Page 7 of On the Brink of Passion

He’s still got his hand wrapped around his cock, still slowly stroking, but something about his posture has changed, and I look to his face to see him watching me. Shit.Say something, Buford. You’re never at a loss for words.

Nodding toward his erection, I finally find my tongue. “Well, that will certainly make things easier. Shall we?”

He smiles at me in a way that pokes at something in my insides, and I shove it away pretty hard. Nope. Even if he ends up going through with this, it’s a ridiculous arrangement that I’m tolerating so I don’t have to deal with someone else in my space, or with Beckett disrupting my schedule more than he already is. This is about saving my sanity, and if I have to have some meaningless sex to do that, well, fine. It’s just my body, right? It’s how I make my living. Why shouldn’t I use it to purchase other things like peace and quiet?

Not dropping his slip-sliding grip, he takes the last few steps toward me, and places a hand beside my head, swings a leg over my hip so he’s straddling me.

“You sure about this, Jubilee? You can still back out.”

There’s something seductive in his voice, something I haven’t earned at all. A coaxing, sexy teasing that I kind of like, and maybe if I were some other woman would deserve. But I’m me, and this is about convenience, not enjoyment, and fuck if Beckett is going to think he can beat me at a battle of wills.

“Go right ahead. I’m totally fine. Just put a condom on before you do.”

Obviously. If there are things I want less at the moment than being pregnant with Beckett’s child, they are few and far between. Like a fork in the eye.

In the dark of night, far away from the rink and our coaches, with competitions distant, and without the pressure of the press, expectations of the public, sometimes, sometime . . . Stephen and I would talk about what we’d do when it was all over. When we couldn’t compete at a level we were satisfied with anymore, and we’d probably go into coaching, or maybe realize we had some other passion that we could explore when we were done. There were always babies in our dreams. When my body had done its work on the ice rink and it could be fully mine again, I could use it to grow and nourish something we’d made, something more precious than the medals and trophies that would line our walls. Something we’d made just the two of us, and it would be ours to cherish and love.

My heart aches with the thought, and any warmth, any awakening Beckett had been making me feel is snuffed out in the few seconds it takes for him to get this daft look on his face, as if he hadn’t thought this entirely through.

I have to swallow so my voice doesn’t crack when I say, “Top drawer.”

His attention hangs heavy on me for a moment, like he’s going to change his mind, and I can’t have that. Not because he thinks there’s something weak or fragile about me anyhow. There’s not. Nothing he needs to worry about anyway. Stephen’s been dead for four years, nothing can change that, and what I had with him has nothing to do with this farce I’m putting on with Beckett. I reach for something that’ll make Beckett stop treating me as breakable, and happen to find some cruelty because it is far, far easier than kindness and sharing.

“Could we hurry this up? I was really enjoying my book.”

Beckett

Some other guy might’ve lost his wood at that, but I’m not just any guy. I like women who can wield the snark. And if she’s going to goad me into this, so help me, I am not going to fail by not being able to get it up. Nope. She might have complaints about my performance at the end, but it will not be that I couldn’t keep a hard-on.

Jesus Christ, please let me be able to keep this hard-on.

The condoms are in the drawer, right where she said they would be, and they’re the ones that will be freely available in basically every public bathroom, training office, the SIG ER, the locker rooms, so many places around the SIG village. I heard they ordered record numbers this year. Not that it appears I’ll be using up my quota because Jubilee seems intent on putting me off of not only sex with her but sex in general for the rest of my life.

I manage to get the condom on and then it’s time. I could stop this, say it’s ridiculous, and what the hell are we doing, because we’re two grown adults and shouldn’t we be able to work out a compromise, but Jubilee isn’t really one for a compromise. If I back down now, I’m either not getting laid until I go home to Boston or I’ll be facing a very angry partner. Which could get either one of us injured or killed during what’s supposed to be the biggest competition of our lives. Of course, the second she tells me to stop I will, and please let that happen.

But as I move from straddling her thighs to sit back on my heels between them, she looks determined. Poised for battle. I want to make her feel good, but I suspect if I tried to offer a caress or some kind of foreplay, or heaven help me, a kiss, she’d probably punch me. I’m not some kind of monster though. I want to make sure I’m not going to hurt her, so I press a strong but slim thigh aside, and thumb her clit.

“Just, get it over with. You don’t have to do that.”

“I don’t have to, but I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I’m . . .” A disdainful roll of her eyes, and a hard sigh. “I’m wet, okay? Just take it slow. It’s been a while.”

Why is she . . .oh.Maybe she liked watching me more than she let on. Maybe this won’t be quite the chore she was anticipating. But I can’t use my usual magic, because she wants to go straight to the main course while I usually do my best work in the amuse-bouche and the appetizers. That’s okay, I can improvise.

Then I’m leaning forward, and I’m hoping against hope she calls this off before we actually have sex. It’s maybe juvenile, and maybe I should be more casual about sex than I am, but this isn’t a woman I picked up at a bar or a fellow athlete I screw after competitions. This is my partner and whether we like it or not, we know each other very well. At least our bodies do, and I can’t help thinking this is going to change something between us, though it’s hardly more intimate than some of the things we have to do already. It’s just . . . different.

And then the possibility that this in fact will not happen, is gone. I’ve started pressing into her—slowly, as requested—and she feels,god,really fucking good. Hot and tight and welcoming in a way I can’t quite put my finger on, until I realize she’s gripping the side of my ass cheek. I suppose I could think of it as my hip, but no, that is definitely cheek.

Whoa. I am having sex with Jubilation Lee Buford. And so far, I kinda like it.

Eyes closed and teeth gritted, I make shallow thrusts until her body takes me all the way inside, and then I hang my head because she feels fucking amazing. Also because I heard the ghost of a noise when I’d entered her completely, and it sounded like pleasure. I want to relish that, hold onto it so I know this isn’t as soulless as she’s trying to make it out to be. I fit as well inside of her as the curve of her waist fits into my hand on the ice, as if our bodies have been sized to fit together in all the ways possible. She’d have my head for thinking it, but it’s true.

And though she’s told me to basically just get on with it, I can’t help but try to make her feel good. I don’t want her lying limp underneath me, staring at the ceiling until this can be over with. We don’t have to fall in love or anything—in fact that path leads to madness and to me feeling hemmed in and owned in a way that doesn’t feel good—but good sex is better than bad sex, right? So why not make the best of a really frigging awkward situation?

I run my hand down her ribcage and grasp her at her flank while levering up on an elbow so I don’t crush her—not that I could, woman’s made out of titanium, but I’ll be polite, considerate. Then I thrust, pressing into her before drawing out, and trying to catch any clues of the rhythm she wants, the pressure she’s after. Does she like a slow, gentle, lovemaking? Even if she did, I suspect she’d avoid it here, and to be honest, I expect she prefers a good hard fuck anyhow. We do so much with our bodies, it’s got to be exceptional to register.

Despite my attention to detail, I can’t find much, but I do the best I can, repeating things when she lets the tiniest sounds of enjoyment escape—a hitch in her breath, the start of a moan that she quickly smothers. Or when she slips up and actually lets her hips rise to meet mine while I drive into her. I also hold her fast, kiss her elegant shoulder, which is as close to her mouth as she’s likely to allow. If this were someone else, I’d hold off, hold out until she was satisfied. But it’s Jubilee, and this is just some weird bet we couldn’t find our way out of, and now look at us. That thought throws my pace for a second, but then I picture my dream Jubilee, and she . . . she’d still very much want me. She’d be enjoying this, and wouldn’t hold back her desire. She’d beg for it.Yes, Beckett, please. Harder, faster, god I love it when you fuck me.

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