On the Brink of Passion--Snow & Ice Games

by Tamsen Parker

  “I know what foreplay is, and I’ve had plenty, thank you.” I can hear in my head how that must’ve sounded to her ears. Sure, insult the bedroom skills of the dead husband she adored. Way to go, Hughes.

  “Hey, I’m sorry, okay?” To make that very clear, I trail open-mouthed kisses down the valley between her breasts. “I just meant I’d like for you to enjoy yourself, that’s all.”

  Even though it’s been left unsaid, Stephen’s name still hangs in the air. You’re a real shitface, Beck.

  I could, and maybe should, call the whole thing off. Now that I’ve got my mouth on her skin though, and a hand curved around her waist, I don’t want to. And hell, it’s been four years. Jubilee deserves to have another man who will please her. I don’t know if she’s had the odd one night stand here or there, but she hasn’t dated anyone since we’ve been skating together, that I know for certain.

  One-and-dones aren’t always bad, but there’s nothing like a person who knows your hot buttons and exploits them. Takes everything they’ve learned from the countless times you’ve gotten it on, and strings them together in a way that makes you lose your fucking mind. It’s so much better, why won’t she let me give that to her? I like to think I could, if she’d fucking let me.

  “Why does it matter to you anyway?”

  The question makes me stop mid-lick, and look up at her. She’s staring at the ceiling, and blinking way faster than normal.

  “What?”

  Jubilee looks at me then, and her expression is sharp, full of accusation. “Why do you care if I enjoy myself? You’ll get off, isn’t that what counts? Or did it hurt your ego that I didn’t scream your name?”

  Ouch. I mean, of course it makes me feel good to make a woman blow her top—okay, maybe more like some sort of sex god—but that’s not the point. “That’s . . . not it. I don’t like to leave my partners unsatisfied. What’s so bad about that?”

  She snorts at the same time as she shakes her head and rolls her eyes. Woman’s got coordination, I’ll give her that. But now I’m getting irritated.

  “Why do you make it sound like I’m doing something wrong? Most women would appreciate that.”

  “I’m not most women.” Don’t I know it. “If it means that much to you, consider me satisfied. You’re not bringing anyone back here, not sneaking into the room at all hours. That’s all I wanted.”

  I bite back the “You should really set the bar a bit higher” that I want to say, because I don’t want to insult her or Stephen or both of them again. But goddammit, I am going to make her feel good. Maybe I just need to take a different tack.

  “Fine. Then this is for me, okay? It gets me off to touch you and kiss you, and this will speed things up, all right? I like boobs.”

  I mean, I do, but I’m not going to manhandle her without her permission. Another eye roll, but then she sighs, blowing away a bit of hair that had drifted into her face. I should’ve thought to do that, brush it away from her forehead. Women like that. Missed opportunity. I won’t miss it the next time.

  “Fine. Do what you need to do. But if you motorboat me, I’m going to have your head on a platter. Are we understood?”

  Jubilee

  Why has Beckett got it into his head that he wants more than just a quick wham - bam - thank - you - ma’am? Honestly. Now I have to lay here and put up with his . . . ministrations. At least he didn’t insist on kissing me. I try to avoid it whenever possible, because in a lot of ways it’s more intimate than sex. I mean, most of your senses are based in your head, right? So connecting there as opposed to just bumping your pelvises together should feel closer than just sex. And fuck Beckett Hughes for not letting me have simple mechanics spurred by biological imperative but insisting on all this foreplay nonsense.

  He’s palming my breast now, which feels pretty decent by itself, and then he leans over to take my nipple in his mouth. It was bad enough trying to contain myself when he was making good use of his mouth with those spine-tingling kisses over sensitive skin. Places I haven’t been touched for years, because if you’re just looking for a quick fuck, most men are happy to oblige and don’t insist on torturing you by insisting you enjoy it.

  The way he’d drifted over my chest and my shoulders with his barely-there scruff scraping against me, and his lips and tongue and, god, his teeth working my flesh in ways that seemed to make something that had been long-dormant in my belly bloom. A stalk of desire with leaves of pleasure unfurling, and now with him tonguing and sucking at the tip of my breast, a flower of craving blossoming. I . . . want this. I want Beckett to keep doing these things, to pleasure me, and I want to make him feel good in return. I want to thread my fingers through his hair, dig my nails into his scalp and make him groan. I want to run my hands over his broad shoulders and strong sculpted arms that have supported me so many times.

  Instead, he gets this uncouth writhing against him because though I’m trying to stop myself from moving under him—lest he get any ideas—I just can’t. It feels too good to have our skin rubbing against each other’s. The hair on his arms and legs and chest and, yeah, surrounding his not-insignificant erection rasps against me, and it’s so achingly perfect it makes me want to give in. Just fucking let him render my bones into jelly and my mind to mush, and then surround me like a cocoon while I put myself back together. Would that really be so terrible?

  The shitty thing is that I know the answer to that. Yes, it would be.

  Unfortunately for me, sharing a space with Beckett hasn’t made me like him less. Sure he has annoying habits that everyone does, but he tempers that by being respectful of what I’ve asked him, and doing these small acts of kindness and consideration that I would yell at him for, except that would make me a horrible human being. And I can’t burn it all down, because he’s the only way I get a shot here, he’s the one who enables me to perform the way I do. Ugh. At the very least, I can get him to stop turning me on, because at this point I am obscenely wet. Like probably - leaving - a - spot - on - his - sheets wet.

  All this time I’ve been resisting, and he’s been stroking, kissing, sucking, lightly biting, squeezing, kneading, licking, digging fingers into flesh that’s hungry for his touch, and—

  I have to close my eyes, ball up my fists. It’s so annoying that he’s just as good as he said he was. Also, despite my best efforts, my hips are canting up, up, up, wanting contact with him, wanting to have him inside me, over me, surrounding me like last time. Which is when he slides a hand down from the breast he’s been so skillfully loving, over my ribcage and skimming my waist and then my hip, and—

  Oh, oh no. If he was just going to grab my butt, I probably could’ve handled that. Although come to think of it, I may have just ended up rubbing one out on his thigh and that would be embarrassing in addition to being a terrible idea. But no, he’s very clearly headed between my thighs, and I cannot have him feeling exactly how wet I am for him. Some guys think arousal renders any protest of enjoyment or desire null and void. I don’t think Beckett would be one of them if someone had ever bothered to explain the difference to him, but I really don’t need him having any more arrows in his quiver of “Yes, Jubilee and Beckett having sex is an awesome idea.”

  So I protest because I know he won’t if I say no. “Beck, stop. I don’t—I don’t want you to do that.”

  Like I knew he would, he does stop. Takes a breath with his eyes closed. When he opens them again, he rewinds his hand back to my flank and rests it there. “Is this okay?”

  No. No it is not okay, because it makes me want things from you that I shouldn’t. That I know pave the road to disaster and heartache. But is it better than having him know exactly how badly I’m aching for him?

  “Yes.”

  There his hold stays, his big hand flexing, the pads of his fingertips gripping me, and frankly that’s not much better than the magic he’d probably work with his fingers on my clit, or hell, inside of me.

  “You can . . . go ahead now. I’m fine. Really
. If you are.”

  A flash of a frown crosses his face. Please let this go.

  “Uh, okay. If you’re sure.”

  I roll my lips between my teeth and not looking at him, nod. Yes, please, get on with it before I can’t control myself anymore.

  I don’t want to see his face right now, so I keep my gaze directed at the ceiling as he goes into the drawer of the nightstand and gets out a condom. I’ve got an itch to do it myself. Circle his cock with my hand and glide over the smooth skin, give him a few indulgent strokes before rolling the latex over his length. Again with the terrible ideas.

  Instead, when he’s between my thighs, I turn my head so I don’t have to look at his face as he enters me with tenderness—because he’s just that kind of an asshole. The way he’s careful, and pushes inside me just enough to force a sigh because he feels really goddamn good. And another involuntary exhale as his hips come to rest between my thighs, and, oh. I’ve missed this. Too much.

  It’s easy at first, to pretend I don’t want him. To act like the way he’s pressing into me and then withdrawing on a slick glide isn’t the best thing I’ve felt in years. Take a swallow, close my eyes, and feign disinterest. Until there’s a sigh, and it’s not a blissful one.

  When I turn to face him and dare to open my eyes, it’s Beckett’s face lined with strain and some brand of displeasure.

  “Look, I . . .”

  Oh, no. No, no, no, no.

  “I’m trying here, but to be honest, this is freaking me out. I like having sex with willing partners. Maybe that’s technically true here, but you don’t actually want to be doing this. I thought permission would be okay, but that was back when I didn’t think this ridiculous idea would get this far, and now I want something more like enthusiasm. This is . . . I don’t even know. You feel really good to me, but I can’t do this with you just lying here. And before you ask, this isn’t an ego thing. It’s like a fundamental human thing, and if this is how it’s going to be, I can’t.”

  This has got to be the oddest conversation I’ve ever had while having sex. By miles. It makes me like Beckett more. Which up until about a week ago, I hadn’t thought was that much. He was fine. An excellent complement to me on the ice, and that was all I wanted, all I needed. And now he’s fucking things up. Dammit, Beckett.

  While part of me wants to say, Fine, do whatever you want with whoever you want, the idea of him being with someone else—especially with Sabrina—makes a hot coal of jealousy flare to life in my stomach. Which is not something I want to stoke at all. Also, I really do need my sleep and I don’t want him coming in at all hours from his exploits. All of these things—particularly the last one, which is mostly what this is, practicality—add up to me telling him in the prissiest voice I can muster while trying not to pant, “Fine. I’ll try to do better. Okay?”

  He narrows his eyes, the light blue peeking out from between his barely-there lashes. “Are you sure? I really—”

  “Yes, really. Just don’t—don’t go outside and flag down the first woman you see and solicit her for sex, okay?” There’s an involuntary shake, almost shudder, of my head, and I huff out a breath. I’m a disaster, an honest-to-god calamity, but the corner of Beckett’s mouth has turned up. It’s like he almost believes me, but not quite. I say it again. “I’ll do better.”

  “Okay.”

  Chapter Six

  Beckett

  There are a lot of things about my life that are out of the ordinary. Not that many people ice skate for a living, even fewer people figure skate for a living, and even fewer of those people are dudes. I used to think that was the weirdest thing about my existence, but I might have been wrong. Having sex with Jubilee is definitely up there.

  She’s closed her eyes again, but instead of keeping her hands stubbornly on the bed, she’s holding onto my shoulders. Almost tentatively, as if she’s not sure where to put her hands while she’s having sex with someone, but it is better, so I’m not going to hassle her about that. I do wish she’d look at me, so I’d know she was thinking about having sex with me and not just . . . Nope, no way, can’t let my mind wander to that place. It’s her business who she wants to fantasize about during sex.

  Is that the inch she’s going to give? Touching me and not turning her head to the side? I’d hoped for better, but maybe this has to be enough. Except then she moves. Rocks her hips up against me and bends her knees—to get more leverage? To take me deeper? For comfort? Any or all of those things would be more than okay with me. It feels really fucking amazing, and I answer her with a thrust of my own that makes a breath escape from her mouth.

  Unlike last time, she doesn’t hide the rhythm she wants but gives it to me willingly. It’s quieter, less . . . fun than the sex I’m used to having, but it’s not bad. Definitely more intense because I’m trying so hard to please her though she doesn’t seem to want to be pleased.

  Then there’s a small noise, a hiccup almost, except not, and the way Jubilee squeezes her eyes even more tightly shut makes me think she didn’t mean to let me hear that. It’s followed not so long after by another one, accompanied by her nails digging into my shoulders and a speeding up of how she’s moving against me. I mirror her, thrusting harder to meet her and then there’s a surprising but unmistakable feeling: the pulse of a woman’s orgasm around my dick. And Christ is it marvelous. So marvelous, I spill right then as her internal muscles still grip me, encouraging my own climax to pour right out of me.

  I bite back the words I’d normally say because it doesn’t seem quite right to be so enthusiastic about this, even if Jubilee did come this time. I’d thought maybe last time she’d enjoyed herself. I may have even dreamed a repeat performance that night during which she orgasmed with these soft, breathy gasps that she was trying to swallow. It was so vivid, I’d almost thought it was happening for real and not just in my dream. I’d sworn to myself as I came to consciousness just enough to roll over and smush the pillow into a more comfortable lump that dammit, someday I’d make her come so hard she wouldn’t be able to contain herself, and she’d have to cry out her pleasure. Apparently, that day is not today. But her climax feels like a victory unto itself.

  After catching my breath a bit, I pull out and take the condom off with a tissue. I’ll clean up for real later. For now, I’ll do the bare minimum because I don’t want to miss out on what’s hopefully a post-orgasm cuddly Jubilee. But when I turn back, she’s sitting up on the other side of the bed, looking like she’s ready to get up. What the heck?

  “Hey. I thought you’d . . .”

  She glances at me over her shoulder, and her expression leaves me cold. She doesn’t look like a woman who just had an epic orgasm. She looks more like someone who found something upsettingly nasty on the bottom of her shoe.

  “Thought I’d what? I thought I was done fulfilling my obligation. You’re done, right?”

  Like a kid looking to be excused from the dinner table after having choked down a Brussels sprout. What the hell? I know women can fake orgasms, like the sounds of them, but the feel of them? I feel like that would be way harder, and what reason would Jubilee possibly have for doing that and then lying about it? Seems like a lot of effort for no reason. Far more likely is that she did in fact come and doesn’t want to admit it. I don’t totally get why. Maybe it has something to do with feeling like she’s betraying Stephen? Maybe she actually hates my guts and is mad that her body turned on her by letting her climax with someone she loathes? Maybe she’s been playing icy so long that the connection between her pussy and her brain is frozen over? That doesn’t even sound possible and yet my mind is reaching for any reason why she might be doing this. Not finding it, I let her go.

  “Yeah, I’m done.”

  She stands up, and with the most perfect posture I’ve ever seen, walks into the bathroom and doesn’t look back.

  Jubilee

  The toilet in our bathroom is not the most comfortable place to sit, but a bed of nails would probably be more comfort
able than Beckett’s bed right about now. I just had one of the best orgasms of my life, and then I lied about it. What the fuck is wrong with me?

  I mean, I’ve got some ideas, including the whole husband - and - partner - dropping - dead - on - me thing, but other people recover from those kinds of things, right? Other widows go on to lead happy and fulfilling lives? They’re not forever paralyzed by fear and doubt and terror of actually liking another human being, right? Right? And yet here I am, trying not to cry and/or hyperventilate, while also still feeling a bit rubbery in the knees and pleasantly sore between my legs from some really high-caliber sex.

  What I should do is go out there and tell Beckett the truth. It’s not a good idea to undermine your partner’s confidence less than two weeks out from the biggest performance of your lives. Then again, it’s not a good idea to start sleeping with the aforementioned partner at this point in time either, and yet here we are. What am I supposed to say to him anyhow? I can’t even explain my own actions to myself, and I have all the information. And no doubt Beckett would have questions. As well he ought to, because what the fuck?

  I hear him moving around outside in the suite, because the doors in this place are unfortunately thin. There’s a pretty long list of things I’d rather have happen than Beckett realizing I’m having some sort of orgasm-induced break with reality.

  So before he can knock on the door and do something considerate like ask if I’m okay, I finish up and walk out completely naked. Luckily I don’t have to face him as I slide the drawers of the dresser open and pull out my very favorite set of pajamas: white flannel with turquoise and purple mermaids on them. The best part is that the mermaids’ hair is sparkly. Not with glued on glitter or some other substance that likely would’ve come out in the wash at some point during the roughly thousand times I’ve washed them either. No, there’s sparkly thread woven into it, and every time I put them on, they make me happy. I need all the happy comfort I can get right about now. At least I won’t have to furtively rub one out while hoping Beckett’s asleep like I did last time.