Page 12 of On the Brink of Passion

Jubilee looks at me then, and her expression is sharp, full of accusation. “Why do you care if I enjoy myself? You’ll get off, isn’t that what counts? Or did it hurt your ego that I didn’t scream your name?”

Ouch. I mean, of course it makes me feel good to make a woman blow her top—okay, maybe more like some sort of sex god—but that’s not the point. “That’s . . . not it. I don’t like to leave my partners unsatisfied. What’s so bad about that?”

She snorts at the same time as she shakes her head and rolls her eyes. Woman’s got coordination, I’ll give her that. But now I’m getting irritated.

“Why do you make it sound like I’m doing something wrong? Most women would appreciate that.”

“I’m not most women.” Don’t I know it. “If it means that much to you, consider me satisfied. You’re not bringing anyone back here, not sneaking into the room at all hours. That’s all I wanted.”

I bite back the “You should really set the bar a bit higher” that I want to say, because I don’t want to insult her or Stephen or both of them again. But goddammit, I am going to make her feel good. Maybe I just need to take a different tack.

“Fine. Then this is for me, okay? It gets me off to touch you and kiss you, and this will speed things up, all right? I like boobs.”

I mean, I do, but I’m not going to manhandle her without her permission. Another eye roll, but then she sighs, blowing away a bit of hair that had drifted into her face. I should’ve thought to do that, brush it away from her forehead. Women like that. Missed opportunity. I won’t miss it the next time.

“Fine. Do what you need to do. But if you motorboat me, I’m going to have your head on a platter. Are we understood?”

Jubilee

Why has Beckett got it into his head that he wants more than just a quickwham-bam-thank-you-ma’am?Honestly. Now I have to lay here and put up with his . . . ministrations. At least he didn’t insist on kissing me. I try to avoid it whenever possible, because in a lot of ways it’s more intimate than sex. I mean, most of your senses are based in your head, right? So connecting there as opposed to just bumping your pelvises together should feel closer than just sex. And fuck Beckett Hughes for not letting me have simple mechanics spurred by biological imperative but insisting on all this foreplay nonsense.

He’s palming my breast now, which feels pretty decent by itself, and then he leans over to take my nipple in his mouth. It was bad enough trying to contain myself when he was making good use of his mouth with those spine-tingling kisses over sensitive skin. Places I haven’t been touched for years, because if you’re just looking for a quick fuck, most men are happy to oblige and don’t insist on torturing you by insisting you enjoy it.

The way he’d drifted over my chest and my shoulders with his barely-there scruff scraping against me, and his lips and tongue and, god, his teeth working my flesh in ways that seemed to make something that had been long-dormant in my belly bloom. A stalk of desire with leaves of pleasure unfurling, and now with him tonguing and sucking at the tip of my breast, a flower of craving blossoming. I . . .wantthis. I want Beckett to keep doing these things, to pleasure me, and I want to make him feel good in return. I want to thread my fingers through his hair, dig my nails into his scalp and make him groan. I want to run my hands over his broad shoulders and strong sculpted arms that have supported me so many times.

Instead, he gets this uncouth writhing against him because though I’m trying to stop myself from moving under him—lest he get any ideas—I just can’t. It feels too good to have our skin rubbing against each other’s. The hair on his arms and legs and chest and, yeah, surrounding his not-insignificant erection rasps against me, and it’s so achingly perfect it makes me want to give in. Just fucking let him render my bones into jelly and my mind to mush, and then surround me like a cocoon while I put myself back together. Would that really be so terrible?

The shitty thing is that I know the answer to that. Yes, it would be.

Unfortunately for me, sharing a space with Beckett hasn’t made me like him less. Sure he has annoying habits that everyone does, but he tempers that by being respectful of what I’ve asked him, and doing these small acts of kindness and consideration that I would yell at him for, except that would make me a horrible human being. And I can’t burn it all down, because he’s the only way I get a shot here, he’s the one who enables me to perform the way I do. Ugh. At the very least, I can get him to stop turning me on, because at this point I am obscenely wet. Likeprobably-leaving-a-spot-on-his-sheetswet.

All this time I’ve been resisting, and he’s been stroking, kissing, sucking, lightly biting, squeezing, kneading, licking, digging fingers into flesh that’s hungry for his touch, and—

I have to close my eyes, ball up my fists. It’s so annoying that he’s just as good as he said he was. Also, despite my best efforts, my hips are canting up, up, up, wanting contact with him, wanting to have him inside me, over me, surrounding me like last time. Which is when he slides a hand down from the breast he’s been so skillfully loving, over my ribcage and skimming my waist and then my hip, and—

Oh, oh no. If he was just going to grab my butt, I probably could’ve handled that. Although come to think of it, I may have just ended up rubbing one out on his thigh and that would be embarrassing in addition to being a terrible idea. But no, he’s very clearly headed between my thighs, and I cannot have him feeling exactly how wet I am for him. Some guys think arousal renders any protest of enjoyment or desire null and void. I don’t think Beckett would be one of them if someone had ever bothered to explain the difference to him, but I really don’t need him having any more arrows in his quiver of “Yes, Jubilee and Beckett having sex is an awesome idea.”

So I protest because I know he won’t if I say no. “Beck, stop. I don’t—I don’t want you to do that.”

Like I knew he would, he does stop. Takes a breath with his eyes closed. When he opens them again, he rewinds his hand back to my flank and rests it there. “Is this okay?”

No. No it is not okay, because it makes me want things from you that I shouldn’t. That I know pave the road to disaster and heartache.But is it better than having him know exactly how badly I’m aching for him?

“Yes.”

There his hold stays, his big hand flexing, the pads of his fingertips gripping me, and frankly that’s not much better than the magic he’d probably work with his fingers on my clit, or hell, inside of me.

“You can . . . go ahead now. I’m fine. Really. If you are.”

A flash of a frown crosses his face. Please let this go.

“Uh, okay. If you’re sure.”

I roll my lips between my teeth and not looking at him, nod. Yes, please, get on with it before I can’t control myself anymore.

I don’t want to see his face right now, so I keep my gaze directed at the ceiling as he goes into the drawer of the nightstand and gets out a condom. I’ve got an itch to do it myself. Circle his cock with my hand and glide over the smooth skin, give him a few indulgent strokes before rolling the latex over his length. Again with the terrible ideas.

Instead, when he’s between my thighs, I turn my head so I don’t have to look at his face as he enters me with tenderness—because he’s just that kind of an asshole. The way he’s careful, and pushes inside me just enough to force a sigh because he feels really goddamn good. And another involuntary exhale as his hips come to rest between my thighs, and, oh. I’ve missed this. Too much.

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