Jubilee

The walk back to the village is cold. It’s also full of drunken revelers, and my brain immediately brings Beckett to the forefront of my thoughts. Is he polishing off his beer and having another? Why should I care if he is? Why should I care, even, if he flirts with that woman who was hanging on him when I tried to tell him I was leaving? Will he dance with her, too? So what if he does?

These thoughts, they aren’t helpful. So I focus on the cold, because cold always reminds me of work, of what I’m here to do. Ice. Skates. My programs. My life. Dancing and cavorting is for other people. I need to maintain focus. Although, after this is over . . . maybe I could pick up a guy in a bar. Maybe I could meet someone new?

When I think about it, though, something constricts around my heart, tight as my skate strings. It’s been almost four years since Stephen died, and yet he’s still very much in my thoughts. Maybe moving on will be easier after this is over. After my career is over. But am I ever going to be so far removed from the skating world that I won’t feel his ghost everywhere I go?

It’s not like I have a college degree and could go be an accountant or something. No, I’d always assumed after our competitive career was over, we’d tour as part of a show, and when we’d finally worn out our welcome on that circuit, retire to teach and coach. Buy a little house, have a couple of babies and be local celebrities. When we’d first move to town, people would point at us in the grocery store. “Is that . . . ? Didn’t they used to . . . ?” But then they’d get used to us because we’d be so normal and boring, and we’d only be a novelty to tourists who passed through.

I haven’t bothered to come up with a new plan. Mostly because when I look past the SIG horizon, there’s nothing there at all. Blackness. My life is just . . . over. I fall off a cliff.

I show my ID to get in the village, and the guard waves me through with a smile. Unlike the city outside the village, inside is relatively quiet. Yes, there are masses of people moving around, but quietly. No one’s in a hurry to be that jerk who made a ruckus when everyone else was trying to rest up for their events. Not yet, especially.

Back in the suite, it feels empty without Beckett there. I should be grateful for the time alone, and the space. The lack of his . . . everything. But it’s maybe too quiet? Too empty? Like I’d expect there to be an echo if I spoke. But there’s no one here to talk to, and I’ve never been one of those people who talks to themselves.

“Until now.”

Nope, no echo. And now I’m just a weirdo who’s talking to herself. Stellar.

To distract myself, I get undressed and ready for bed, tugging on my favorite mermaid pajamas, going through my night routine, turning off the light, and settling into bed with my Kindle. I’m not actually all that interested in the book I’m reading, so it’s no surprise that I don’t remember falling asleep when the door eases open what turns out to be an hour later.

“Beckett?”

I hear him suck air through his teeth, though I can barely see him in the low light. “Sorry, I was trying really hard to be quiet. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“You didn’t,” I say, even though he kind of did. But it’s not his fault. He wasn’t actually being loud. “You can turn on a light if you want.”

“No, no. I can get ready without bothering you more.”

It’s sweet of him to concern himself, though it kind of backfires when he walks into something in the dark, causing something on it to fall over, and also causing him to start cursing prolifically because he’s stubbed his toe. Oh, Beck.

“Are you sure?”

He laughs, and even in the middle of the night, I don’t feel so lonely anymore. “Apparently not. I’m—”

“You don’t need to apologize again. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

Then there are some footsteps, a door opening and closing, and a seam of light opens under the bathroom door. I could go back to reading my book, but instead I lie there listening to the comforting sounds of another person getting ready to go to sleep. More specifically, a man, one with whom I share space, and who I suppose is the person I’ve been most intimate with most recently. One I call my partner. No, not just call. One who is, in fact, my partner.

I like the sounds of Beckett brushing his teeth, even the sounds of him taking a piss, because I anticipate the sound of the seat thunking down and am not disappointed. Followed by the washing of his hands, and since the water is on so long, I can only imagine his face as well.

Then the line of light winks out, and the door opens. Beckett manages to shuffle around without stubbing a toe again, and I expect to hear the faint squeaking of his weight landing on the bed, followed by him wishing me a quiet goodnight.

I almost jump out of my skin when someone sits on my bed. My brain conjures the ridiculous idea that somehow an intruder has snuck in without me or Beckett realizing and is now going to murder me. It’s the kind of reaction I used to have to any bump or creak in the night right after Stephen died. I think it was partly because I was so used to having another person with me at basically all hours.

Soon enough though there’s a hand heavy on my shoulder. “Hey, Jubilee, it’s me. Beckett. Don’t freak out.”

Right. Beckett. Obviously. Which is the conclusion I would have come to if I were a normal person.

He strokes my arm with his big hand, the one that can almost circle my biceps, one that catches me after he’s flung me into the air, and I drop my head back onto my pillow, breathe a sigh of relief. He keeps petting me, and his strokes get longer. Instead of being restricted to my upper arm, he’s rubbing from my elbow to my neck and back again. On the next pass, he cups my face and I know what’s coming next: though I can’t see it, I can feel him, and he’s leaning down close. I tip my chin up ever-so-slightly to give him permission and he takes it, pressing his lips to mine in a kiss.

Since we’ve started our . . . arrangement, we haven’t kissed. I haven’t wanted to, because this isn’t romance. This is not love. This is Beckett being a hornball and needing an outlet for the sex he usually has when he competes. It was my choice not to let him do what he usually does and go out and find someone to fuck. The thing is, I’m not really sorry about it. It’s kind of nice to have the warm body of someone I know and like next to mine instead of some random dude’s I’ve picked up who doesn’t know who I am. It’s nice that he knows me, icy chill and all, and still wants to go to bed with me. And while I’m certainly efficient at getting myself off, there’s something about another person dedicating themselves to your pleasure that makes given orgasms nice in a way that taken ones aren’t.

As sweet as this is, though—and it is, his lips warm and soft and his tongue licking gently at the seam of my lips, coaxing me, pleading with me—I know where sweetness leads. At least with someone who is my partner both on and off the ice. It leads to heartbreak and devastation, to red eyes and so many tears you turn into a dried-out husk. It leads to having nothing left, and to being achingly alone without the person who has stood by you in every second of your life. It leads to being half of yourself, and I can’t keep tearing pieces off myself like this. I understand that I could lose half of myself forever and ever, and there would always be something left, but . . . I can’t. I won’t.

I promised myself when I even started considering being with someone else that it wouldn’t be my partner. I wouldn’t be so stupid and self-destructive again. If I ever was with someone with intent ever again, it wouldn’t be some who if they disappeared from my life would level it as surely as a natural disaster. I would put my eggs in more than one basket, I would hedge my bets. I would protect myself against reliving that gut-wrenching, soul-destroying period of my life, because while my body is adept at healing, my heart is not.

Which would explain why I pull away from the best thing that’s happened to me in almost four years, and ask the man who’s giving it to me, despite having absolutely no evidence that it might be true, “Are you drunk?”

Beckett

Am I drunk? What the hell kind of a question to ask a guy who’s kissing you? Who you seemed not opposed to kissing back? I mean, really. The answer is no, by the way. No, I’m not. I had my two beers over the space of several hours and even though I don’t drink really at all anymore, I can still handle two beers. My metabolism that’s always chugging away like a freight train means it’s long gone, and even if it weren’t, two beers isn’t enough to make a guy my size drunk.

I’m also insulted. First of all, did she really think I’d get wasted even this far out from a big competition? She’s counting on me to be my best, and we’ve worked literally for years for these, what, seven minutes? I wouldn’t fuck it up to get plastered. Also, does she think I’d come back here and get all up on her if I was drunk? I fucking wouldn’t. If anything, she’d probably find me out in the hallway in the morning because I’d be too afraid of waking Her Royal Ice Highness up to even come in. What the hell is she—

Huh. Is she maybe hoping that I’m buzzed? That me kissing her is alcohol-induced idiocy? And not something I’ve wanted to do for . . . well, frankly a while now. Also, while I might have a little swagger about how I do in the bedroom, I’m not kissing her because I want to prove my sexual prowess. I wanted to, and now that I know what it’s like, I want to do it more. Like, a lot more.

“No. I’m not drunk.” When she stiffens underneath me, and not in that way she does when she’s coming, but a much less awesome way, I know I’ve given the wrong answer. Wrong-ish? I don’t even know. This is confusing, and it’s making my head hurt. But if it’ll make her feel better to think this is a one-time thing because a couple of beers have made me a little sloppy, a little I-love-you-man, then fine. I’ve got time to convince her otherwise. I’ll walk back my declaration a little to see if that’s what she’s looking for. “But I might have a little buzz going on.”

“Beck . . .” Christ, I love it when she calls me Beck. She’s never done that before this week, and it guts me every time. Especially because I don’t think she realizes she’s doing it. I used to feel like not only did she want to call me Beckett, but she’d go full on Beckett Hughes or even so far as Beckett Donovan Hughes like my mom used to say when I was in serious trouble. That’s got like a mom trademark or something. “You shouldn’t be kissing me.”

That wasn’t a don’t kiss me, or stop kissing me. She said I shouldn’t be. Why not?

My eyes have finally gotten used to how dark it is in here, and I can see her face in the gloom, the shine of her eyes. Because she didn’t say stop—I would—I run my nose alongside hers, and drop another kiss on her perfect bow mouth while threading my fingers through her hair at the nape of her neck. “Why not?”

She sighs again, but this one’s ragged and harder. “Regret.”

The word cuts. Jubilee’s not known for her subtlety, no beating around the bush with this woman, which I’ve always appreciated. Don’t waste time on getting to the heart of the matter, just get in there and fix it, no matter the cost in blood. It’ll get better, faster. But this doesn’t feel better. I kiss her again, seeking the comfort of her mouth, and she doesn’t deny me.

“I’m not going to regret this, Jubilee.”

Another kiss, this one deeper. She finally grants me entrance, and I sweep my tongue through her mouth to really taste her. The sudden grip of her small hand on my neck startles me but then makes me moan into the sweet cavern of her mouth. There’s a small gasp from her, but she doesn’t pull back, doesn’t withdraw. No, she seems to be even more into it. Not just receptive, either, but actively contributing, and it makes my chest hurt at the same time my dick is getting hard.

When I’ve stroked my tongue against hers enough—for now—I pull back just enough to take her bottom lip between my teeth and nip. Now both her hands are in my hair, and for the love of everything holy, she’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.

She’s breathing hard, and while I know she’s a sturdy little thing because I toss her around on the ice and she gets up from bad spills like they were nothing, suddenly her body feels delicate under mine. Vulnerable, when I’ve never thought of her that way before. She’s always seemed impenetrable, invincible.

We’re not kissing anymore, just have our foreheads pressed together, breathing each other’s air, and that’s when she says it. “I didn’t say you would.”

Before I can think too much about what she might mean by that, she’s kissing me again, and tugging my body insistently. Go here.

I’m used to her being bossy on the ice, so it’s not hard to follow her instructions, her cues, until I’m stretched out on top of her. I’d worry about being heavy, but I also worry about leaving her alone, untethered. At least this way, she knows I’ve got her. If the roof collapsed, I’d bear the weight of the rubble and keep her safe. So I’ll stay here, exploring her mouth, inventorying the feel of her hair, the smooth skin of her neck and the, yeah, the softness of her pajamas with the hand that’s not cradling her. What is it tonight? More unicorns? Maybe cupcakes or tiaras? Doesn’t matter. It kills me that she wears real actual real pajamas, and it makes me feel a little pervy as I reach between us, seeking the buttons of her top.

She pulls down the bed covers and then rests her hands on either side of my ribcage while I attempt to undo them one-handed. If this were a bra? No problem. I perfected that move a long time ago. But buttons? Little trickier. Eventually I get them all undone and brush the fabric away from her torso, letting my skin touch hers, and . . .

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. Who does that, 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.