Page 6 of On the Brink of Passion

Ugh, fine. If he’s going to play this out until the very last second, so can I. And dammit I will play it cooler than he is. I know what people say about me, and I can play the Ice Queen if they want.

I stand up and strip off, leaving all my clothes in a pile on the floor, not bothering to be sexy about it because this is miles away from seduction. And then I sit back down, not knowing what else to do.

Things with Stephen had never been this awkward. It always felt right, natural . . . inevitable. Not that things were never awkward, because sex can be awkward and hilarious, and if you’ve never been the least embarrassed while doing it, you’re either some golden deity or a sociopath. And sure, there’s been some inelegance when I’ve picked up a random guy, but it’s never been this bad. Not even close.

Beckett takes a few steps toward me and I start to feel like I’m a pit full of vipers. If I darted out a hand and clamped my fingers around his wrist, I’m pretty sure he’d scream. God, is that tempting. But no, I’ll play fair. Try not to crack up as he edges toward me, clutching his towel around his waist though I’m stretched out on my bed like I’m sunning myself at a nude beach.

Then finally he’s standing within touching distance—if I stretched anyhow, which I’m not inclined to do. With a look of some consternation, he drops his towel. I take my time looking at him, mostly because I can, and he’s sure as hell perusing me like I’m a sushi boat that just got delivered to his table. Although judging by the look on his face, it’s maybe at the end of the night at a counter not known for its freshness in the first place. Way to make a girl feel wanted. Though I suppose I’m not doing much better.

Beckett is objectively handsome, attractive. Broad shoulders and a good coat of hair curling across his chest, making him look like he’d be good to cuddle up to on a cold night, like he’d definitely keep the chill away. Of course he’s got those arms and shoulders thick with the muscles he uses to lift and toss me into the air, and a whole line of abs marching side by side, because you can’t do any of the things he does without a hell of a lot of core strength. At his navel, the thatch of hair that had trailed down to his waist picks up again, leads down to straight hips and thick thighs, and a penis that while perfectly reasonably sized appears to be in no way excited to see me. Okay, then.

His lower legs look like some sculptor’s dream come true with their shapely and defined cuts of muscle, and his feet . . . they’re not pretty. Never mind that most men don’t have pretty feet, we’re elite figure skaters which means we spend an inordinate amount of time with our feet shoved into close-fitting boots. Which may not be uncomfortable, but it takes a toll. I won’t pretend mine look much better. All in all, there are a lot worse people I could be obligation-banging.

“If we’re going to do this, you’ll probably need to, um, do something about that.”

Beckett narrows his eyes, and emits a small huff through his nose. “Yeah. I know. You’re not the only one in the room who’s had sex.”

“That’s right,” I say, completely deadpan. “You’ve had all the sex. So, by all means, get us started, Mr. Awesome-in-the-Sack.”

Chapter Four

Beckett

Right. Sex with Jubilee. I can totally do this. I mean, she’s a beautiful woman, she’s naked right in front of me, lying on a bed, and she’s just waiting, waiting for me to fuck her. Except she’s not really. She’d probably be happier going back to reading her book. Which she could be doing if she would just give me leave to get it on with other people.

This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done in my life, and I don’t say that lightly. I have done some really stupid shit, but this might be the stupidest. But at this point, it’s a matter of pride, it’s a matter of winning, and it’s a matter of not getting dragged around by my balls by my skating partner. I’ve done it before, and I don’t want to do it again. So here we go. Sex with Jubilee, take one.

I can’t honestly look at her with that bored expression and get hard because, Christ, give a man a break. But I’m not going to do her the disservice of fantasizing about someone else either. No, I’ll close my eyes, the scenario’s the same, except that Jubilee has just confessed that she’s always had a crush on me, and that us rooming together wasn’t a mistake, she did it on purpose.

The blood starts to flow, and I take myself in hand, still with my eyes closed, telling myself this story. Instead of her being furious when I opened the door, she’d looked at me shyly, sweetly . . . Nah, that’s not right. That’s not Jubilee. She’d be more sly, pleased with herself. Rewind and start again to opening a door to a Jubilee who looks like the cat who got the canary. Practically licking those full pink lips of hers, her dark eyes intent. Wearing the same leggings and sweatshirt, sure, because she’s confident enough I’ll want her no matter what she’s wearing. Which wouldn’t be crazy, except that it’s fucking crazy.

I blink open my eyes for a second to check out the real Jubilee, and she’s still draped across her bed, but she doesn’t look quite so bored anymore. No, her gaze is definitely riveted to where I’m stroking myself to a full hard-on. That’s makes this easier. Not such a fiction.

Closing my eyes again anyhow, because I don’t just want curiosity or the novelty of a dude jerking himself in front of her, I picture her gliding up to me, laying hands on my chest, taking my coat off, toying with the buttons on my shirt. She’d look up at me with those big luminous eyes, and she’d say, “I haven’t wanted to do this before, because I wanted to keep things strictly professional, but I can’t help it anymore. I want you, Beckett.”

Yep, that’ll do it. Get me from on the way to an erection to a rock-hard dick in three seconds flat. That’s all I need. For her to want me. And imaginary Jubilee does. I’d stutter a bit about how I wasn’t sure this was a good idea either, trying hard to keep Sabrina out of my head, because they’re not the same women. But she can tell something’s keeping me from stripping her clothes off and having her on the floor, and it’s not that I don’t find her attractive. I do. Always have. Before we were skating together, but I’d shoved it all the way down because she was someone else’s partner, someone else’s girl, dammit someone else’swife.

And since we’ve been partners, she’s made it clear that I’m good for one thing. Not in this game though . . .

Don’t you want me, Beck?

I drop my head back in my fantasy and in the here and now, because yeah, though I don’t want to admit it, I have wanted her. Have liked holding her lithe body in my arms, in my hands, have admired her for so many reasons, and, okay, have thought she is unearthly gorgeous. Big luminous eyes and lips that always look kiss-swollen, slightly out of proportion to her other delicate features.

Yeah, but I . . .

She’d place a finger over my lips to shush me as she stood on her tiptoes, using her fingers to unbutton my shirt while she laid open-mouthed kisses against my neck in a way that has me shivering.

Shh,she’d murmur into my ear after she’d nipped at my lobe, and her hands have started roaming inside my shirt.Let’s just let our bodies do what they’ve wanted to do for all this time, and we’ll figure out the rest when the SIGs are over. But while we’re here, we can be together like this. Now please, let’s go to bed.

Okay. In real life, my balls have started to ache, and I slick over the top of my dick with my thumb, spreading the little bead of moisture over the head, which only makes me harder for her. As frosty as Jubilee can be on the outside, I bet she’s all slick wet heat on the inside. Maybe hotter than women who radiate their sex appeal and feelings, because she’s keeping it all inside. Is she? Is Jubilee secretly as passionate off the ice as on and I’ve never bothered to see it? It’s a real possibility.

When I open my eyes, it’s to catch her tongue darting out to lick her lips as she stares at myself jerking my cock. Interesting. Maybe this won’t be so god-awful after all.

Jubilee

. . . I’ve never thought of Beckett as sexy, but I can’t deny something inside of me that I thought was long gone has roused. Yes, I get sexual urges, and I address them with fingers or my vibrator or a random guy picked up from a bar, but this isn’t like that. It’s not a gnawing, purely physiological need. Not a baser, animal instinct or a biological urge. It feels a little like . . . want. Which is weird and unfamiliar and wildly uncomfortable. But he’s been standing there with his eyes closed, stroking himself to hardness, and some utterly ridiculous part of me is hoping he’s not thinking of another girl as he does it.

Why do I care who Beckett masturbates to? It shouldn’t matter, and I shouldn’t want it to be me for any reason, and yet I find myself wishing for it. At least right now. It seems a little rude for him to be getting ready to fuck me while fluffing himself with the images of some other woman. Though it’s not like I’ve given him a whole lot to work with. Whatever, it’s none of my business. Except that it looks increasingly like he’s actually going to go through with this.

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