Page 30 of Shut Up and Jingle Me
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 Iknow. 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.
