Christmas Eve in Cornwall
(Set after the final chapter and before the epilogue.)
VALENTIN
So much for snow being rare in Cornwall. A sudden blizzard holds me hostage for a whole week, and I’m not alone in being landlocked. Dad is also stranded, but like me, he’s made welcome by the Trelawney family.
Spending time together like this at Christmas is a blast from the past. A good one. It gives us the time to talk, listen, and find a way forward. I’m still thinking about one of Dad’s confessions made on a snowy walk around the village—about how sick he is of the boat-show circuit. Problem-solving is his thing, not sales. He’d offload that role to concentrate on the design work he loves best if he had someone to take the Juno Speedboats sales reins from him.
It won’t be me.
We’ve both agreed not to perpetuate that cycle. Dad’s going to break it by asking Harry to stay on his payroll, so I’m grateful we’ve been snowed in together long enough to hash out that solution.
The only problem I do have this Christmas is the size of the Trelawneys’ cottage.
It was already crowded with Cornish giants when we got here. Extra visitors dropping in daily from around the village add to their number. I meet friends and neighbours and relations who lent Calum what he needed to make it to the top of his league, and I don’t blame them for wanting to catch up with him. I’m just saying the constant company makes it difficult for me to check in on how Calum’s doing. It also rules out anything else I’d rather keep for his ears only.
You see, sound travels in this cottage.
Each night comes with a backing track of snuffling and snoring. Beds creak in adjacent bedrooms, and if I can hear other Trelawney couples having quiet conversations once the lights are out, I’m pretty sure they’ll hear us. That’s confirmed every morning—the moment Calum rolls over, the bed we share creaks, and his mum appears with mugs of tea and hugs for the son she spends most of the year missing.
His father and mine always follow to give incubator updates. Patrick goes one step further—every single day so far has started with him asking me to budge up so he can get cosy in bed with his brother to chat about all things fitness. And where Pat goes, Seb follows, which means Jack comes too. Add Reece into the mix, and there’s little chance of any alone time in a room crowded with giants and their partners.
There’s even less chance when all three brothers spend their mornings working out together. I can’t be mad about them hogging his time. They’ve all missed having this kind of time with Calum. But I also can’t deny that by midday on Christmas Eve, what I really miss is la Sylvie. I’d lock her hatch to shut the world out for a while if I could, but I keep that wish to myself.
At least, I think I’ve kept it secret—until my mind wanders while I’m sorting jigsaw pieces with the help of a little Trelawney cousin.
“What was that, Tor?” Dad asks the child sitting at the table with us. “Did you say something?”
A mini Cornish giant-in-the-making repeats his question. “I asked what you want Father Christmas to bring you tomorrow.”
Without thinking, I reply, “My boat.”
Dad’s shoulder meets mine. “I’ve heard it’s right at the top of Père Noël’s list.” He meets my eyes. “He’s very sorry he’s kept you waiting.”
“I didn’t mean that I want to get away from—” I don’t need to say you. I guess my gaze scanning this crowded room does my talking for me, and Dad proves we share a wavelength these days. Like me, he notices Calum leave the kitchen to go shower. The only difference between us is that Dad takes action.
Before I know it, he claps his hands together. “Right,” he booms. “I’m taking everyone to the pub for a Christmas Eve drink. Let’s go.”
That everyone doesn’t include me. He stops me in the hallway.
“Sorry, Valentin.” A heavy arm lands across my shoulder. “Someone needs to keep watch over the egg.”
Someone really doesn’t need to do that—the duckling is still days away from hatching—but you better believe I nod fast. Then I take the stairs two at a time while Calum is still showering off his workout sweat.
I’m blissfully alone in his bedroom when he enters.
Calum stands in the doorway, cinching a damp towel around his waist with one hand, his other clutching his wash bag. “Valentin. You okay?”
“I’m fine, but I do have two quick questions for you.”
He quirks an eyebrow. Calum also throws his wash bag onto the bed to free up a hand. He lifts a finger to his lips. Not to zip them closed. He’s warning me that nothing said in this room stays private.
I go ahead and make use of Dad’s early Christmas present by speaking loud and clearly. “Everyone’s gone to the pub. Question one: How are you feeling? Like, for real. Because the last few days have been a lot.” And the weeks before now, when desperation drove him to hunt me down in a London marina. “You don’t have to keep any of it to yourself now. So, how are you really doing?”
“Everyone’s gone out?” He crosses to the bedroom window where he leans on the sill, and I go up on tiptoe to look over his shoulder to see what he does. Fresh footprints in the snow point away from the cottage. “I’m good,” he promises. “For real.” He glances over his shoulder at me, the wintry light showing that he isn’t holding anything back. “I’m getting the surgery that will give me the best shot. Whatever happens after that will be worth it. And I’m having a perfect Christmas.” He turns a little more, his lips finding mine, if only briefly. “Thank you.”
Calum faces the window again. This time, he cranes his neck as if to check how far those footprints travel. “What was your second question?”
“How do you feel about not joining everyone at the pub?”
He looks my way over his shoulder again. His back is bare. Still wet. Water beads over a compelling play of muscle I barely notice. I latch onto arctic eyes instead. They hold a warm smile. So does Calum’s murmur. “I’d feel like Christmas had come early.”
It’s easy then to reach around him and undo that damp towel. Calum starts to turn in my arms until I stop him. “No. Your job is to keep watch.”
He does that as I sweep the towel up and down his back to dry it, then I make the same sweeping motions with no towel between my hands and him, smoothing my palms over muscles I don’t know the names for, and he shivers. Not because he’s cold. I know my hockey player. He’s impervious to anything but me, plus it’s as warm as toast in this room.
That shiver tells me to keep going.
I do.
I run my hands up and down his back, and I take my time about it. These dips and rises describe hours of gym and ice time. What I can’t see are any bruises, but they don’t always show on the surface, do they, so I check in. “You remember what you wanted? For me to…”
“Steer? Yeah, I remember.” His huffed agreement steams the windowpane, and his grip on the sill tightens. “I want to try it at least once. Not saying I’ll be a natural.”
“You don’t have to be.” There’s no audience here to rank and rate his performance. Nothing and no one can see us. I still whisper as if someone might overhear me. “All you have to do is tell me what feels okay, oui? Like this.” I press my mouth against a shoulder blade. Kiss my way down to a matched pair of dimples. “How does that feel?”
“Good.”
“And here?” I kneel to pay attention to a truly phenomenal bottom fuzzed with Trelawney gold. Squeeze a double handful. Run a finger down the crease between them.
“Yeah.” He’s so hoarse. “I’m good with all that.”
He bends a little more, and that tells me plenty. So does his next huff. I bet it fogs the windowpane. I don’t look to see for myself. I’m too engrossed in parting his cheeks to land a kiss somewhere hidden.
“Fuck. Val—” He shuts up fast. That’s okay. Him spreading his legs is enough of a sign for me to keep going. I flick lightly with my tongue, soft and slow at first, then spear it harder, and he gives in to that increased pressure. Calum bends over even further, his forehead resting on folded arms, which makes him the world’s worst lookout. But the sounds he lets out? They mean I can’t blame him for his lack of attention.
Each rumbling groan tells me to keep going. To keep adding to the wetness that helps me slide a finger inside him. Just a little at first, one knuckle only, then more and deeper.
He pushes back.
I get the message, and my dick is on the same page. I break off to free it from my jeans, and Calum looks back, eyes wide and…
Desperate.
For me.
I get my mouth back on his hole, wanting to get more than a finger deep inside him. For now, I work on making this as good for him as he made me feel back in London during what feels like another lifetime. That was only a week ago. Seven days later, I have to grip my own cock tight at the base to stay focussed on taking all the time that Calum needs to be ready for me to fuck him.
He shakes with each wet kiss, with every single lick, and the groan he lets out when I get a second finger inside comes with him reaching back with one hand to help hold himself open, and that doesn’t require any translation.
I work harder then to find where it’s good for him and thank fuck the house is empty. Calum shouts something wordless, and there’s no way I’ll stop now that I’ve got his number. I must have. Reaching between his legs to jack him off leaves my hand damp with precome. That’s all the confirmation I need to know he’s on board with me keeping going. So is his frantic relocation—he lurches sideways to his bed, and I see why.
Calum grabs his wash bag and digs through it. A tube of lube rolls across the mattress. Condoms spill too, and he raises one like it’s the only prize worth winning.
As for me, I don’t need any trophy after Calum hitches a knee on the mattress and looks back to show me how much he wants me. That feels like winning, and I never stripped out of my clothes faster. Never rolled on protection that I bet neither of us needs from each other, but I park that for later. I’m busy getting my now slick cock inside him.
Calum shouts again then, but it’s a good sound, so I keep going for what feels like forever, finding what works for him, and when I reach around him one more time, his hot, hard dick leaking tells me to keep going.
So does Calum getting vocal.
“Don’t stop. Go harder.”
I’ve always been the worst at following orders. Today it’s my one and only skill set. Forget documentary making on YouTube. Forget chasing the truth. I was made to make Calum happy, so I do that by fucking him at the side of this bed, and I’m not exactly gentle.
I knock his legs further apart as he clings white-knuckled to the bedcovers, but I see so much pleasure when he looks back. Our eyes meet, and I fall for him all over again, but that’s okay. Calum says, “Love you,” before he clenches around my dick with no warning.
It’s a lot.
Calum’s so tight. So hot inside and out. My cock registers every spasm of his climax pulsing around me, and I do the same inside him.
It’s so beyond good.
“Yeah?” he asks, his voice muffled by the bedding he’s slumped face-first into. “Ten out of ten, right?”
“Almost ten out of ten.”
I’m sprawled over his back so I feel his rumble. “Almost? What the fuck, Valentin. That was perfect.”
“It will be with more practice.”
You see, I know Calum. Have watched him in hours and hours of footage. Seen how overachieving drives him. Even now, he finds the energy to roll us over.
I’m pinned by a hot and happy Trelawney who smiles down at me while growling, “That sounds like a challenge.”
I add giving him a lifetime of those to my Christmas wish list when Calum rolls us again so I’m on top, and the bed creaks loudly.
That’s okay.
I already had one wish granted. This house is empty. No one will overhear me having the happiest Christmas ever with my hockey player.