Chapter 25 Eli
TWENTY-FIVE
ELI
I practically skip down the hallway, ignoring the side-eye from the guys I passed in line outside the trainer’s office. Let them grumble. I won. I got my check-up, my fix of Calder’s green-eyed scowl, and the promise of more later.
And yeah, maybe my ankle’s fine, but my heart? Completely wrecked. Racing like I just blocked the other team from the winning goal at Nationals.
By the time I reach my dorm, I’m humming carols under my breath. My chest feels too full, and if I don’t do something with all this restless anticipation, I might actually explode.
So I do what I always do when I’m buzzing out of my skin—I make things festive.
I yank open my storage bin under the bed and pull out the leftover decorations.
Paper snowflakes, some battery-powered twinkle lights, a roll of ribbon that I’d meant to use for my window but never got around to.
My hands move faster than my brain, stringing lights around the headboard, tacking snowflakes to the wall until the place looks like Christmas threw a glitter bomb in here. Again.
But it’s not enough.
I make up a mistletoe and hang it near the door, so I’ll get my kiss the second he’s inside. Then my gaze lands on the extra stocking I bought on impulse at the store last week. I’d told myself it was for “ambience,” but I think, deep down, I was hoping for exactly this.
I drag it onto my desk and start filling it like a man on a mission.
Peppermint bark from the stash in my drawer. A tiny bottle of cinnamon whiskey I swiped from Daniel’s “party kit.” A goofy pair of socks patterned with cartoon reindeer I picked up for a just-because gift. And at the very bottom, a little folded note I scribble on quickly:
For emergencies. (Like when you’re too grinchy to function.)
—E.
When I step back and look at it, the stocking is lumpy, ridiculous, and perfect hanging next to mine. Just like this whole thing with Max.
I flop onto my bed, the twinkle lights casting a soft glow over the room, and hug the pillow to my chest. My heart is still thrumming, anticipation curling through me like it has nowhere else to go.
Because in less than an hour, maybe two if he drags it out just to torture me, he’ll be here. In this room. With me.
And I can already picture it: Max walking in, pretending to be annoyed, grumbling about how over-the-top it all is, even as his eyes soften and linger. He’ll probably mutter something about me being a menace, and then he’ll touch me like he can’t stop himself.
The thought makes me bury my face in the pillow, grinning like an idiot.
I know he doesn’t want this to be more than what it is.
He’s made that clear enough. But I can’t help it—I want him to have more.
Not just me in his bed or on his table in the trainer’s office.
Not just stolen kisses in the snow. I want him to have what I have: a home that feels like warmth and noise and unconditional love.
So yeah, I’m already plotting. How to get him to say yes to coming home with me for Christmas. He thinks it’s impossible. I think he just needs proof that he belongs in that chaos, that he deserves it.
But for tonight, I’ll take what I can get.
I smooth the blankets and check the mirror one last time to make sure I don’t look terrible. Then I flop back onto the bed again, staring up at the lights, counting down the seconds until there’s a knock at my door.
Because Calder’s coming. And I’m so gone for him, I don’t even care how obvious it is anymore.
I try to sit still, I really do. But the room feels too quiet, the minutes dragging too long. I flip through my playlist. I straighten the snowflakes on the wall. I adjust the stocking so it hangs just right.
And still—no Max.
Eventually, I stretch out on my bed, telling myself I’m just going to close my eyes for a second. Just to make the time pass faster. The twinkle lights blur overhead, warm and soft, and my thoughts drift to green eyes and rough hands that always manage to be careful with me anyway.
The next thing I know, I’m blinking awake to a faint sound—three soft knocks at my door.
I roll onto my side, heart tripping over itself as I squint at the red digits of the alarm clock. 10:30.
Shit.
I scrub a hand over my face, adrenaline sparking through the sleep-haze, and sit up fast. He came. He’s here.
And suddenly, I don’t care that I must look like I just napped through finals week. Calder’s at my door.
When I open the door, Max fills the frame, shoulders tense, eyes already on me. His gaze sweeps down and back up, slow, greedy—like he’s been starving for the sight of me.
I barely get his name past my lips before he’s stepping in, crowding me backward. The door swings shut with a sharp kick of his heel, the lock clicking into place just as his mouth finds mine.
It’s rough and desperate, the kind of kiss that steals every trace of sleep right out of me.
I giggle against his lips, half from nerves, half from how good it feels, and tip my head back just enough to murmur, “Guess the mistletoe was overkill.” My eyes flick upward at the paper sprig I taped above the door earlier.
His hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing over the curve of my jaw, grounding me in a way that’s almost too tender for how breathless I feel. “I don’t need an excuse to kiss you,” he says, voice low.
Then he leans in again, nibbling at my lips until I melt into him, toes curling against the rug, wondering how I ever thought I’d survive a night without this.
The kiss slows, softens, until it’s nothing but lips brushing lips, the barest press of warmth and want. My hands curl into the front of his shirt, holding him close as if letting go would knock the earth off its axis.
It’s not rushed, not frantic—just him and me, breathing each other in, melting into the kind of kiss that feels like it could last forever and still not be enough. The room, the team, the whole damn world—all of it fades until there’s only the slide of his mouth and the steady thrum of my heart.
When he finally breaks away, he doesn’t go far. His forehead drops against mine, his breath fanning warm over my skin. For a moment, we just stay like that, noses brushing, hearts pounding in time.
Then his voice comes low and rough, threaded with something that feels like affection, even though he’s trying to bury it. “Now that I’ve gotten that out of my system, what Christmas movie do you have for me tonight?”
My smile breaks free before I can stop it, wide and shameless. “Ohhh, so now you’re asking me for Christmas movies? Careful, Calder—you’re gonna make me think you actually like spending time with me.”
He just shakes his head, grumbling under his breath as he digs into the pocket of his jacket. When his hand comes out, he’s holding a candy bar, the wrapper crinkling between his fingers. He presses it into my palm with a look that’s equal parts serious and soft.
“Figured you’d want something sweet to go with it,” he mutters.
The laugh bursts out of me, warm and giddy. “You do realize you’re giving off perfect boyfriend vibes right now, don’t you?”
For a split second, I expect him to scowl, to deny it, to pull away. But he doesn’t. He just shrugs, casual, like it’s nothing at all—except I feel the weight of it all the way down to my bones.
And suddenly, the candy bar feels like the most romantic gift I’ve ever been given.
Max shrugs out of his jacket, tossing it carelessly onto the empty bed. For a second, I’m distracted by queuing up The Santa Clause on my laptop, but then movement pulls my attention back.
He grips the hem of his shirt one-handed, tugging it up and over in one smooth motion.
The fabric lands somewhere on the floor, and suddenly I’m staring.
No shame, no hiding it. My gaze drinks him in—the hard lines of his chest, the cut of muscle down his stomach, the faint trail that disappears beneath his waistband.
He catches me looking, green eyes sharp, but I don’t even blink. I cross the small space between us, slow and deliberate, and press my lips to his collarbone. Then lower, brushing a kiss across the warm skin of his pec. Then up, up again, catching the side of his throat.
The sound he makes—half groan, half growl—reverberates right through me. His hands catch my waist, and the world tilts as he sweeps me off my feet, carrying me the few steps to my bed. He sets me down, not gently, but with a care that still makes my chest ache.
In the next breath, I’m straddling his lap, knees braced on either side of him, his heat burning through my clothes. His fingers tug at the hem of my shirt, rough and insistent, the scrape of his knuckles setting my skin alight.
“Lose it,” he orders, voice dark and low.
And God, the way he says it makes my whole body hum.
For once, I don’t crack a joke. My throat’s too dry, my pulse too wild. His command sits heavy in the air between us, thick and electric, and I can’t look away from his eyes—dark green, steady, waiting.
I grab the hem of my shirt and peel it upward, slow enough that I feel his gaze tracking every inch of bare skin I uncover. The fabric hits the floor, forgotten, and the chill of the room is nothing compared to the heat rolling off him.
That’s when I feel him—hard and solid beneath me, pressing through his joggers.
The realization sends a jolt straight through me, my own body tightening in response, already hard and straining.
I shift instinctively, and the friction pulls a groan from both of us, tangled in the thin space between our mouths.
His grip tightens on my hips, holding me flush to him as if he’s daring me to move again. My breath stutters, the sound embarrassingly loud in the quiet of the room.
And I don’t try to fill the silence with words. I just feel it—him, us, the tension stretched so tight it’s ready to snap.
I shift again, deliberately this time, grinding down against the heat straining through his joggers. His breath hitches, and the sound makes me bold.
I curl my fingers over his shoulders, lean in, and crash my mouth to his. It’s not neat or careful—just desperate, hungry, every ounce of pent-up longing pouring out of me in that kiss.
For a heartbeat, he goes still, like I’ve surprised him. Then his fingers spear into my hair at the nape of my neck, grip tightening until it borders on rough. He drags me closer if that’s possible, our chests brushing, kissing me back with a ferocity that steals the air from my lungs.
Our teeth clash, tongues tangling, and I moan into his mouth, not even bothering to hide it. His groan answers mine, vibrating through his chest and into me, and suddenly there’s no space left between us—only heat, friction, and the sharp edge of need finally breaking loose.
One second I’m straddling him, the next I’m on my back, the world tilting as Max flips us with a strength that leaves me breathless. He braces above me, his weight pressing me into the mattress, his mouth dragging away from mine only to trail down the line of my jaw.
“Fuck, Eli,” he mutters against my skin, rough and low. His lips graze my throat, hot and open, his stubble scraping just enough to make me shiver. “You drive me insane.”
My fingers clutch at his shoulders, nails digging in, but he doesn’t stop—he presses harder, lips moving to the spot beneath my ear.
“You make me ache,” he growls, the words muffled by the heat of his mouth. “Every smile, every laugh—makes me hard just thinking about you.”
His teeth catch on my skin, a sharp nip that has me gasping, my hips arching up to meet him without thought. He groans, the sound like gravel, and presses me back down with his body.
“You feel too damn good under me,” he says, almost like it’s a confession torn out of him. “Can’t think straight when I’ve got you this close.”
And then his mouth finds mine again, sealing the words between us, real and hungry, his tongue sweeping deep as though he wants to own every sound I make.
His words sink into me as we kiss. They scrape against every place inside that already aches for him. For a second, I can’t breathe, can’t think—just feel his weight, his heat, the way he’s pressing me into the bed like he wants me etched there.
My hands frame his face, breaking the kiss, forcing him to meet my eyes even as his breath rasps hard and uneven.
“Good,” I whisper, pressing a soft kiss to one side of his mouth and then the other.
“I want to drive you insane. I want you aching for me. Because I ache for you, Max. Every second you’re not touching me feels wrong. ”
His pupils blow wide, his lips part, and I can feel the sharpness of his inhale against my cheek. I press closer, not letting him look away, my chest heaving against his. “You’re not the only one losing his mind here. You make me burn, Calder. And I don’t want it to stop.”
The confession hangs heavy, electric, and before I can second-guess it, his mouth crashes back onto mine, hotter, needier, as if my words just tore down the last wall between us.
His kiss devours me, and when he finally pulls back, his mouth drags across my cheek, his breath spilling hot into my ear.
“Don’t you get it, Eli?” His voice is ragged, threaded with something more than lust—something that makes my chest squeeze. “You undo me. You make me forget myself. I can’t…I can’t get enough of you.”
The words vibrate against my skin, rough declarations that could mean this night, this body, this fire between us—or something bigger. Something I don’t dare hope for.
My fingers fist in his hair, holding him there, greedy for every syllable, even if I know I’ll replay them a thousand times later, dissecting every possible meaning.
Because right now, pressed under him, his voice breaking against my throat, I’ll take whatever he’s willing to give.
And I won’t let myself dream it’s more than this.
The words claw at the back of my throat—I love you. I’ve already fallen. I don’t even want to get back up.
But I swallow them whole, force them down where they burn. If I let them out, I’ll ruin this fragile, secret thing we’ve built. And Max… Max isn’t ready for words like that. Not when we can’t even hold hands in public.
So instead, I let my actions speak. My fingers slide through his hair, tugging just enough to drag a groan out of him.
My lips press to his like I’m starving, like I can keep him tethered here through sheer desperation.
I break the kiss only long enough to murmur against his mouth, “You undo me, Calder. Every time.”
It’s not I love you. But the way I kiss him again—slow, deep, like I’m trying to memorize his soul—it’s as close as I dare get.
And if he notices my hands trembling when I clutch him tighter, he doesn’t call me on it.
Because maybe he already knows.