Page 10 of On the Brink of Passion

There’s a tug at my waist, and with one last blink at a curled-lip Sabrina, I follow Jubilee wherever she’s taking me.

Jubilee

We’re back in the suite after our workout, which was followed by hours of press, some ice time, and then dinner, followed by yet more press. Life as a figure skater is mostly pretty quiet because people don’t tend to care until the SIGs, and I’m sure the contrast is even starker for the more obscure sports.

Yes, we’re on a bit of a media blitz and it’s partially my fault because I seek these things out, but who can blame me? This is our shot. Press means sponsorships, and it means people outside of the sport knowing your name. I’m lucky that I don’t have to live off the money I make from skating now or will make in the future, but I know Beckett isn’t exactly a trust fund baby. Maybe he thinks I’m being a pain in the ass, but a lot of this is for him.

At any rate, we’re back now, and while I certainly wouldn’t mind having the place to myself, it’s taken approximately zero time for me to get used to having Beckett here. Yes, he can be noisier than I’d like, but he also does thoughtful things like fill up my water bottle when it’s empty and fix a shade that almost fell on my head. I’ve tried in turn to be a decent human being. Now that I’ve seen how Sabrina probably talked to him when they were partners, that seems like a step up.

I don’t know how he tolerated her for so long. She doesn’t seem to have much respect for him. And as much as Beckett might sleep around, I’ve never gotten the impression that he leads on his hook-ups or promises more than he delivers. He’s certainly a responsible and devoted partner on the ice. Yes, I can be bossy and maybe a titch domineering, but that’s not a reflection on Beckett. I’m just lucky he’s easygoing enough to put up with me.

He’s hanging up his jacket in the closet, and holds out a hand for mine without even looking back at me. Beckett’s good at those little things, at anticipating. Our fingers brush as I hand him my parka, and there’s a . . . “spark” isn’t the right word, but I don’t know how else to describe it.

I touch Beckett all the damn time. Like for hours and hours every single day. So there’s really no explanation as to why this completely innocent touch should have the same impact as if he’d dragged his feet across carpet and then shocked me. But I am. Shocked. Because that insignificant amount of contact felt . . . significant. Like it traveled from my fingertips through my hand and up my arm, making a quick pulsing stop in my heart—and then headed south.

Do not get ideas, body.

It’s been several days since the dare sex. Despite my best efforts, I’d enjoyed it and had had to get myself off after Beckett fell asleep. At least he goddamn well better have been asleep, because I don’t need him getting ideas.

Beckett hasn’t mentioned the sex again. But unless he’s insultingly speedy—which I now know from experience he isn’t—there’s no way he’s been fucking someone else. Maybe he’s decided to let it go. That would be the mature thing to do.

“Hey, Jubilee?”

I totally spaced out. How long have I been standing here in my socks and thinking about not having sex with Beckett? Because I’m definitely not thinking about having sex with Beckett. Nope, not one ounce of me is picturing what the other day might’ve been like if I’d just let him—

“Seriously. Earth to Jubilee?”

“Yeah, what?” Okay, sounding cranky is only moderately better than having a breathy sex voice.

Beckett’s leaning against the wall by the closet, arms crossed over his lean torso, and he’s got that goofy, lopsided smile. What is he up to now?

“I was thinking . . .”

Oh my god, never a good idea.

I wait for him to go on, but he’s just staring at me. And unlike the tens of thousands of times a day he’s watching me because otherwise he’ll drop me on my ass or kick me in the face or some other sort of unpleasantness, there’s a weight to his regard. I can feel it on my skin. The way his gaze is tracing the lines of my body that he knows are under my clothes. As much as I’d like to, I can’t deny that the ghost of a touch sends that same tingle through my nervous system. Not okay.

“And?”

Beckett pushes off the wall in a fluid movement, and his hands come to his hips. “It’s been a few days.”

Shit. “So?”

“So if I hadn’t made this freaky weird deal with you, I’d have either had sex with a woman a few times, had sex a few times with different women, or a combination of the above.”

“Your propositioning technique needs some work there, Casanova.”

Poor Beckett looks somewhat affronted. “Look, I’d be happy to use some of my best game, but last time I checked, you didn’t want any of the bells and whistles, you just wanted to get it over with. Which is it?”

God help me that when he says that I picture his big hand not taking up a bell to ring, but sculpting around my breast, maybe even rolling a nipple between those thick fingers of his, and instead of his lips wrapping around the cold metal of a whistle, his mouth meeting my own in a kiss, all stroking tongues and soft moans.

No. This is just a way to keep Beckett from bringing home some Canadian hockey star or—Christ, he could totally pull this off—the entire Swedish curling team. It has everything to do with me not wanting my sleep interrupted and absolutely zero to do with that pinch of—what is that? Surely not jealousy. Definitely not possessiveness. Yes, I’d felt a little of that when Sabrina was touching him earlier, but that was purely professional interest in keeping his old partner away from him.

Unless he wants to go back to her? Or maybe he just wants to sleep with her again? He hadn’t seemed to be interested at all, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t. After all, I’m Exhibit A that Beckett doesn’t need to like the people he fucks. And neither do I. It’s better that way, actually.

I glance at the clock on my bedside table. “Fine, but you haven’t got long because we need to go to sleep. Big day tomorrow.”

Beckett

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