Page 13 of On the Brink of Passion

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 comfortable 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 wholehusband-and-partner-dropping-dead-on-mething, 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.

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