Chapter 11 Eli
ELEVEN
ELI
I’m warm. Warm and happy and way too comfortable for my own good.
The blanket is soft, the glow of the laptop flickers against the tinsel strung across the wall, and Max’s cologne is all around me—sharp and clean with a little bit of spice, like he maybe put too much on earlier. Like he wanted me to notice.
God, it’s fucking amazing. I can’t stop breathing it in, can’t stop noticing how solid he feels against my side, his arm still draped around me like he forgot it was there. Except he didn’t forget. He’s not the kind of guy who forgets.
Halfway through the movie, George Bailey is yelling about how the world would be better off without him, and my brain is nowhere near Bedford Falls.
It’s stuck on Max Calder. His hand against my shoulder.
The steady rise and fall of his chest next to mine.
The way his thumb brushes, just barely, over my arm every time he shifts.
I bite my lip, pulse kicking.
I tilt my head, glance up at him. His jawline catches the pale blue light of the screen, day-old scruff lining it. My stomach swoops, and I lean in before I can talk myself out of it.
Just a little move. A brush of my shoulder pressing harder into his side. My lips are close to his cheek. Testing the waters, daring him to notice.
I shift closer, close enough that my shoulder presses more firmly into his chest, close enough that I can feel the heat rolling off him in waves. He glances down at me, eyes flicking from the laptop screen to my face, and I don’t give myself the chance to chicken out.
I lean up and kiss him. Again.
It’s soft at first—just my lips brushing his, testing, almost hesitant—but then he exhales hard through his nose, as though he’s been holding his breath this whole time, and kisses me back.
And holy shit.
The laptop, the movie, the blanket, all of it disappears.
My brain goes white-noise blank as his mouth moves against mine, sure and warm, like he’s wanted this as much as I have.
My fingers catch in the fabric of his hoodie, tugging him down closer.
He groans low in his throat, and it shoots straight through me, heat sparking everywhere at once.
I forget about Bedford Falls. About the power outage. About my missed flight. About everything except the way his hand cups the back of my neck, the way I open for him without thinking, the way kissing Max Calder feels like the best and worst idea I’ve ever had.
I’ve wanted this for months. Every smart thought I should be having gets drowned out by the rush of heat when his tongue slides against mine and his arm locks around my waist, hauling me closer until I’m practically in his lap.
This is my chance. And I’m not wasting it.
I kiss him harder, greedy, pouring every restless thought I’ve had about him into the press of my mouth. He meets me with the same fire, his hand gripping the back of my neck, his thumb brushing just behind my ear in a way that makes me shiver.
It’s not neat or careful—it’s a tangle of teeth and lips and breath, messy and consuming, the kind of kiss that wipes out the whole world and leaves only him. Max Calder, kissing me as if I’m something he can’t get enough of. And I kiss him right back.
The movie keeps playing on the forgotten laptop, voices muffled beneath the sound of us. All I care about is the press of his chest, the scrape of his stubble against my skin, and the fact that this—this—is finally happening.
My fingers fist in his shirt, as I shift over him, straddling him and lowering myself into his lap, until there’s no space left between us.
His chest is solid against mine, his breath hot where it fans across my cheek.
I shift, desperate to get even closer, and that’s when I feel it, hard evidence of just how much he wants this too.
His cock presses against me through his joggers, and I hold in my groan.
I need more of that. Fuck yes.
A rush of heat slams through me, dizzying and heady. It makes my pulse stutter, my body hum with the knowledge that it’s not just me losing my mind here. Max Calder, careful, put-together Max, is unraveling right under my hands. From a kiss.
I can’t stop myself—I grind in just enough to make sure I didn’t imagine it. His sharp inhale ghosts across my lips, his grip on my waist tightening like he’s torn between shoving me off and pulling me closer.
God, it’s intoxicating. I’ve pictured this a thousand times, wondered if he’d kiss me like this, if he’d want me like this. And now I know. He wants me as much as I want him. Butterflies explode in my stomach, and I arch my hips into his again.
Holy shit, I think he’s harder.
I break from his mouth just long enough to whisper, breathless, “Tell me you feel this too.”
His eyes lock on mine, green and burning, and for a second I think he’s going to deny it, push me off, laugh it away, something safe. But then his jaw flexes, his voice rough as gravel.
“I feel it,” he says, no hesitation, no escape hatch. “I feel all of it.”
The words hit me low, hotter than anything else he could’ve said, and before I can even process it, his mouth is on me again, only this time it’s not my lips he claims. His kisses trail lower, dragging heat down my jaw, the sharp edge of his teeth scraping my neck until I gasp.
His fingers trail up my sides, tickling slightly, and adding a delicious contrast to his mouth.
He bites, gentle but enough to make my pulse kick hard.
My hands dig into his shoulders, holding on, because holy mother of fucking god.
He’s kissing down my throat as if he wants to memorize me with his mouth.
He sucks and licks and kisses until I feel like I’m going to turn into a puddle in his lap. Or cum just from his lips on me.
Then his lips find my earlobe, teeth catching on the delicate skin. He nips, slow and deliberate, and my whole body jolts, a shiver running through me so delicious I nearly groan. A tingle zips from my ear to my cock as though they are connected, attempting to make my thoughts come true.
Fuck. This is good.
I don’t even realize I’m moving until my hand drifts lower, sliding between us, brushing over the hard line straining against his joggers.
Max makes a sound—low, guttural, almost broken—and fuck. My whole body lights up, heat shooting straight through me. Because I caused that. That sound came out of him because of me.
A groan escapes my throat, half-pleasure, half-disbelief, and I press more firmly, greedy now. His hips twitch up into my palm, as if he can’t help himself, and his head tips back against the wall.
“Eli…” His voice is rough, warning and want tangled together, and it only makes me bolder. I kiss along his throat again, nipping at his pulse point just to feel him shudder under my mouth.
He’s unraveling. Max Calder—the guy who’s been driving me insane for months with his easy smirks and impossible restraint—is coming apart in my hands.
And I don’t want to stop.
Max’s breath hitches, his hand shooting to my waist like he’s going to stop me, but instead he yanks me tighter, his hips grinding up into my palm. The heat of him, the desperate press, makes my pulse stutter.
“Fuck,” he mutters against my mouth, the word ripped out of him, and it’s easy to see he’s losing the battle with himself. Then he kisses me harder, hungrier, like something inside him finally snapped.
I moan into him, dizzy with it, with him, with the way his tongue claims mine and his fingers dig into my side as though he’s been holding back for too long.
I stroke him through the thin fabric again, slower this time, savoring the shudder that rakes through him. He groans, a sound so deep and sinful it vibrates in my chest, and it makes me ache.
“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” Max breathes against my jaw, but the way his hand slides up my back, dragging closer, proves he’s not pulling away. He doesn’t want to.
Neither do I.
His mouth is hot, hungry, giving me everything I’ve been aching for and still not nearly enough.
My hands shake as I shove at his hoodie, desperate to feel him without layers between us, but we’re clumsy, half-wrestling and half-kissing like we can’t decide what matters more, getting each other naked or not breaking the kiss.
When my palm slips down the front of his joggers, he makes that sound again—low, guttural, sinful—and it shoots straight through me. My hips jerk against him, shameless, and I can’t bite back the whimper it drags out of me as our dicks brush through the fabric.
“Fuck—Eli,” he groans, head dropping to my shoulder, but his hands are everywhere, gripping my waist, sliding under my shirt, dragging me closer as though he can’t stand the thought of even an inch between us.
I’m the one who fumbles for the drawer, yanking it open with trembling fingers until I find what I need. Condoms. Lube. Always ready, and now I could kiss myself for it. I thrust them into his hand before I can overthink, my chest heaving.
“Please,” I rasp, falling to my bed next to him, already tugging my sweats down just enough and then kicking them off, not caring how rushed, how messy it is. “I can’t—just—please.”
He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t stop. His lips find mine as he moves over me, pushing his own joggers down his legs. When his cock brushes mine, I groan into his mouth. I feel lightheaded. This is happening. Like really fucking happening.
The rip of foil, the slick sound of the cap snapping open—it all blurs with the heat of his mouth against my throat, the scrape of his teeth as he groans into my skin as if he’s breaking apart with me.
Everything is frantic, desperate, his clothes fully shoved down and out of the way, lube-slick fingers stretching me open before I can even catch my breath. I dig my nails into his shoulders, moaning into his mouth, urging him faster, deeper, now.
And when he finally pushes inside, I swear the world tilts. My back hits the pillows, his weight pinning me down, and every frantic thrust steals the air from my lungs. It’s fast, hard, nothing careful or sweet—just months of need, exploding all at once, and the only word I can manage is his name.
“Max—”
He swallows it in another kiss, his hips snapping hard against mine, both of us chasing the edge as if we’ll die if we don’t get there together. And when I hear that sound again, broken and falling over the edge in his throat because of me, I know I’m gone.
Every thrust knocks the air out of me, has me clawing at his shoulders, my legs locking tight around his hips. It’s brutal and fast, the kind of pace that says he wants this just as bad as I do, maybe more.
“God, Eli,” he groans against my jaw, and the sound is desperate. It makes me shiver and squeeze around him and drag another one out of him, rougher this time, as though I’m undoing him piece by piece.
“Yes,” I pant, head tipping back, voice breaking on the word. “Just like that, don’t—don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. He can’t. Every roll of his hips has me seeing white, heat coiling low and tight until I’m shaking with it.
My hand slips between us, stroking myself in frantic, jerky pulls, chasing it down because I’m not going to last. Not with him inside me.
Not with him groaning my name like it’s the only one he knows.
He feels it, I know he does, because his thrusts get sharper, rougher, his breath hot and uneven against my mouth. “Fuck—you feel so good—”
And then I’m gone. My body arches up, bow tight, my release tearing through me hard and fast, spilling across my stomach, my hand, his hoodie. A cry rips out of me, broken and raw, and my free hand clings to him, nails digging into his shoulder as though I’ll drown if I let go.
He follows almost instantly, grinding deep and shuddering with a groan that sounds as if it’s been wrenched straight out of his chest. His hips stutter, his forehead drops to mine, and I can feel it in every part of me—the way he loses it, the way he spills into the condom, how he clutches me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.
For a moment, the only sound is our breathing, rough and uneven, the world narrowed to the slick press of our bodies, the hammer of my pulse, the snowstorm howling muted on the other side of the glass.
And then his weight settles against me, heavy and solid, his arm wrapping tight around my waist, anchoring us both in the moment.
I close my eyes, chest still heaving, and let myself sink into it—the heat of him, the smell of his cologne mixed with sex, the steady thump of his heart against mine.
I’ve wanted him for months. Now I’ve had him. And all I can think is—God help me, I want more. This isn’t a one and done. A conquest to conqueror. I’m addicted.
Max pulls out slowly, carefully, and the shift makes me shiver. He doesn’t move right away, though. He lingers, one hand brushing damp hair off my forehead, the other steady on my hip, holding me together. His touch is so gentle, it makes my chest ache.
“You okay?” His voice is low, roughened from everything we just did, but there’s real worry laced in it.
I laugh, breathless, still trying to catch myself. “Pretty sure I’m better than okay.”
He huffs, not quite a laugh, then reaches for the tissues on my nightstand.
He cleans me up first—gentle, methodical, like it matters that he gets every trace.
Like he owes me that. I bite down on my lip just to keep from blurting something stupid, something about how no one’s ever done this for me before.
When he finishes, he leans back on his knees, tugging his hoodie over his head with a muttered curse. There’s a streak across the front, proof of how desperate we both were. He grimaces, grabs another tissue, and starts blotting at it as though he can erase what we just did from the fabric.
“Guess that’s ruined,” I say, my grin lopsided, still wrecked.
He cuts me a look, cheeks faintly red even in the dim light. “Shut up.” But there’s no bite in it—just embarrassment or shyness. And something else, something warm flickering under the surface.
He tosses the hoodie aside, then drops onto his side next to me, and drags the blanket up over both of us. For a second, we’re just staring at each other, his eyes searching mine like he’s waiting for me to crack a joke or push him away.
Instead, I reach out and tug him closer.
And he lets me.