Chapter 12 The York Christmas Dinner #3
The Jeep's tires crunch over fresh snow as Jax navigates the winding streets back toward the city.
Streetlights cast orange glows on the drifts piling up along the curbs.
My hand rests on the gear shift, fingers still tangled with his.
The heater blasts warm air, fogging the edges of the windshield.
AC/DC fades out on the radio, replaced by some staticky holiday jingle that Jax snaps off with a flick of his wrist.
"Drive-thru or sit-down?" Jax asks. His voice cuts through the quiet, rough around the edges from the cold.
I glance at him. Snowflakes melt in his curls, turning them darker. "Drive-thru. I want grease. Now."
Jax grins. The Jeep lurches forward as he accelerates. "Attaboy. There's a spot on Elm that does double patties with extra cheese. Fries that could kill a lesser man."
We pull into the glowing lot fifteen minutes later.
The speaker crackles with a bored voice.
Jax orders enough food to feed a surgical team—burgers stacked high, onion rings crisp from the fryer, shakes thick as concrete.
I pay with a card from my wallet, ignoring the judgmental beep of the machine.
The bag lands in my lap, hot and heavy, grease already spotting the paper.
Jax parks in the empty lot across the street, engine idling. He rips open the bag and hands me a burger. "Dig in, Princess. No forks required."
I unwrap it. The bun steams in the cold air. I take a bite—juicy beef, sharp cheddar, tang of pickles. Sauce drips down my chin. I don't wipe it away. Instead, I chew and swallow, savoring the chaos of it. Jax watches me, his own burger halfway to his mouth.
"You eat like you're defusing a bomb," he says.
"It's a precision operation." I lick sauce from my thumb. "Unlike your method, which involves inhaling."
Jax laughs. He shoves a fistful of fries into his mouth, chewing with exaggerated slowness. "See? Adaptable."
We eat in the Jeep, windows cracked to let out the steam.
The food warms us from the inside, chasing away the chill of the estate.
Jax tells a story about a trauma call where he stabilized a guy with nothing but duct tape and a straw—exaggerated, no doubt, but it pulls a laugh from me.
A real one, not the polite noise I reserve for boardrooms.
"Home?" Jax asks when the wrappers litter the floorboards.
I nod.
Jax shifts into drive. The Jeep roars back onto the road.
His apartment building looms on the edge of downtown—a brick relic with fire escapes zigzagging the facade. Jax parks in a spot marked with faded yellow lines. We climb the stairs, my loafers slipping on icy steps. Jax unlocks the door on the third floor, shoulder-checking it open.
The place assaults my senses. Clothes drape over the back of a sagging couch. Empty coffee mugs cluster on the table like forgotten patients. A guitar leans against the wall, strings dull with dust. The air smells of stale takeout and something metallic, like old surgical tools.
"Welcome to my humble abode," Jax says. He kicks off his boots, sending them thudding into the corner.
I step inside, coat still buttoned. The mess presses in, but tonight it doesn't grate. It feels like permission. I hang my coat on a hook overloaded with jackets.
Jax heads to the kitchenette—a narrow strip of counter cluttered with protein bar wrappers. He pulls a bottle from a high cabinet. Clear liquid sloshes inside. "Cheap vodka. The kind that strips paint. You in?"
"Pour."
He grabs two mismatched glasses— one a hospital mug, the other chipped glass. Ice clinks from the freezer. He fills them halfway, hands me one. "To dessert forks."
I clink my glass against his. The vodka burns down my throat, sharp and unforgiving. No smoothness, no refined notes. Just fire. I cough once, then take another sip.
Jax flops onto the couch, legs sprawled. "Sit. You're hovering like a resident on rounds."
I lower myself beside him. The cushions sink under my weight. Jax tops off our glasses. We drink, the bottle emptying faster than expected. Warmth spreads through my chest, loosening the knots from dinner.
"Tell me about Preston," Jax says. He swirls his glass, ice rattling.
I lean back, glasses fogging from the heat. "Preston. The spare heir. He's brilliant with numbers, but Father treats him like a faulty valve. Mother uses him as leverage against me."
Jax nods. "Sounds about right. Kid's got fire, though. That clove cigarette bit? Rebellion in progress."
"Perhaps." The vodka hits harder now. My words slur at the edges. "He asked to come with us. Imagine that—Preston York in a Jeep."
Jax laughs, deep and rumbling. He sets his glass down, arm brushing mine. "You were the star tonight. Standing up to them. That fork move? Gold."
Heat rises in my face, not just from the alcohol. "It was impulsive."
"Impulsive suits you." Jax's hand lands on my thigh, solid and warm.
I don't pull away. The room spins a little, the mess blurring into abstract shapes. I drain my glass. Jax refills it without asking.
We talk more—about surgeries gone wrong, patients who haunt us.
Jax admits a case from Afghanistan, a kid who walked on an IED he couldn't save.
His voice cracks on the details. I share stories about growing up, the unbearable expectations I always had placed on me as a York.
The vodka strips away the filters. Words flow unchecked.
"You're not like them," Jax says. His face inches closer. "You're real. Messy under that ice."
"Messy." I snort. The word tastes foreign. "I'm controlled. Precise."
"Not tonight." Jax's fingers trace my jaw. "Tonight, you're mine."
The kiss starts slow, his mouth tasting of vodka and salt from the fries. I grip his shirt, pulling him closer. The couch creaks under us. Jax breaks away, stands, and hauls me to my feet. He leads me to the bedroom, door ajar.
The room matches the rest—bed unmade, sheets twisted, clothes on the floor.
A lamp casts a dim glow. Jax kicks the door shut.
He strips off his shirt, revealing the shrapnel scar twisting across his ribs, the tattoo sleeve inked with coordinates I don't recognize.
His muscles ripple with the movement, and I can't help but stare.
I unbutton my own shirt, fingers fumbling from the drink. Jax helps, his hands steady. He pushes the fabric off my shoulders, exposing skin. "Beautiful," he murmurs. Not mushy—just fact, like assessing a scan. His fingers trace the lines of my collarbone, sending shivers down my spine.
We tumble onto the bed. The mattress dips.
Jax's weight presses me down, his body solid, battle-hardened.
I run hands over his back, feeling the ridges of old wounds, the firmness of his muscles.
He kisses my neck, teeth grazing, tongue tasting.
The vodka buzzes in my veins, dissolving barriers.
I gasp as he sucks on a sensitive spot, my hips arching up against him.
"Maxwell," Jax breathes against my ear. "Let go."
I do. For the first time, fully. No hesitation, no calculations.
I flip him onto his back, straddling his hips.
His eyes widen, then darken with approval.
I kiss him hard, tongues clashing, teeth nipping.
Hands explore—his on my chest, fingers pinching my nipples, mine undoing his belt, pulling down his zipper.
His cock is hard, straining against his boxers.
I stroke him through the fabric, feeling his heat, his length.
He groans, bucking into my hand. I smirk, enjoying the power.
I lean down, kissing his chest, his abs, the trail of hair leading down.
I hook my fingers into his waistband, pulling down his boxers, freeing his cock.
I take him in my mouth, slow at first, then deeper.
He tastes of salt and musk, his scent filling my nostrils.
His hands fist in my hair, guiding, urging.
I swirl my tongue around his tip, feeling the ridge, the slit.
He curses, his body tensing. I can feel his pulse quickening, his breath growing ragged.
He pulls me up, crashing his mouth against mine. His hands fumble with my belt, my pants. He pushes them down, his hand wrapping around my length. I gasp into his mouth, my body jolting with the sensation. He strokes me, firm and steady, his thumb circling my tip.
Clothes scatter. Skin meets skin. Jax's heat envelops me.
He rolls us again, pinning my wrists above my head with one hand.
The other trails down, teasing, promising.
His mouth follows, kissing, licking, biting.
He sucks on my nipples, his tongue flicking, his teeth grazing.
I arch into him, my body aching, needing.
His hand wraps around both our cocks, stroking us together. The sensation is overwhelming, the friction, the heat, the pressure. I moan, my body writhing, my hips thrusting. He releases my wrists, his hand reaching for the nightstand, pulling out supplies—a condom, lube.
He sits back on his heels, rolling on the condom, slicking himself with lube.
His eyes never leave mine, his gaze intense, hungry.
He pushes my legs up, exposing me. His fingers, cool and slick, press against my entrance.
He prepares me, slow at first, then insistent.
One finger, then two, scissoring, stretching. I gasp, my body burning, aching.
"Ready?" Jax asks. His voice strains, his body tense with restraint.
"Yes," I pant. "God, yes."
He enters me, slow and steady. The stretch burns, then eases into fullness. I gasp, my body tensing, adjusting. He stills, letting me acclimate. Then he moves—deep, rhythmic thrusts that build pressure. I meet him, hips rising, body clenching.
Sweat slicks our bodies, the room filling with the sound of our moans, our gasps, our flesh slapping together. He hits a spot inside me that makes me see stars, my body convulsing, my cock leaking. He grins, hitting it again, and again, his pace quickening, his thrusts deepening.
He leans down, his body covering mine, his mouth capturing mine. His hand wraps around my cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. I can feel his heartbeat, his breath, his life force merging with mine. The world narrows to this—to us, connected, raw, primal.
Pleasure coils tight in my core, my body tensing, my breath hitching. I'm close, so close. He feels it too, his body straining, his thrusts growing erratic. He breaks the kiss, his forehead pressing against mine, his eyes locked onto mine.
"Come for me, Max," he growls. "Let me see you."
And I do. I shatter, crying out, my body convulsing, my cock pulsing in his hand. He follows, thrusting deep, his body shuddering, his cock pulsing inside me. He collapses on top of me, his body slick with sweat, his breath ragged.
We lie there, tangled in sheets, our bodies still joined. The room smells of sex and vodka, our breaths slowly returning to normal. Jax pulls me close, arms wrapping around my waist. His heartbeat thuds against my back, steady as a metronome.
In the haze of alcohol and endorphins, clarity strikes. I need this man. Not as a buffer, not as a colleague. As air, as anchor. He forces me to feel, to break rules. Without him, I'm just the Ice King, frozen in place.
"Jax," I whisper, voice thick. "I need you. In my life. This... you."
He tightens his hold. "I know. Got you."
Exhaustion pulls me under. I nestle into his arms, strong and unyielding. For the first time, mess feels like home. Sleep claims me, deep and dreamless.