Beckett

There are a lot of things about my life that are out of the ordinary. Not that many people ice skate for a living, even fewer people figure skate for a living, and even fewer of those people are dudes. I used to think that was the weirdest thing about my existence, but I might have been wrong. Having sex with Jubilee is definitely up there.

She’s closed her eyes again, but instead of keeping her hands stubbornly on the bed, she’s holding onto my shoulders. Almost tentatively, as if she’s not sure where to put her hands while she’s having sex with someone, but it is better, so I’m not going to hassle her about that. I do wish she’d look at me, so I’d know she was thinking about having sex with me and not just . . . Nope, no way, can’t let my mind wander to that place. It’s her business who she wants to fantasize about during sex.

Is that the inch she’s going to give? Touching me and not turning her head to the side? I’d hoped for better, but maybe this has to be enough. Except then she moves. Rocks her hips up against me and bends her knees—to get more leverage? To take me deeper? For comfort? Any or all of those things would be more than okay with me. It feels really fucking amazing, and I answer her with a thrust of my own that makes a breath escape from her mouth.

Unlike last time, she doesn’t hide the rhythm she wants but gives it to me willingly. It’s quieter, less . . . fun than the sex I’m used to having, but it’s not bad. Definitely more intense because I’m trying so hard to please her though she doesn’t seem to want to be pleased.

Then there’s a small noise, a hiccup almost, except not, and the way Jubilee squeezes her eyes even more tightly shut makes me think she didn’t mean to let me hear that. It’s followed not so long after by another one, accompanied by her nails digging into my shoulders and a speeding up of how she’s moving against me. I mirror her, thrusting harder to meet her and then there’s a surprising but unmistakable feeling: the pulse of a woman’s orgasm around my dick. And Christ is it marvelous. So marvelous, I spill right then as her internal muscles still grip me, encouraging my own climax to pour right out of me.

I bite back the words I’d normally say because it doesn’t seem quite right to be so enthusiastic about this, even if Jubilee did come this time. I’d thought maybe last time she’d enjoyed herself. I may have even dreamed a repeat performance that night during which she orgasmed with these soft, breathy gasps that she was trying to swallow. It was so vivid, I’d almost thought it was happening for real and not just in my dream. I’d sworn to myself as I came to consciousness just enough to roll over and smush the pillow into a more comfortable lump that dammit, someday I’d make her come so hard she wouldn’t be able to contain herself, and she’d have to cry out her pleasure. Apparently, that day is not today. But her climax feels like a victory unto itself.

After catching my breath a bit, I pull out and take the condom off with a tissue. I’ll clean up for real later. For now, I’ll do the bare minimum because I don’t want to miss out on what’s hopefully a post-orgasm cuddly Jubilee. But when I turn back, she’s sitting up on the other side of the bed, looking like she’s ready to get up. What the heck?

“Hey. I thought you’d . . .”

She glances at me over her shoulder, and her expression leaves me cold. She doesn’t look like a woman who just had an epic orgasm. She looks more like someone who found something upsettingly nasty on the bottom of her shoe.

“Thought I’d what? I thought I was done fulfilling my obligation. You’re done, right?”

Like a kid looking to be excused from the dinner table after having choked down a Brussels sprout. What the hell? I know women can fake orgasms, like the sounds of them, but the feel of them? I feel like that would be way harder, and what reason would Jubilee possibly have for doing that and then lying about it? Seems like a lot of effort for no reason. Far more likely is that she did in fact come and doesn’t want to admit it. I don’t totally get why. Maybe it has something to do with feeling like she’s betraying Stephen? Maybe she actually hates my guts and is mad that her body turned on her by letting her climax with someone she loathes? Maybe she’s been playing icy so long that the connection between her pussy and her brain is frozen over? That doesn’t even sound possible and yet my mind is reaching for any reason why she might be doing this. Not finding it, I let her go.

“Yeah, I’m done.”

She stands up, and with the most perfect posture I’ve ever seen, walks into the bathroom and doesn’t look back.

Jubilee

The toilet in our bathroom is not the most comfortable place to sit, but a bed of nails would probably be more comfortable than Beckett’s bed right about now. I just had one of the best orgasms of my life, and then I lied about it. What the fuck is wrong with me?

I mean, I’ve got some ideas, including the whole husband - and - partner - dropping - dead - on - me thing, but other people recover from those kinds of things, right? Other widows go on to lead happy and fulfilling lives? They’re not forever paralyzed by fear and doubt and terror of actually liking another human being, right? Right? And yet here I am, trying not to cry and/or hyperventilate, while also still feeling a bit rubbery in the knees and pleasantly sore between my legs from some really high-caliber sex.

What I should do is go out there and tell Beckett the truth. It’s not a good idea to undermine your partner’s confidence less than two weeks out from the biggest performance of your lives. Then again, it’s not a good idea to start sleeping with the aforementioned partner at this point in time either, and yet here we are. What am I supposed to say to him anyhow? I can’t even explain my own actions to myself, and I have all the information. And no doubt Beckett would have questions. As well he ought to, because what the fuck?

I hear him moving around outside in the suite, because the doors in this place are unfortunately thin. There’s a pretty long list of things I’d rather have happen than Beckett realizing I’m having some sort of orgasm-induced break with reality.

So before he can knock on the door and do something considerate like ask if I’m okay, I finish up and walk out completely naked. Luckily I don’t have to face him as I slide the drawers of the dresser open and pull out my very favorite set of pajamas: white flannel with turquoise and purple mermaids on them. The best part is that the mermaids’ hair is sparkly. Not with glued on glitter or some other substance that likely would’ve come out in the wash at some point during the roughly thousand times I’ve washed them either. No, there’s sparkly thread woven into it, and every time I put them on, they make me happy. I need all the happy comfort I can get right about now. At least I won’t have to furtively rub one out while hoping Beckett’s asleep like I did last time.

I complain about his snoring, but really he doesn’t do it all night. I kind of wished he would, because I’m only 75% certain he didn’t hear me the other day. As things are, I curl up under my own sheets, facing away from him, trying to slow my racing mind so I can sleep. It’s utterly ridiculous that I find myself wishing I was back in Beckett’s bed because maybe it would be easier to fall asleep with his arms around me. It’s easier to fall with him catching me everywhere else.