Chapter 19
Billie
His mouth found mine before I could breathe—hard, desperate, no hesitation. The taste of him came back instant and familiar, mint and something darker underneath. His hand slid from my sleeve to my jaw, tilting my face up as he backed me into the wall.
The concrete hit cold through my shirt. I gasped against his mouth and he swallowed the sound, kissing me like he'd been starving for weeks. Maybe he had been. Maybe we both were.
My hands fisted in his jacket, pulling him closer even though every rational thought screamed to push him away. This was wrong—so many kinds of wrong—but his body pressed against mine felt like the only honest thing in the room.
"We can't," I whispered between kisses, my voice breaking.
"I know." His forehead dropped to mine, breath ragged. Then he kissed me again anyway, harder this time, like he could erase the words we'd just said.
His fingers tangled in my hair, tugging just enough to make my spine arch. I heard myself make a sound—something raw and needy—and felt his grip tighten in response. The wall kept me upright because my legs had stopped working, every nerve ending focused on the places where his body met mine.
He kissed down my jaw to my throat, teeth grazing skin, and I forgot how to think. Forgot about Nate, about consequences, about everything except the way Calder's hands felt sliding under the hem of my shirt, rough palms against bare skin.
"Tell me to stop," he growled against my collarbone.
I should have. God, I should have. But my fingers were already in his hair, pulling him back to my mouth, answering without words.
He groaned—low and broken—and the sound vibrated through me. His hands mapped my waist, my ribs, everywhere he could reach, like he was memorizing me through touch. Like he thought this might be the last time.
The thought made something twist painfully in my chest, but then his mouth was on mine again and I stopped thinking altogether. There was only heat and hunger and the terrifying certainty that no matter how many times we tried to walk away, we'd always end up right back here.
Burning.
His hands roamed my body like he was claiming territory—possessive, hungry, leaving heat everywhere they touched. My shirt rode up, and he gripped my bare waist hard enough to bruise, fingers digging in like he needed proof I was real.
"Calder—"
He yanked at my waistband, pulled me up in one motion. My legs wrapped around him on instinct, locking at his hips as he pressed me harder into the wall. The shift put him exactly where I needed him and stars exploded behind my eyes.
"Fuck," he growled against my throat, voice wrecked. "I fucking—you—I've wanted you for too fucking long."
A whimper escaped before I could stop it. I felt him hard against me through our clothes, the friction almost painful in its perfection. My hips rolled without permission and his grip tightened, holding me still.
"Don't." The word came out strangled. "Don't move or I'll—"
I moved anyway, grinding against him, and watched his control shatter. He kissed me like he was drowning, like I was air, one hand fisted in my hair while the other gripped my thigh so hard I'd feel it tomorrow. Good. I wanted to feel it tomorrow.
Nothing else mattered—not practice, not Nate, not the fact that we were in a storage closet where anyone could walk by. Not when he touched me like this, like I was the only thing keeping him together and tearing him apart at the same time.
His mouth found my neck, teeth scraping, and I arched into him with a gasp. Every nerve ending fired at once, my whole body trembling as he held me against the wall like I weighed nothing.
"We have to stop," I managed, but my hands were pulling at his shirt, contradicting every word.
"I know." He didn't stop. His hips rocked against mine and the friction sent lightning up my spine. "Fuck, I know."
But neither of us pulled away. We just kept falling, kept burning, kept crossing every line we'd sworn we wouldn't touch again.
His hand left my thigh just long enough to free himself, and then he was there—hot and thick and finally—pushing inside me in one rough stroke. My head fell back against the wall with a thud I barely felt, the stretch of him filling me so completely it stole my breath.
"Fuck," he groaned against my neck, voice raw. "You feel—"
I didn't let him finish. My nails dug into his shoulders as I pulled him deeper, my body adjusting around him with a sharp, perfect ache.
He bottomed out with a growl, hips pinning me to the wall, and for one suspended second we just breathed—him buried inside me, me wrapped around him; the world narrowed to this single point of connection.
Then he moved.
His first thrust was brutal, punishing, like he wanted to brand me from the inside out. The wall rattled behind me. My teeth sank into my lip to keep from crying out, but the sound escaped anyway—broken, needy, his.
"That's it," he snarled, gripping my hip hard enough to leave marks. "Take it. You're mine, Donovan. Say it."
I should've argued. Should've reminded him of all the reasons this was wrong. Instead, my fingers clenched in his hair and I met his next thrust with a roll of my hips, my voice a wrecked whisper.
"Yours."
His control snapped.
After that, it wasn't fucking—it was ruining.
He set a rhythm that stole my breath, each drive of his hips punishing, possessive, like he could erase every other touch I'd ever known with the force of his alone.
The wall scraped my back. His teeth found my collarbone.
I could feel him everywhere—inside me, around me, owning me in a way that should've terrified me but only made me cling tighter.
"You think about him when I'm inside you?" he demanded, voice a dark growl. "You ever let him fuck you like this?"
The question was a blade, but his hands on my body were worship. I shook my head, my answer lost in a gasp as he hit there, that perfect, devastating spot that made my vision white out.
"Good." His mouth crashed back to mine, swallowing my moan. "Because you're mine, Billie. Only mine. And I'm gonna fuck you so hard you forget any other man ever touched you."
I believed him.
His pace turned relentless, the sound of skin meeting skin loud in the small space, my name a prayer on his lips with every thrust. I could feel him losing control, his movements growing rougher, more desperate, like he was trying to crawl inside me and never leave.
My back arched as pleasure coiled tight, his name spilling from my lips in a broken chant. He felt it—felt me tightening around him—and his grip on my thigh turned bruising, his voice a dark promise in my ear.
"Come on my cock, Billie. Let me feel you."
The command sent me over. My orgasm hit like a storm, my body clenching around him as waves of pleasure crashed through me. He swallowed my cries with his mouth, his own release following with a groan that vibrated through my bones.
For one perfect, suspended moment, there was nothing but this—him buried deep, my legs locked around him, our breaths ragged and shared. Then reality started to creep back in, cold and unwelcome.
His forehead dropped to mine, his voice rough.
"Fuck." A shuddering breath. "We can't—"
"I know."
But neither of us moved. Because some lines, once crossed, can never be uncrossed. And we'd just burned ours to the ground.
He pulled out slowly, and I felt the loss like cold air rushing in. My legs trembled as he lowered me to the floor, his hands steadying me at the hips until I found my balance.
Neither of us spoke.
He bent to retrieve my leggings from where they'd landed in the corner. Handed them to me without meeting my eyes. I pulled them on with shaking hands, hyperaware of the ache between my legs, the dampness on my thighs, the evidence of what we'd just done.
Calder turned away while I fastened my bra, redid the buttons on my shirt. But I caught him watching my reflection in the dark window—his jaw tight, eyes tracking every movement like he was fighting the urge to reach for me again.
I tucked my shirt in. Fixed my hair. My pulse still hadn't slowed.
He ran a hand through his own hair, exhaled hard. When he finally looked at me directly, something shuttered behind his eyes. "This can't keep happening."
The words landed heavy between us. Final.
I grabbed my jacket from the floor, forced myself to meet his gaze head-on. My voice came out steadier than I felt. "Then stop coming back."
His expression cracked—just for a second—before the walls slammed back into place. He opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, to explain, to make promises we both knew he couldn't keep.
Instead, he just nodded once. Sharp. Dismissive.
I walked past him to the door, my hand on the handle when his voice stopped me.
"Billie—"
"Don't." I didn't turn around. "Whatever you're about to say, just… don't."
The silence stretched. Then I heard him move, his footsteps heavy behind me.
I left before he could say my name again. Before I could let him pull me back under.
Because he was right.
This couldn't keep happening.
But God help us both—it would.
I pushed through the dorm building's main entrance, my legs still unsteady, my skin still humming with the ghost of Calder's hands. The fluorescent hallway lights felt too bright, too exposing. I kept my head down and walked fast.
Then I saw him.
Nate leaned against my door like he had every right to be there, coffee cup in one hand, phone in the other. That easy, practiced smile spread across his face when he spotted me—the one he used for cameras and sponsors and anyone he needed something from.
My stomach dropped.
"Hey." He straightened, casual as Sunday morning. "Thought we could talk."
I stopped three feet away, arms crossed. "I'm not in the mood."
"Make it quick then." He gestured at my door with the coffee cup. "Five minutes. That's all I'm asking."