Hump Day: Tamsen Parker's ON THE BRINK OF PASSION
The 2018 Winter Olympics in PyeongChang drew to a close over the weekend and we already miss the romantic ice dancing performances. Fortunately Tamsen Parker has come to the rescue, filling this hole in our hearts with the story of a great love that begins at the Snow & Ice Games! On the Brink of Passion features figure skating partners whose platonic relationship blossoms into more after a lodging mixup finds them bunking together. The book won't be with us until next week, but we can all enjoy a super sexy excerpt today:
Second. That’s a good place to be. It’s not like the third and fourth place teams are nipping at our heels either. Yes, it’s possible they’ve got tricks up their sleeves that will put them in contention. It’s also possible (though highly unlikely) that the Russians will flub something in their program, just as it’s possible (though I also like to think highly unlikely) that Beckett and I will tank our program too.
A great deal of this sport is physical ability. Another large component of success is grace and elegance, not to mention the luck of finding a partner who’s a good match. What people don’t talk about as much is the psychological strain. You can do the same program a thousand times in a row perfectly, and then put a foot wrong on the thousand and first run. And then what do you do? A lot of people just fucking lose it. One step wrong and they’re lost. Recovery isn’t possible. Yes, they might get through the rest of their program, but you can see they may as well skate off the ice because they are done.
That’s one thing I loathe but respect about Daphne. From the first time we had a session together, she’s always insisted on me finishing what I start no matter how badly I fuck up. Her logic makes sense: there are no redos in competition. If you screw up, you just have to keep going and finish it off. You need to know how to rebound. I have learned this very well and pride myself on being able to get up off my ass and dust the ice shavings from my clothes—whether it be practice leggings or my swish little competition dresses.
These are the things I think about as we walk back to our suite. Beckett’s yammering on about…I don’t know, whatever he usually makes pleasant and inane conversation about. It’s music to my ears, his easy and excited tones. He’s easy. Easy to be with. When it’s not killing me, of course. This must be killing him too and yet he’s doing it anyway.
Back in our suite, I look around and realize that’s how I’ve been thinking of it: ours. For a while now too. It’s become not my suite that Beckett has invaded with his stuff, and his big voice and his too-curly hair, but ours. That is far too close to comfort.
Which is why I distract him with sex as soon as we walk through the door. Certainly not that I’ve been thinking about him kissing me, touching me since we sat, waiting for our scores.
He puts away his coat, and as per usual reaches out a hand for mine without checking to see that I’m going to relinquish it. I hand it to him, but don’t walk away like I usually do. No, I have something else in mind. As much as I like Beckett’s chatter—which he’s still supplying though there’s no demand—I can think of better way to occupy ourselves. I especially want to occupy Beckett so he doesn’t feel so bad about me refusing him earlier. So I’ll give him what I can and hope he doesn’t notice it wasn’t what he was after.
When he turns, he almost bumps into me. I take advantage of his proximity to push him against the door, which he is surprised by, to say the least.
“What are you—”
I cut him off by pressing myself up against up, going on tip toes to kiss him. Thoroughly. At first I can tell he doesn’t quite know how to handle this, but soon enough he seems willing to go along with whatever I want, probably because it’s me, wanting, and showing him that I do. This is what he’s wanted all along, and though I can’t possibly give in on the actual romantic, relationship things, the sex? Sure, why not. May as well, it’s as good a way to distract ourselves as any other.
When I’m finished—for the moment—kissing him, I grab his sleeve and tow him over to my bed, shoving him so that he sits with a bounce on the mattress. I’m angry and twitchy and desperate and basically a mess. But I can ignore all that if I focus on Beckett. It’s not difficult to do with him sitting there all handsome and perplexed.
I reach out and take the hem of his shirt in my hands, and strip him of it. The whorls of light hair on his chest are so tempting. I want to feel the coarseness under my fingers, so I do. Skim the pads over his pecs and toward the waistband of his pants.
He could tease me—sit down, stand up, what do you want from me, lady?—but he silently follows my instructions and doesn’t blink an eye when I peel his pants over his hips and down his legs. He cooperates, lifting each foot in turn until he’s completely nude. He’s… He knows he’s an attractive guy. But his muscles and his power mean more to me than being pretty or fun to touch. They enable me to do what I do best, they let me do it better because I believe in his strength, trust him to use it to not let me fall. Maybe it’s narcissism to think so, but he looks this way for me. Not for my pleasure but for my safety and fulfillment. My appreciation for his form reaches into all the deepest parts of me.
Which would explain why I push him back onto the bed. “Lay down.”
Without a question, he does as I’ve asked, and I strip down to my bra and my underwear before straddling him. He’s hard already, his cock basically begging to be taken into my hand, rising up as it is. So I grip him at his base, stroke leisurely, and love the way his breath rushes through his teeth as he sharply inhales.
His skin is soft and smooth, interrupted only by veins that make him look more like a living, breathing being than a statue. He’s warm too; so very real and so very here. I want to distract myself, and experience more of him while I have the chance, so I shift back a bit, bestriding his leg so I can lean down and take him in my mouth.
As I do, he lets out a harsh and garbled exclamation, something that sounds an awful lot like “Jesus, Jubilee.”
The auditory show continues as I swirl my tongue around his crown and suck lightly. Beckett can be stingy with his praise on the rink, but still far more generous than I am. Here though, he holds nothing back, telling me how much he loves this, how good it’s making him feel. It makes me feel good too, equal parts pleasure and craving curling in my belly and making me rock my hips against his leg while I fellate him.
Maybe I should be embarrassed about frotting against him, but it feels too good to care, the grinding of my clit on his knee is in time with how I’m fellating him. Can he feel the wetness gathering between my legs or does the thin strip of cotton prevent that? He’ll at least be able to feel my heat, and there’s no mistaking my desperation for him. In this at least. Let me binge on him this way even if I can’t bring myself to even nibble at the rest of what he’s trying to hand me on a platter.
It shouldn’t surprise me that Jubilee is good at giving head. She could conquer anything she puts her mind to, and apparently she determined that giving phenomenal blow jobs was something worth her considerable focus and effort. As much as I’m enjoying this though, and goddamn, am I ever, I also want to touch her. Have some of her to myself, more than just the silky hair I have between my fingers so I can watch what she’s doing.
On the other hand, I am fricking loving that she’s grown so comfortable with me, with this, with us, that she’s basically humping my leg. Jubilee is always dignified, always in control, always has that pert little nose of hers stuck up in the air, and for her to be this…human, this uninhibited with me? Makes me come undone a bit.
Yes, I’d like to have her in my hands, make her feel good, but maybe this isn’t about me right now. I mean, it is, because I am getting some really fantastic head, but I don’t feel as though she’s keeping something from me. This is something she’s giving me, and I should appreciate that for what it is. Especially because the way the rub of her pussy on my leg is in in time with how she’s bobbing up and down on my cock. We’re kind of fucking by proxy and it feels almost more intimate than when we’ve had intercourse.
But why the hell am I even trying to analyze this right now? She feels good, she’s making me feel good, and her mouth is a special kind of heaven. That sharp tongue of hers is licking broad strokes, taking a beat to concentrate on the sensitive underside of my tip, and Christ on a cracker, I’m just… I’m so close. I don’t want this to be over, but I’m also not ashamed that it hasn’t taken all that long for me to get to the point where I’m about to lose all control.
“Jubilee—” I’d call her Juju because it’s so much easier than the three taut syllables, but the woman would so bite me for that and it would be a dick move so I wouldn’t be able to blame her for it. “I’m gonna come soon. You’re making me feel so good, and I’m so close. Don’t want to surprise you. I’ll tell you.”
There’s a small nod, and she picks up the pace both rutting against me and also the way she’s sucking me. Then the noises start, these desperate little hums and moans, and the vibration shoots all the way up through my cock into my balls and they draw up tight. I want to hold off until she’s gotten hers, though I’d be happy to finish her off any way she wants if that doesn’t work out. I like seeing her this way, though, and I want her to take her pleasure, on her terms. Like too that she can get so turned on by sucking me that she seems close.
God, yeah. And then the way she’s moving on me goes from rhythmic to uneven, and she presses hard with her hips and stops blowing me. I’m kinda sad to not be in her mouth anymore but then she rocks forward and presses my dick to her chest, in between her breasts. It’s such a pretty picture, and she’s still jerking me with her hand. Her eyes are closed and bites her lip before she says, “Fuck, Beck, I’m coming. God, yes.”
That. That is the final straw, hearing her voice rasping with pleasure, and seeing the way she clutches my cock, still trying to get me off even as she’s in the throes of orgasm.
“I’m with you, I’m right there with you.” And there I am, my own climax pulsing through me. Maybe it makes me kind of a caveman, but I love the look of my come spurting on her chest and over her hand. She doesn’t seem to mind it either, holding my throbbing dick in her hot little hand until I’m completely spent.
What I don’t totally expect is the little laugh she lets out, and the unguarded, goofy smile that lights up her face, the way she looks at me when it’s all over, like she’s not sorry, not one little bit.
On the Brink of Passion will be available in digital on March 6. Copies start at $3.99, grab yours here: Amazon | B&N | Google Play | iBooks | Kobo. You can also find more stories of love at the Olympics here!
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