Page 18 of On the Brink of Passion

“Yeah, I think so.”

Then there are some footsteps, a door opening and closing, and a seam of light opens under the bathroom door. I could go back to reading my book, but instead I lie there listening to the comforting sounds of another person getting ready to go to sleep. More specifically, a man, one with whom I share space, and who I suppose is the person I’ve been most intimate with most recently. One I call my partner. No, not just call. One whois,in fact, my partner.

I like the sounds of Beckett brushing his teeth, even the sounds of him taking a piss, because I anticipate the sound of the seat thunking down and am not disappointed. Followed by the washing of his hands, and since the water is on so long, I can only imagine his face as well.

Then the line of light winks out, and the door opens. Beckett manages to shuffle around without stubbing a toe again, and I expect to hear the faint squeaking of his weight landing on the bed, followed by him wishing me a quiet goodnight.

I almost jump out of my skin when someone sits on my bed. My brain conjures the ridiculous idea that somehow an intruder has snuck in without me or Beckett realizing and is now going to murder me. It’s the kind of reaction I used to have to any bump or creak in the night right after Stephen died. I think it was partly because I was so used to having another person with me at basically all hours.

Soon enough though there’s a hand heavy on my shoulder. “Hey, Jubilee, it’s me. Beckett. Don’t freak out.”

Right. Beckett. Obviously. Which is the conclusion I would have come to if I were a normal person.

He strokes my arm with his big hand, the one that can almost circle my biceps, one that catches me after he’s flung me into the air, and I drop my head back onto my pillow, breathe a sigh of relief. He keeps petting me, and his strokes get longer. Instead of being restricted to my upper arm, he’s rubbing from my elbow to my neck and back again. On the next pass, he cups my face and I know what’s coming next: though I can’t see it, I can feel him, and he’s leaning down close. I tip my chin up ever-so-slightly to give him permission and he takes it, pressing his lips to mine in a kiss.

Since we’ve started our . . . arrangement, we haven’t kissed. I haven’t wanted to, because this isn’t romance. This is not love. This is Beckett being a hornball and needing an outlet for the sex he usually has when he competes. It was my choice not to let him do what he usually does and go out and find someone to fuck. The thing is, I’m not really sorry about it. It’s kind of nice to have the warm body of someone I know and like next to mine instead of some random dude’s I’ve picked up who doesn’t know who I am. It’s nice that he knows me, icy chill and all, and still wants to go to bed with me. And while I’m certainly efficient at getting myself off, there’s something about another person dedicating themselves to your pleasure that makes given orgasms nice in a way that taken ones aren’t.

As sweet as this is, though—and it is, his lips warm and soft and his tongue licking gently at the seam of my lips, coaxing me, pleading with me—I know where sweetness leads. At least with someone who is my partner both on and off the ice. It leads to heartbreak and devastation, to red eyes and so many tears you turn into a dried-out husk. It leads to having nothing left, and to being achingly alone without the person who has stood by you in every second of your life. It leads to being half of yourself, and I can’t keep tearing pieces off myself like this. I understand that I could lose half of myself forever and ever, and there would always be something left, but . . . I can’t. I won’t.

I promised myself when I even started considering being with someone else that it wouldn’t be my partner. I wouldn’t be so stupid and self-destructive again. If I ever was with someone with intent ever again, it wouldn’t be some who if they disappeared from my life would level it as surely as a natural disaster. I would put my eggs in more than one basket, I would hedge my bets. I would protect myself against reliving that gut-wrenching, soul-destroying period of my life, because while my body is adept at healing, my heart is not.

Which would explain why I pull away from the best thing that’s happened to me in almost four years, and ask the man who’s giving it to me, despite having absolutely no evidence that it might be true, “Are you drunk?”

Beckett

Am I drunk? What the hell kind of a question to ask a guy who’s kissing you? Who you seemed not opposed to kissing back? I mean, really. The answer is no, by the way. No, I’m not. I had my two beers over the space of several hours and even though I don’t drink really at all anymore, I can still handle two beers. My metabolism that’s always chugging away like a freight train means it’s long gone, and even if it weren’t, two beers isn’t enough to make a guy my size drunk.

I’m also insulted. First of all, did she really think I’d get wasted even this far out from a big competition? She’s counting on me to be my best, and we’ve worked literally for years for these, what, seven minutes? I wouldn’t fuck it up to get plastered. Also, does she think I’d come back here and get all up on her if I was drunk? I fucking wouldn’t. If anything, she’d probably find me out in the hallway in the morning because I’d be too afraid of waking Her Royal Ice Highness up to even come in. What the hell is she—

Huh. Is she maybe hoping that I’m buzzed? That me kissing her is alcohol-induced idiocy? And not something I’ve wanted to do for . . . well, frankly a while now. Also, while I might have a little swagger about how I do in the bedroom, I’m not kissing her because I want to prove my sexual prowess. I wanted to, and now that I know what it’s like, I want to do it more. Like, a lot more.

“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 adon’t kiss me,orstop kissing me.She said Ishouldn’tbe. 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 . . .

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