I’m being squeezed by a giant hand from shoulder to knee. Not only can’t I breathe right because my lungs are being crushed, but I feel as though I’m dangling from a great height. If that hand lets go, I will fall, and I know what it feels like to be dropped. To hit the ground hard at a crushing angle with unfortunate velocity. It hurts, and leaves you wounded, doing physical therapy for months, not able to see straight in the moment.
It’s not real. This is the message my rational brain tries to send to the rest of me, but the other part of my brain, the part that’s orchestrating this delightful panic attack, is far more compelling. My pounding heart? Doesn’t listen. My constricted lungs? Do not give a shit. My vision, which is convincing me there are in fact black spots dancing in front of my eyes because of a dangerous lack of oxygen? This is fucking performance art.
Even though I know better—because the thing is, I know—I can’t help it. I need to get up, I need to get out of here, I need to not have Beckett’s lovely curl-covered head and his charmingly protective arm suffocating me. Since I’m on the wall-side of the bed, I can’t just sneak out. So I do what any freaking-the-fuck-out girl would do in my position.
I push him off the bed.
He lands with a muffled thud, and before he can say or do anything, I bound over him and into the bathroom where I can have my meltdown in peace.
Back against the door, I slide down until my butt hits the floor, and bury my face in my hands. The good news is that I don’t feel quite so much like I’m in the clutches of a boa constrictor anymore. That’s definitely better. Breathing is good. Not feeling like I’m going to die is a definite improvement.
Except it’s not all that long before there’s a knock at the door.
“Jubilee?”
Right. Beckett, the man who just gave me the best orgasm I’ve had in years, who made me feel—ugh, fucker. Making me feel, period, is bad enough. He’s standing outside the bathroom door, probably wondering if I’ve lost my goddamn mind, because his voice is soft and gentle and cautious, like he’s talking to a scared baby animal.
“Yeah?” Sure, because responding in a chipper tone to the man you literally just shoved out of bed and onto the floor is totally going to lay all of his concerns to rest.
There’s a pause, and I almost giggle. Like one of those really unflattering things, where you kind of snort at the end? Poor Beck. Even though I can’t see him, I can imagine the expression on his face. Puzzled, with that little line forming between his blond brows, and the center of his mouth mushed up so his chin wrinkles.
“Are you okay?”
“Yep. Fine. I just . . .” Think, Jubilee, come on. Think of a reason you would have pushed a guy out of bed and made a beeline for the bathroom that’s better than “I think I might actually like you and that’s not okay, because my last partner that I fell in love with keeled over dead in practice from a brain aneurysm. We’d been in the middle of a death spiral, so when he fell, I slid across the ice and into the boards. So not only did I get a few cracked ribs and a busted-up shoulder, I had my soul ripped out in the process.” Definitely need something more reasonable than that. “I needed to pee. You know, how you’re supposed to pee after sex so you don’t get a UTI? I didn’t want to get a UTI. I’ve had one before, and let me tell you, they are unpleasant. So, I, yeah, needed to . . . pee.”
Killing. It.
I mash the heels of my hands into my eye sockets because that was way worse than I could’ve even imagined. It’s a good thing I’m not required to lie in my job, because I would be a failure. A big, huge failure. How many times can one person say pee and
UTI in one breath? Beckett is so never sleeping with me again, because I am the unsexist woman on the planet.
Which is probably fine. Better, really, because apparently fucking someone I actually like and respect leads to feelings, and I’m better off without that ball of nonsense.
“Um, okay.”
Something hitches around my solar plexus, but it’s not panic this time. No, it’s the regret I’d warned Beckett about. Regret for sleeping with him, regret for treading so far down this path knowing I can’t go all the way to the end. Regret for making my happy-go-lucky workhorse of a partner confused and eventually hurt.
I’m sorry, Beckett. I can’t. If I could, I would with you. But I can’t, especially not with you. It would cost me far, far too much, and I’m already bankrupt.
I regret being so broken I can’t even tell him these things, but I can see that movie playing out in my mind: he’d convince me that I can, in fact, have him, that we could be happy together. And because he’s Beckett, with his earnestness and persistence, his goddamn cheerful steadfastness, eventually I’d believe him. Perhaps we’d have some time together, enough for his roots to grow into the soil of my heart. He’d take hold and make me whole, keep me together against the erosion of time and sadness from what I already lost, and then . . . maybe four years from now, maybe fourteen, maybe forty. The point is that it would be over and he would leave me. For another skating partner, for another bed partner, or maybe because he just fucking up and died. Bottom line, he’d be gone and I’d fall apart again. So, no thank you.
“I’ll be right out. You can get back in bed. It’s chilly out here.”
Silence on the other side, and then a shuffling. Like he’s walked away but come back again.
“Okay. As long as you’re sure you’re all right. That you don’t need me.”
On the Brink of Passion--Snow & Ice Games Page 9