Chapter 25
Billie
Calder’s hands tightened on my hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh there, grounding me as he positioned himself between my legs.
I could feel him—hard, thick, there—and my breath hitched, my body already aching for him.
He didn’t rush. He never did. That was the thing about Calder.
He made you wait, made you feel every second, every inch, every shift in the air between you.
His eyes locked onto mine as he pushed inside, slow and deliberate.
I gasped, my back arching off the bed, my fingers digging into his shoulders.
He was big—so big—and the stretch of him burned in the best way, my body adjusting to his, taking him in until there was nothing left between us.
He bottomed out with a groan, his forehead dropping to mine, his breath hot against my lips.
"Fuck, Billie."
His voice was rough, strained, like he was holding onto control by a thread. I could feel him trembling, his muscles coiled tight, his grip on my hips almost bruising. But it wasn’t pain. It was need. The same need that was coiling inside me, tight and desperate, like I’d shatter if he didn’t move.
He started slow, pulling out almost all the way before sliding back in, deep and sure.
My nails raked down his back, my legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper.
He buried his face in my neck, his breath hot against my skin, his lips pressing kisses there between words I could barely make out.
"You feel—so good."
I couldn’t answer. I could only feel. The drag of him inside me, the way his body moved against mine, the way his hands gripped me like he was afraid I’d disappear.
Every thrust was measured, every roll of his hips deliberate, like he was memorizing the way I responded, the way my breath hitched, the way my body tightened around him.
His mouth found mine again, his kiss slow and deep, his tongue tangling with mine as his hips kept their rhythm.
I could taste myself on him, could feel the way his body tensed every time I moaned into his mouth.
It was too much and not enough, the pleasure building inside me like a storm, like something I couldn’t control even if I wanted to.
I broke the kiss, my head falling back against the pillow as a shudder ran through me. "Calder—"
He groaned, his forehead pressing to mine again, his breath coming faster now, his movements losing some of that careful control. "I know, baby. I know."
His hands slid under me, one gripping my shoulder, the other cradling the back of my head, holding me like I was something precious, something he was afraid to break.
And then he moved deeper, hitting a spot inside me that made my vision blur, my fingers clutching at his skin, my legs locking around him.
"Don’t stop," I gasped, my voice barely a whisper. "Please, don’t stop."
He didn’t. He couldn’t. His rhythm faltered for just a second, like he was fighting something, like he was trying to hold back.
But then I arched up into him, my body begging for more, and he lost it.
His hips snapped forward, his breath coming in rough, ragged bursts, his grip on me tightening like he was drowning and I was the only thing keeping him afloat.
"Billie—fuck—"
I could feel it, the way his body tensed, the way his movements became erratic, like he was losing the battle with himself. I was right there with him, my body coiled tight, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps, my nails digging into his skin.
"Come on, baby," he growled, his voice rough against my ear. "Let go. Let go."
And I did.
The orgasm crashed over me, my body clenching around him, my back arching off the bed as a broken cry tore from my throat. He groaned, his hips stuttering, his own release hitting him as he buried himself deep inside me, his body shuddering against mine.
For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of our ragged breathing, the way his body pressed into mine, the way his heart pounded against my chest. He didn’t pull away.
He stayed there, buried inside me, his forehead still pressed to mine, his hands still gripping me like he was afraid to let go.
I turned my head, pressing my lips to his jaw, feeling the stubble rough against my skin. He exhaled shakily, his breath warm against my neck.
"Billie," he murmured, his voice rough, like he was saying my name for the first time.
I didn’t answer.
Because for the first time, I knew. This wasn’t just sex. This wasn’t just need, or lust, or something we couldn’t control.
This was love.
And it terrified me more than anything else ever had.
His arms tightened around me, pulling me flush against his chest until my head rested on his shoulder.
His heart still pounded, fast and uneven, like he’d just finished a shift on the ice instead of inside me.
His fingers traced lazy circles on my bare back, his other hand tangled in my hair, holding me there like he was afraid I’d vanish if he let go.
I should’ve moved. Should’ve pulled away, grabbed my clothes, and left before this got any more complicated. Before the weight of what we’d just done settled between us like a puck dropped in the neutral zone.
But I didn’t.
Because for the first time in months, I didn’t want to.
His breath slowed, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that lulled me.
The room was quiet except for the hum of the old fridge in the corner and the distant sound of traffic outside.
His skin was warm under my cheek, his scent—sweat and soap and something uniquely him—wrapping around me like a promise.
I let my fingers curl against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat. His hand stilled on my back, his grip loosening just enough to let me know he was slipping under too.
“Stay,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep already pulling at him.
I didn’t answer.
But I didn’t leave either.
The last thing I remembered was the way his fingers twitched against my skin, like even in sleep, he was fighting the instinct to hold on tighter. And then the darkness took me, the weight of him anchoring me down, the quiet of the room swallowing everything else.
For once, I didn’t dream of the ice.
I dreamed of him.
I woke to the pale gray light of dawn creeping through the blinds, casting long shadows across the bed.
Calder’s arm was heavy across my waist, his fingers still laced with mine like he’d been holding on even in sleep.
His face was softer like this—no scowl, no storm behind his eyes. Just quiet. Just him.
I didn’t move. Didn’t want to break the spell.
The sheets smelled like us—sweat and sex and the faint, clean scent of his detergent. My body ached in the best way, the kind of sore that reminded me I was alive. That this was real.
For once, the noise in my head was gone. No Nate. No reporters. No whispers about what I was or wasn’t allowed to be. Just this. Just now.
His breath was slow and even, his chest rising and falling under my palm. I traced the lines of his tattoos—faded ink, old scars, the story of a life I barely knew. My thumb brushed over his ribs, and he stirred, his grip tightening just a fraction before settling again.
The light shifted, golden now, painting his skin in warm tones. His lashes cast shadows on his cheekbones, his mouth slightly parted, like he was about to say something even in sleep.
Stay.
The word hung between us, unspoken but loud.
I pressed my lips to his shoulder, just once, just enough to feel the warmth of him.
The mattress dipped as Calder shifted, his muscles tensing before he rolled away.
I heard the quiet rustle of fabric, the soft thud of his bare feet hitting the floor.
The bed creaked as he stood, and I kept my breathing even, pretending sleep still had me.
But I watched through my lashes as he pulled on a pair of gray sweats, the fabric hanging low on his hips, the V of his back tapering down to the waistband.
He didn’t look at me. Just rubbed a hand over his face, scrubbing away the last of sleep, and disappeared into the hallway.
The scent of coffee hit me first—bitter and strong, the kind that didn’t mess around.
Then came the clatter of pans, the scrape of a spatula, the hiss of butter hitting heat.
I sat up slowly, pulling the sheet around me, my fingers twisting in the fabric.
The floor was cold under my feet as I padded toward the kitchen.
Calder stood at the stove, his back to me, shoulders tense. The eggs in the pan were already overcooked, the edges crisping. A plate of toast sat nearby, charred black at the corners. He didn’t turn around, but his voice cut through the quiet, rough with sleep.
"You don’t have to go. Not yet."
The words landed like a puck dropped at center ice—no spin, no frills, just there.
I didn’t answer right away. Just slid onto one of the stools at the counter, watching as he divided the eggs onto two plates with more force than necessary.
He pushed one toward me; the toast teetering precariously on the edge.
The coffee mug he set down was chipped, the black liquid inside steaming.
It was a disaster.
And I loved it.
I picked up my fork, poking at the eggs. "You’re a terrible cook."
The corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. "Never had to learn."
I took a bite. The eggs were dry; the toast crunched like gravel, but I swallowed it down, anyway. "Liar. You just never cared enough to try."
He didn’t deny it. Just leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching me like I was something rare. The silence between us wasn’t awkward. It was easy. Like the quiet before a face-off, when the world narrows down to just the ice and the puck and the man across from you.
I sipped the coffee. It was strong enough to strip paint. Perfect.
"We’ve got practice," I said finally, but I didn’t move.