On the Brink of Passion_Snow & Ice Games by Tamsen Parker

Author:Tamsen Parker
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

Chapter Nine

Jubilee

Wow. When we first started this ridiculous agreement, I hadn’t wanted Beckett to be good in bed. I’d wanted him to be a lackluster lay that I could just tune out for. Roll my eyes while he pumped away, maybe mutter a couple of oh-babys, and be done after a couple of minutes because he can probably pick up women easily enough that he’s never had to develop his stamina in the sack, unlike on the ice. Well, I was wrong.

He had the courtesy to collapse partly to the side of me, though the bed’s so small he’s still partially on top of me, and I don’t mind it. Mostly when I sleep with men, the last thing I want to do is cuddle. Orgasm? Done. Check please! I don’t like their strange bodies, or their weird smells, or their inane attempts at pillow talk.

Beckett is different. He’s familiar, and I kinda like the way he smells. Even when he’s sweaty, because that means he’s working hard, and that effort is devoted in part to me.

His head is resting on my chest, his warm breath drifting across my breasts he’d devoted so much attention to earlier. Absentmindedly, I reach up a hand until my fingers are running through his curls, careful not to tug because he deserves a rest after that performance.

It’s quiet. I’m warm, comfortable, sated, and this is the closest to peace I’ve felt since—

I suddenly feel like I’m being squeezed by a giant hand from shoulder to knee. Not only can’t I breathe right because my lungs are being crushed, but I feel as though I’m dangling from a great height. If that hand lets go, I will fall, and I know what it feels like to be dropped. To hit the ground hard at a crushing angle with unfortunate velocity. It hurts, and leaves you wounded, doing physical therapy for months, not able to see straight in the moment.

It’s not real. This is the message my rational brain tries to send to the rest of me, but the other part of my brain, the part that’s orchestrating this delightful panic attack, is far more compelling. My pounding heart? Doesn’t listen. My constricted lungs? Do not give a shit. My vision, which is convincing me there are in fact black spots dancing in front of my eyes because of a dangerous lack of oxygen? This is fucking performance art.

Even though I know better—because the thing is, I know—I can’t help it. I need to get up, I need to get out of here, I need to not have Beckett’s lovely curl-covered head and his charmingly protective arm suffocating me. Since I’m on the wall-side of the bed, I can’t just sneak out. So I do what any freaking-the-fuck-out girl would do in my position.

I push him off the bed.

He lands with a muffled thud, and before he can say or do anything, I bound over him and into the bathroom where I can have my meltdown in peace.

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