Page 19 of On the Brink of Passion

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 before 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. Whodoesthat, 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.

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