Page 5 of On the Brink of Passion

Her doubtful “Okay?” makes me want to go out and obtain references from everyone I’ve ever fucked. And cooked breakfast for, thankyouverymuch. I make a mean omelet. But I’m not going to stand here like some kid and stomp my foot, insist that I’m the best. Even though I totally am. Okay, maybe just one more and then I’ll let it go. Because, come on.

“Seriously. I’m not going to scratch that itch, I’m going to obliterate it.”

“Great. Can we get this over with?”

There’s the awkward sound of a record scratch in my brain. “Wait, what? Like now?”

Jubilee checks her watch and smothers a yawn with her hand.

“I mean, yeah, I guess. I’ve got nothing better to do and you seem like you’re in a pretty big hurry to prove yourself, there, big boy.”

Wow. If there was ever anything that could encourage a guy to get hard less than this lack of enthusiasm, I don’t know what it could be. Maybe when she said us fucking would be efficient. That gave me chills, and not in a good way.

I’ve heard Jubilee called the Ice Princess before—have maybe called her that myself out of her hearing—and gotten in on some jokes about how she’s a frigid off the ice as on. I’ve never cared much as long as she can keep up with me on the ice, and she can. But it’s just become my new mission in life to get Jubilation Lee Buford all hot and bothered. Not in theI’ve-annoyed-her-during-practiceway, either, because that I do basically without trying. No, I’m aiming for thebest-sex-she’s-ever-hadway. Yeah.

“Okay then. Just, you know, give me a minute.”

Jubilee’s eyes get big and doubtful, and she heaves what is probably the most massive sigh possible given her small frame. “Sure, Beckett. You just let me know when you’re ready to blow my mind. I’ll be reading my book.”

Well, shit.

Jubilee turns and flounces away, parks herself on her bed and cracks open her Kindle. Me? I’m standing here like a dumbass. My duffel’s still on the floor, I’ve been traveling for the better part of the day, she’s just insulted me—multiple times—and now she wants me to fuck her? Except “want” seems to be too strong a word. She’lltolerateme fucking her. This is not what I’m used to. Is any dude? I mean usually my partners are pretty into getting dirty with me, like, enthusiastic. Not a shruggingwell-I-guess-it’s-efficient.Like, what the fuck, Jubilee? Argh.

But then it occurs to me that maybe, much as I’m fucking with her, she is fucking with me. That’s not going to work. I much prefer being the fucker to the fuckee, or whatever. The point is, two can play at this game.

First, I pick up my bag from the floor and start putting stuff away, making it clear that no matter what else happens, I’m staying here. No, it shouldn’t have happened, but with thousands of people showing up and expecting to be fed, housed, clothed, and otherwise provided for, it’s not surprising there’s at least one bump in the road. Truth is that if either Jubilee or I had much in the way of friends, they’d likely be other athletes and one of us could shack up with a friend while we were waiting for this to shake out.

We don’t, though. Have friends, that is. Acquaintances, yes, people we nod to and exchange pleasantries with at competitions, but we’re both such workaholics that friends—even inside the sport—don’t come so easy. So here we are, barreling toward an encounter of the sex kind because we’re both too stubborn to bow out. There are worse things that could happen, I suppose.

The other reason I’m putting my shit away—laying it away in drawers, hanging up some things in the closet, shoving my headphones and my tablet in a desk drawer—is that some women I’ve been with can’t really enjoy themselves if things are nagging at their brains. Are her keys still in the front door lock? No dice. Did she send that e-mail to her boss? Sorry, buddy. A container of takeout still on the counter instead of in the fridge? No joy. My stuff strewn about will have Jubilee peering over my shoulder, wondering when I’m going to get my socks off the floor.

Big stuff, though, is a different story. Stress that’s not going away, say like a high-pressure job, overarching angst at the state of the world or—just saying—the pinnacle of their athletic careers? That’s when a lot of them want to fuck to forget, find abandon and relief in the form of an orgasm. Or three.

Jubilee peeks periodically over her Kindle, maybe wondering what exactly I’m up to. Being sly like a fox, that’s what. Don’t count me out yet.

When everything’s put away, I head for the shower. If our positions were reversed, I wouldn’t care if she scrubbed up beforehand, but Jubilee seems kind of . . . what’s the word . . . fastidious to me. Like she likes things clean and neat and smelling good. Which is funny considering she spends most of her time sweating in workout clothes with her hair frizzing out of her messy buns. But I bet that given the choice, she’d have things just so, and that would include her sex. Fine. I can take a shower. Plus, I wouldn’t be sad to get this travel grime off me. I don’t know what it is, because it’s not like you’re exerting yourself, but being on planes or in taxis always makes me feel a little gross. So into the shower it is, where I’ll try to figure out what be the magic ticket to getting Jubilee to crack—either in my bed, or out of it, doesn’t matter to me, but I’m going to break her one way or another.

Jubilee

Beckett takes a good long while in the shower. I’m not sure what he’s doing in there, but whatever it is, it’s distracting me from my book. I did appreciate that he put his things away instead of leaving them on the floor, but that’s barely softened the brick of animosity in my stomach. And now he’s going to try to seduce me? With what? Tossing that head of curly hair isn’t going to do shit for me, winking will make me want to punch him, I’ve already seen his body plenty of times and have a pretty good feel for what it can do, so there’ll be no impressed swooning on that front. I wish he’d just give up, but if he’s anywhere near as determined now as he is when we train, I’m shit out of luck.

When he finally emerges, it’s in a towel. Some part of me is shocked by it, which is ridiculous. I’m no puritan, and god knows he isn’t, either. Plus, it’s not like I’ve never seen a man’s body before. I have. And even his in particular. But there’s something different about seeing him with a sheet of terry wrapped around his waist, grinning at me with intent, that’s different from his shucking his clothes to do a quick change, or him in just shorts because we’re busting our asses during a run or a training session.

Beckett jerks his chin up and then points at his towel, still smiling like he’s getting paid for it. “Efficiency, right? Thought you’d like that.”

Most of his jokes are bad, but that was in the neighborhood of funny. I’ll give him some credit, but not enough to laugh.

I close my Kindle, place it on my bedside table, and then cross my arms and my ankles. “So are we going to get this show on the road?”

Not that I have anything better to do exactly, it just seems like we could get this charade over with sooner rather than later. It’s not like he’s actually going to go through with this. He’s not, right? Not if his now-brittle smile is any indication. If I give him another minute, he’ll crack. No way we’ll actually end up having sex. No fucking way.

“Yeah, definitely.” That’s what his mouth says, but his expression is far less certain. Almost as if he has no faint clue what he’s doing. I appreciate him not treating me like the other women he must’ve been with, using his best lines and turning up the charm, because god knows that wouldn’t work. He tried for about a split-second and then gave up the ghost. I’m hoping if I wait long enough, I’ll get him to give up entirely. But maybe a little nudge would move things along so I can get back to my book . . .

“Okay. I mean, I’ll totally admit that it’s been a while, but I’m pretty sure we can’t fuck if you’re standing all the way over there.”

Beckett has the good grace to blush—or perhaps merely the anatomical inability to stop it. The pink graces his cheeks and he looks more boyish than usual. A distance of four years between us isn’t much, but it’s times like this that make me feel like an ancient and jaded crone.

“Right, yeah, of course. I know that. I’ve had sex a lot of times. Like, all the times.” He’s nodding, trying to look convincing. I believe the final countdown to Beckett giving up has begun. Three, two—“And since I’m such an expert, I know you have to take all your clothes off. Or, at least some of them.”

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