Page 31 of Shut Up and Jingle Me
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 ofhimbecause ofme.
A groan escapes my throat, half-pleasure, half-disbelief, and I press more firmly, greedy now. His hips twitch up into mypalm, 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 wecan’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 everyfrantic 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.
