Beckett

The weight room isn’t exactly where most people would expect to find figure skaters. Most people are idiots.

I may not be built like a linebacker, but I sure as hell work out like one—though since I’m usually training alongside women who think it makes dudes look douchey, I’ve learned to hold back on the grunting. Doesn’t mean lifting this shit is easy. It’s not, although it’s more regularly shaped and balanced than the woman I’m usually lifting, which makes it easier in some ways, even if the load is heavier. No way would I call Jubilee irregular to her face, though.

She’s next to me doing her own sets of upright rows. Some pairs I know rotate around each other in the gym, since it’s not like we’re doing precisely the same exercises at the same time—yeah, a lot of them are the same, but different muscle groups are more important to her than they are to me and vice versa. But since day one, Jubilee and I have worked alongside each other, and even though we’re not talking or even consciously paying attention to one another mostly, I feel like it’s been good in just getting used to being close. To absorb the way Jubilee’s body moves, how her muscles work. To hear her breathing. Some of that’s maybe woo-woo mumbo jumbo, but what the hell—it’s worth a shot, yeah? Either one of us would do just about anything to be better, and this doesn’t cost a damn thing.

When Jubilee’s finished her set, she reaches for her water bottle, but I swipe it before she can bring it to her lips. It’s empty. It’s been empty the last two times she’s tried to take a drink, too. I’m usually the forgetful one—as Jubilee never fails to remind me—but for some reason, she can’t keep her damn water bottle filled. In the gym or in our suite.

I jog over to the filling station to fill hers up and top off mine, and when I get back and hand it over, she looks me up and down like she’s never quite seen me before.

“Thanks,” she says right before she pops the top and squirts a stream of water into her mouth. It’s actually kinda dirty. But I’ll keep it in my pants for now, although I make no promises about later. It’s been a few days since we had sex, and I’d like for that to change.

“You’re welcome.” That was definitely not overly suggestive, but she rolls her eyes anyway before taking another long drink. I’ll take it.

We keep working our way around the weight room together, and when we’re in the middle of our plyometrics, there’s a disturbance in the Force. Not that I’m actually a Jedi, but it just feels like there’s someone around, too close, who shouldn’t be. So after I’ve finished up my set of box jumps, I look around. And who should be standing there with one eyebrow raised and a kind of evil smile on her face but Sabrina. Not exactly who I want to see right now.

And judging by the way Jubilee is glaring at her, Sabrina isn’t on her VIP list either. Seriously, Jubilee’s glare should turn Sabrina to stone. Maybe since Sabrina’s not paying her a bit of attention, it doesn’t have the same effect. No, Sabrina’s definitely only got eyes for me, and I don’t like it. As if that’s ever stopped her.

Not asking if she’s interrupting our workout—she fucking knows she is and doesn’t care—she walks straight up to me and presses a hand to my chest.

“Beckett.” I know that purr. Used to enjoy it, too, but not anymore. Now that I know what kind of viciousness is behind it, it makes reluctance crawl up my spine.

“Hey, Sabrina.” I take a step back to get her to stop touching me, but she doesn’t stop, just steps forward, into my space. Having people in my personal space doesn’t bother me so much. I’m a friendly guy, and I spend most of my days being ridiculously close to a person who doesn’t like me all that much, but that’s our fucking job. Also, I take public transportation regularly. I can’t be too much of a cream puff about it. But this makes me uncomfortable. Take a hint, lady.

It’s partly that my pride still smarts a bit from Sabrina ditching me. Yeah, I’m like a thousand times better off with Jubilee, but rejection never feels good. Sabrina had me, she didn’t want me, so she gave me up. Fine. It’s not like I’m collateral at a pawn shop, though. She has no right to get me back in any capacity, and that includes her touching me.

I’m sweaty and hot from our workout, but the crawling heat of embarrassment and of not wanting to be touched by Sabrina is making me warmer and more flushed.

“Where’s Todd?” I’m hoping my question will drag her attention back to where it’s supposed to be—training, preparing—but it doesn’t work. Instead, she trails a nail between my pecs and then over my abs, and I feel like I might puke. I don’t want this, I don’t like it, but I’m not quite sure how to get out of it. We have a history, and we’re currently competitors, but also teammates, and it’s just really fucking complicated. Too much for my brain that’s way better at making my body do what I tell it to than anything else.

“He’s over there.” She tips her head to where Todd’s started his circuit, but makes no move to join him. Just toys with the drawstring on my shorts in a way that makes my balls want to crawl up into my body.

I open my mouth to say I don’t know what, but then there’s a voice from behind me. A voice like an icicle stabbing someone in the chest.

“Then I feel like that’s where you ought to be, too.”

I’ve never in my life been so glad Jubilee’s got my back.

Sabrina’s fingers stop moving, but she doesn’t take her hand away. Instead, she looks past me to where Jubilee must be standing. “I don’t need to supervise Todd.”

“And I don’t need to supervise Beckett. We keep an eye out for each other.”

I hadn’t known Jubilee thought about it like that. But it’s true—sometimes she corrects my form in the gym, or I spot her and vice versa. When I was with Sabrina, it had felt like being supervised, and when Jubilee had done the same thing, it chafed at first, but that feeling faded. I hadn’t realized why until now.

“Well you might want to keep an eye on your boy. He’s always got an eye for the hottest new thing.”

That is ridiculously unfair. Which is what I’m about to say when Jubilee beats me to it and comes up alongside me, threading an arm around my waist. It makes Sabrina back up and, in the process, drop her hand from my waistband, thank god.

I put my arm around Jubilee’s shoulders, because leaving her hanging wouldn’t be cool. Also, I like the way she feels next to me. Small, yeah, but also like she might kick Sabrina’s ass.

“I don’t appreciate what you’re insinuating. You two were long over by the time Beckett and I teamed up. Now if you’ll excuse us, we have some work to do, and god knows you do.”

There’s a tug at my waist, and with one last blink at a curled-lip Sabrina, I follow Jubilee wherever she’s taking me.

Jubilee

We’re back in the suite after our workout, which was followed by hours of press, some ice time, and then dinner, followed by yet more press. Life as a figure skater is mostly pretty quiet because people don’t tend to care until the SIGs, and I’m sure the contrast is even starker for the more obscure sports.

Yes, we’re on a bit of a media blitz and it’s partially my fault because I seek these things out, but who can blame me? This is our shot. Press means sponsorships, and it means people outside of the sport knowing your name. I’m lucky that I don’t have to live off the money I make from skating now or will make in the future, but I know Beckett isn’t exactly a trust fund baby. Maybe he thinks I’m being a pain in the ass, but a lot of this is for him.

At any rate, we’re back now, and while I certainly wouldn’t mind having the place to myself, it’s taken approximately zero time for me to get used to having Beckett here. Yes, he can be noisier than I’d like, but he also does thoughtful things like fill up my water bottle when it’s empty and fix a shade that almost fell on my head. I’ve tried in turn to be a decent human being. Now that I’ve seen how Sabrina probably talked to him when they were partners, that seems like a step up.

I don’t know how he tolerated her for so long. She doesn’t seem to have much respect for him. And as much as Beckett might sleep around, I’ve never gotten the impression that he leads on his hook-ups or promises more than he delivers. He’s certainly a responsible and devoted partner on the ice. Yes, I can be bossy and maybe a titch domineering, but that’s not a reflection on Beckett. I’m just lucky he’s easygoing enough to put up with me.

He’s hanging up his jacket in the closet, and holds out a hand for mine without even looking back at me. Beckett’s good at those little things, at anticipating. Our fingers brush as I hand him my parka, and there’s a . . . “spark” isn’t the right word, but I don’t know how else to describe it.

I touch Beckett all the damn time. Like for hours and hours every single day. So there’s really no explanation as to why this completely innocent touch should have the same impact as if he’d dragged his feet across carpet and then shocked me. But I am. Shocked. Because that insignificant amount of contact felt . . . significant. Like it traveled from my fingertips through my hand and up my arm, making a quick pulsing stop in my heart—and then headed south.

Do not get ideas, body.

It’s been several days since the dare sex. Despite my best efforts, I’d enjoyed it and had had to get myself off after Beckett fell asleep. At least he goddamn well better have been asleep, because I don’t need him getting ideas.

Beckett hasn’t mentioned the sex again. But unless he’s insultingly speedy—which I now know from experience he isn’t—there’s no way he’s been fucking someone else. Maybe he’s decided to let it go. That would be the mature thing to do.

“Hey, Jubilee?”

I totally spaced out. How long have I been standing here in my socks and thinking about not having sex with Beckett? Because I’m definitely not thinking about having sex with Beckett. Nope, not one ounce of me is picturing what the other day might’ve been like if I’d just let him—

“Seriously. Earth to Jubilee?”

“Yeah, what?” Okay, sounding cranky is only moderately better than having a breathy sex voice.

Beckett’s leaning against the wall by the closet, arms crossed over his lean torso, and he’s got that goofy, lopsided smile. What is he up to now?

“I was thinking . . .”

Oh my god, never a good idea.

I wait for him to go on, but he’s just staring at me. And unlike the tens of thousands of times a day he’s watching me because otherwise he’ll drop me on my ass or kick me in the face or some other sort of unpleasantness, there’s a weight to his regard. I can feel it on my skin. The way his gaze is tracing the lines of my body that he knows are under my clothes. As much as I’d like to, I can’t deny that the ghost of a touch sends that same tingle through my nervous system. Not okay.

“And?”

Beckett pushes off the wall in a fluid movement, and his hands come to his hips. “It’s been a few days.”

Shit. “So?”

“So if I hadn’t made this freaky weird deal with you, I’d have either had sex with a woman a few times, had sex a few times with different women, or a combination of the above.”

“Your propositioning technique needs some work there, Casanova.”

Poor Beckett looks somewhat affronted. “Look, I’d be happy to use some of my best game, but last time I checked, you didn’t want any of the bells and whistles, you just wanted to get it over with. Which is it?”

God help me that when he says that I picture his big hand not taking up a bell to ring, but sculpting around my breast, maybe even rolling a nipple between those thick fingers of his, and instead of his lips wrapping around the cold metal of a whistle, his mouth meeting my own in a kiss, all stroking tongues and soft moans.

No. This is just a way to keep Beckett from bringing home some Canadian hockey star or—Christ, he could totally pull this off—the entire Swedish curling team. It has everything to do with me not wanting my sleep interrupted and absolutely zero to do with that pinch of—what is that? Surely not jealousy. Definitely not possessiveness. Yes, I’d felt a little of that when Sabrina was touching him earlier, but that was purely professional interest in keeping his old partner away from him.

Unless he wants to go back to her? Or maybe he just wants to sleep with her again? He hadn’t seemed to be interested at all, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t. After all, I’m Exhibit A that Beckett doesn’t need to like the people he fucks. And neither do I. It’s better that way, actually.

I glance at the clock on my bedside table. “Fine, but you haven’t got long because we need to go to sleep. Big day tomorrow.”

Beckett

And people accuse guys of not being romantic. I think Jubilee’s got them all beat. She’s already started taking off the rest of her clothes, and while I can’t say I mind the view, because she’s a beautiful woman, I wouldn’t mind a little more teasing or sexiness or, I don’t know, fun. Her wanting me to want her. Her wanting me, period.

Since I know that’s not going to happen, I start my conjuring game again, making up a Jubilee who would be happy to have me as her lover, and not just resigned to allowing me to have intercourse with her—because hell, that’s what this is, it’s not making love, fucking, or even having sex, it’s as boring and clinical as she can make it. Which is still probably less boring than she’d like for it to be, what with all the dropped breadcrumbs of pleasure.

But my fantasy Jubilee? When we got back to the suite from all the stuff we had to do today, and I reached for her coat to hang up in the closet, I’d get a fistful of lacy bra instead, and she’d be standing there naked when I turned around. If it was humanly possible, my mouth would drop even further open, but instead of making fun of me, she’d just smile before closing the gap between us and resting her hands on either side of the placket of my shirt just before reaching for my buttons.

I didn’t like the way Sabrina was touching you earlier, she’d say, looking up at me through those dark lashes while her fingers deftly undid button after button.

I didn’t like it either.

She’d peel off my shirt, run her hands over my pecs, my abs, scratching lightly with her nails, hard enough to leave white trails that would disappear almost immediately in the wake of her touch. And then she’d be undoing my belt . . .

You’re mine now, Beckett. Mine. Sabrina didn’t know what she had but I do, and I’m never letting you go. Button and fly undone, she’d slide a hand into my shorts and give my hard dick a stroke and a squeeze. Don’t you forget it.

I’d tell her I wouldn’t, before I took her mouth in a kiss.

That’s the scenario that’s got me hard even as Jubilee is standing in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips, looking bored.

“Can we move this along? I’m tired and we really should be in bed soon.”

Good thing dream Jubilee is far more enthusiastic, because IRL Jubilee is doing her best to ruin my hard-on.

“Fine, get on my bed.”

She struts over, plops down, and kicks her feet up. If things were different, she might almost look like she was waiting to be serviced. I could be down for playing like that sometimes. It would sure as hell be a lot more boner-inducing than knowing she’s merely waiting for this to be over. Guy can dream.

I try to keep fantasy Jubilee in my head while I take my clothes off—You’re mine, Beckett. Don’t you forget it—and that helps me stay hard. That and the fact that Jubilee is an incredibly attractive woman and she’s in my bed. This time, this time, she’s going to enjoy it. Whether she wants to or not.

Climbing onto the bed, I settle between her thighs, and lean forward, heading for a kiss, but she turns her head. That’s fine. I kiss the long column of her neck instead, sliding my fingers into her dark, soft hair as I do. Mostly it’s tied up for practice or shellacked into some functional but pretty updo for competitions, so I’ve never really been able to feel it before. Somehow I didn’t expect it to be soft—because nothing else about her is—but it is.

I keep kissing her, down to her collarbones and the crest of her shoulder. Jubilee shifts underneath me, and I can’t tell the tone of the squirm. Do squirms have tones? If I was with someone else, I might take that as a cue that this was giving them pants feelings, and they liked it. I should keep going. But with Jubilee, nothing’s a given.

There’s not so much on this earth that could stop me from sinking my teeth into her trapezius, and since as far as I know there’s no alien invasion or imminent nuclear apocalypse, I’m gonna go right ahead. She gasps, a quick and violent inhale that she smothers as soon as she can, but it doesn’t hide the shudder that runs from where I’ve released my gentle bite all the way down to her toes.

Just as suddenly as those signs that I was getting to her appear, they disappear.

“What are you doing?”

That wasn’t a direct order to stop, so I don’t. Nope. I let my lips and my teeth and my tongue coast over her shoulder, and to the underside of her collarbone, headed toward her small, gorgeous breasts.

“It’s called foreplay. You should try it sometime.”

The way she goes stiff as a board underneath me says I went too far.

“I know what foreplay is, and I’ve had plenty, thank you.” I can hear in my head how that must’ve sounded to her ears. Sure, insult the bedroom skills of the dead husband she adored. Way to go, Hughes.

“Hey, I’m sorry, okay?” To make that very clear, I trail open-mouthed kisses down the valley between her breasts. “I just meant I’d like for you to enjoy yourself, that’s all.”

Even though it’s been left unsaid, Stephen’s name still hangs in the air. You’re a real shitface, Beck.

I could, and maybe should, call the whole thing off. Now that I’ve got my mouth on her skin though, and a hand curved around her waist, I don’t want to. And hell, it’s been four years. Jubilee deserves to have another man who will please her. I don’t know if she’s had the odd one night stand here or there, but she hasn’t dated anyone since we’ve been skating together, that I know for certain.

One-and-dones aren’t always bad, but there’s nothing like a person who knows your hot buttons and exploits them. Takes everything they’ve learned from the countless times you’ve gotten it on, and strings them together in a way that makes you lose your fucking mind. It’s so much better, why won’t she let me give that to her? I like to think I could, if she’d fucking let me.

“Why does it matter to you anyway?”

The question makes me stop mid-lick, and look up at her. She’s staring at the ceiling, and blinking way faster than normal.

“What?”

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 quick wham - 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 . . . want this. 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. Like probably - leaving - a - spot - on - his - sheets wet.

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.

It’s easy at first, to pretend I don’t want him. To act like the way he’s pressing into me and then withdrawing on a slick glide isn’t the best thing I’ve felt in years. Take a swallow, close my eyes, and feign disinterest. Until there’s a sigh, and it’s not a blissful one.

When I turn to face him and dare to open my eyes, it’s Beckett’s face lined with strain and some brand of displeasure.

“Look, I . . .”

Oh, no. No, no, no, no.

“I’m trying here, but to be honest, this is freaking me out. I like having sex with willing partners. Maybe that’s technically true here, but you don’t actually want to be doing this. I thought permission would be okay, but that was back when I didn’t think this ridiculous idea would get this far, and now I want something more like enthusiasm. This is . . . I don’t even know. You feel really good to me, but I can’t do this with you just lying here. And before you ask, this isn’t an ego thing. It’s like a fundamental human thing, and if this is how it’s going to be, I can’t.”

This has got to be the oddest conversation I’ve ever had while having sex. By miles. It makes me like Beckett more. Which up until about a week ago, I hadn’t thought was that much. He was fine. An excellent complement to me on the ice, and that was all I wanted, all I needed. And now he’s fucking things up. Dammit, Beckett.

While part of me wants to say, Fine, do whatever you want with whoever you want, the idea of him being with someone else—especially with Sabrina—makes a hot coal of jealousy flare to life in my stomach. Which is not something I want to stoke at all. Also, I really do need my sleep and I don’t want him coming in at all hours from his exploits. All of these things—particularly the last one, which is mostly what this is, practicality—add up to me telling him in the prissiest voice I can muster while trying not to pant, “Fine. I’ll try to do better. Okay?”

He narrows his eyes, the light blue peeking out from between his barely-there lashes. “Are you sure? I really—”

“Yes, really. Just don’t—don’t go outside and flag down the first woman you see and solicit her for sex, okay?” There’s an involuntary shake, almost shudder, of my head, and I huff out a breath. I’m a disaster, an honest-to-god calamity, but the corner of Beckett’s mouth has turned up. It’s like he almost believes me, but not quite. I say it again. “I’ll do better.”

“Okay.”