Chapter 25 #2
Calder nodded, his gaze flicking to the clock on the microwave. "Yeah."
Neither of us reached for our plates again.
I set my mug down with a clink, nudging the plate of charred toast toward him. "You know, if you ever get fired from coaching, do not open a diner."
His eyes flicked to mine, something dark and amused flashing in them. "You think you can do better?"
"With my eyes closed," I shot back, but my voice was lighter than I meant it to be.
He stepped closer, the heat of him pressing into me as he braced his hands on either side of the counter. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
His grin was slow, dangerous. "Prove it."
I should’ve seen it coming. Should’ve known the second his weight shifted that he was going to move. But I didn’t—because I wanted this. Wanted the way his body caged me in, the way his thighs brushed against mine as he backed me up until my hips hit the edge of the counter.
"Careful, Coach," I breathed, but my pulse was already jumping, my skin already warming under his gaze. "People might talk."
His hand found my waist, his thumb pressing into the dip just above my hipbone. "Let ’em."
The air between us changed. Not light anymore. Not teasing. Something darker, something hungrier. His eyes dropped to my mouth, and I licked my lips without thinking. His breath hitched—just once—but I felt it everywhere.
Then his mouth was on mine.
Not rough. Not frantic. Slow. Like he had all the time in the world.
His lips parted mine, his tongue sliding against my bottom lip before deepening the kiss, and I melted into it, my fingers curling into the front of his sweatshirt.
He tasted like coffee and something sweet, like the last drag of a cigarette on a cold night.
I arched into him, my body already thrumming, already wanting.
His hands slid under my thighs, lifting me onto the counter in one smooth motion. The cold surface bit into my bare skin, but I barely noticed—because his mouth was on my neck now, his teeth grazing my collarbone, his breath hot against my skin.
"Calder—" His name came out like a warning, but my hands were already in his hair, pulling him closer.
He groaned against my skin, his hips pressing between my thighs, the hard length of him already straining against his sweats. "Tell me to stop."
I didn’t.
I wrapped my legs around his waist instead, my heels digging into his ass, pulling him flush against me.
His mouth crashed back to mine, his kiss turning desperate, his hands gripping my hips like he was afraid I’d disappear.
The counter creaked under us, but neither of us cared.
There was only this—the heat of his skin, the rough drag of his stubble against my jaw, the way his body moved against mine like he was made for this.
His fingers tangled in my hair, tilting my head back as his mouth trailed down my throat. "Last chance," he murmured, his voice rough, his breath unsteady.
I answered by pulling his shirt over his head.
The rest of the world could wait.
His hands slid down my back, gripping my hips before he flipped me over in one rough motion.
My chest hit the counter, my breath leaving me in a gasp as he pressed me down, my ass arching up against his hips.
The cold surface bit into my skin, but I barely felt it—because his body was everywhere, his heat swallowing me whole.
"Like this," he growled, his voice rough against my ear.
His fingers tangled in my hair, yanking my head back just enough to expose my throat.
His other hand slid between my shoulder blades, pressing me down until my back arched, my body on display for him.
I could feel him—hard, thick, right there—and my breath hitched as he ground against me, his hips rolling in a slow, deliberate tease.
"Calder—" His name came out like a plea, but he didn’t let me finish.
"Quiet," he ordered, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. His hand tightened in my hair, pulling just enough to make me gasp. "You don’t get to talk right now."
I didn’t argue.
Because the second his cock pressed against me, all I could do was feel.
He didn’t wait. Didn’t ease in. He pushed inside me in one rough thrust, filling me completely, his grip on my hair keeping me right where he wanted me. I cried out, my fingers scrambling for purchase on the slick countertop, my body already clenching around him.
"Fuck," he groaned, his hips snapping forward again, deeper this time. "You take me so well."
I couldn’t answer. Couldn’t do anything but take it—the way he moved inside me, the way his hand in my hair kept me arched just right, the way his other hand slid around my hip, his fingers finding my clit with unerring precision.
He circled once, twice, and my body jolted, a broken sound tearing from my throat.
"That’s it," he murmured, his voice dark and rough. "Let me hear you."
His hips rolled again, his cock hitting that spot inside me that made my vision blur. His fingers kept their rhythm, relentless, and I could feel it building—the pleasure coiling tight, my body trembling under his touch.
"Calder, I—" My voice broke, my nails scraping against the counter.
"I know," he growled, his pace never faltering. "Come all over my cock, Billie. Now."
And I did.
He didn’t stop. Didn’t let up. His grip on my hair tightened, his hips snapping forward as he chased his own release, his breath coming in rough, ragged bursts.
"Fuck—Billie—"
His voice was a groan, a prayer, a curse, and then he was coming too, his body shuddering against mine, his cock pulsing inside me as he spilled into me with a rough, guttural sound.
His fingers stilled on my clit, his other hand sliding up to grip my shoulder, holding me there as his body jerked with the last of his release.
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 back. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t let go. Just stayed there, buried inside me, his forehead pressing to the back of my shoulder.
I could feel the way his breath hitched, the way his fingers twitched against my skin, like he was fighting the instinct to hold on tighter. His lips brushed the back of my neck, soft and warm, and I shivered, my body still humming from the aftershocks.
"Christ," he murmured, his voice rough. "You ruin me."
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because the truth was, he ruined me too.
Somehow, we wound up back in his bed. His sheets smelled like him—sweat and soap and the faintest hint of cigarette smoke clinging to the fabric.
I traced the scar on his shoulder with my fingertip, following the jagged line from his collarbone down toward his bicep. Old. Faded. A story he’d never told me.
I should’ve asked.
But the words stuck in my throat, tangled up with everything else I wasn’t brave enough to say.
What are we? What happens now?
The questions burned, but I swallowed them down. Some things didn’t need answers. Not yet.
His breath was slow and steady beside me, his chest rising and falling under my palm. The morning light slanted through the blinds, painting stripes across his skin. I memorized the way the ink on his ribs shifted with every exhale, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheekbones.
This wasn’t real.
I knew that.
The rink was waiting. The cameras. Nate’s smirk and the way he’d look at me like I was something he’d already won. The whispers, the side-eyes, the way the world would try to shrink me back down to size the second I walked out that door.
But here?
In this bed, with his fingers tangled in my hair and his heartbeat under my ear?
For one day, I let myself pretend. Let myself borrow this version of a future where I wasn’t a problem to solve or a story to spin. Where I was just his. Where the weight of his arm across my waist was a promise instead of a complication.
I didn’t ask for more. Didn’t demand words he wasn’t ready to give.
I just pressed my lips to the scar on his shoulder and let the quiet hold us both.
And he didn’t ask me to leave.