Chapter 21
Molly
Walking away from Max after a conversation like that is a wrench. Leaving the gorgeous, festive warmth of the living room and heading alone to my bedroom, which is fucking freezing, feels symbolic of leaving the cosy glow of our conversation.
Closure, I think. We both got some closure there. And this existence we’re morphing into as we spend our days under the same roof is far more authentic than those early days of polite, relentless, mortifying awkwardness.
But still. Watching him poker the fire and put the fire-guard on before switching off the tree lights felt like such a quietly domestic experience.
‘I’ll pick up a timer switch during the week,’ he said as he straightened up from his crouch to hit the socket, inconveniently hidden behind the tree. ‘That’ll make life easier.’
As I thanked him, it occurred to me what a husband thing that was to do. To volunteer to run a small errand because he knew it would make my life easier.
These gestures are building up. Little ones like that, and larger ones. Like getting up at ridiculous-o’clock every weekday morning to de-ice my car. Or taking us tree shopping and managing the majority of the heavy lifting today (literally and figuratively).
These gestures are dangerous. Because they’re way too easy to get used to.
And because they act as tiny, marshmallow-soft dams, plugging broken pieces of my heart.
But his comments about his ex are a timely reminder that where Max and his non-existent desire to procreate are concerned, nothing has changed. I’d do well to remember that.
Now, I lie in bed. I can’t get warm, and I can’t stop my mind from racing.
I’ve drunk enough champagne that sleep should come easily, but there’s far too much to think about.
And all the things in my brain are either bad enough to make me spiral (like what Christmas will be like without Felix) or good enough to be dangerous (like the look in Max’s eyes when he gave me that innocuous kiss under the mistletoe).
Ugh. I brace myself and throw back the covers, my feet hitting the cold floor before I can locate and shuffle into my slippers. Hot water bottle it is. I grab one from a drawer and make my way downstairs. I leave the kitchen lights off. The room is adequately lit from the hallway.
As I wait for the kettle to boil, I stand and practically hug the AGA. The room is peaceful. Cosy. Maybe I should just bring my duvet down and lie on the floor in front of it.
There are footsteps on the kitchen stairs, and I jerk my head up in time to see Max’s bare feet appearing, followed by soft-looking, tartan pyjama bottoms.
Oh shit.
I stand there, gaping, as he treats me to a sight that suggests my guardian angel of gratuitous semi-nudity has indeed been listening to my prayers all this time. Because he’s topless.
Jesus fuck, the man is topless.
Suffice to say, he has not let himself go in the years we’ve been apart.
Not a jot. He’s sheer physical perfection.
Golden skin over sculpted, gorgeous muscles.
Those domed shoulders I fucking love. And a smattering of hair on his chest that I know for a fact feels great against my face (and my boobs) and tapers off into the happiest of all happy trails.
I eye-fuck him for a moment before realising he’s smirking at me.
‘Eyes on my face, Mol,’ he says.
‘Fuck off,’ I mutter, averting my gaze from the glorious sight in front of me.
‘Everything okay?’ he asks. ‘I heard you come down.’
‘It’s fine. I’m just filling a hot water bottle. I’m so cold—can’t get warm.’
‘We should swap rooms.’ He takes a step towards me. ‘Mine’s toasty as fuck.’
‘Sadly, I wouldn’t be able to hear the kids if they woke. Otherwise I would have taken that one when we moved in.’
‘Exactly.’
I laugh and unscrew the top of the hot water bottle. ‘Please don’t ever be a parent.’
‘Believe me, I have no intention of it,’ he says dryly.
Just in case I needed a reminder.
‘Mol, you’re shivering,’ he says. He steps up behind me, and next thing I know, he’s pulling my back against his chest—his bare, gorgeous man-chest—and wrapping his arms around me.
Despising myself, I sink against him, because this may possibly be the warmest, most delicious hug I’ve ever had. I can feel the heat radiating from his body through my own flannel pyjamas.
‘You are outrageously warm,’ I tell him.
‘Mmm,’ he murmurs into my hair. ‘Told you. Why don’t I come and get you warmed up in bed?’
I twist my head in an attempt to look at him, but all I get is shoulder and biceps. Ugh. ‘You have got to be kidding me.’
‘Innocent offer. I’ll come and spoon you for a few minutes, and then I’ll slip out and leave you to it.’
‘No. I know you. You’ll try to warm me up with your dick.’
I can’t believe I just referred to his dick, when that particular organ is pressed right up against my bum and, knowing my ex as I do, it won’t stay soft for long. But it makes him laugh, properly, a deep belly-laugh that vibrates through my back and into my heart and lungs.
‘I promise you, Mol. I’ll warm you from the outside in only. My intentions are honourable. Just let me give you a cuddle.’ He’s speaking into my hair. ‘Hey—this might sound weird, but I feel like we need a cuddle after everything we admitted to this evening. You know, for old time’s sake.’
The problem is that I totally agree. It’s not just my body yearning for Max’s particular brand of warm comfort, it’s my soul, too. My heart. After our emotional closeness this evening, physical closeness feels like the next step.
It’s just—it’s a big step. Even if it’s innocent, letting Max wrap that sinful body of his around me while I fall asleep in his arms is majorly intimate.
‘How long would this be for?’ I ask.
He shrugs against me. ‘As long as it takes. Half an hour?’
‘But what if you fall asleep before me, and then one of the kids find you in my bed?’
‘Honestly, Mol, you’re overthinking this.
I’m not going to slip my dick inside you.
Your kids are not going to find me in your bed, and if they do, I’ll tell them the truth.
That you’re shamelessly exploiting me for my body warmth.
’ He releases me from the hug, and I’m instantly colder.
I can see how effective it would be having both Max and my hot water bottle to warm me up.
And by effective, I mean utterly blissful.
‘Okay. Fine.’
The kettle is whistling on the AGA plate, so I fill up the hot water bottle as Max hovers behind me. When I’m done, I hug it to my chest.
‘Come on. Let’s go.’
I’m leading my ex-lover up to my bedroom. This isn’t weird at all.
He follows me up the stairs, his body a little too close for my liking.
‘Your arse looks fantastic in those bottoms,’ he says behind me.
‘No it doesn’t. Shut up.’
He flicks the end of the single, fat plait I wear my hair in at night. It’s so long it brushes my bum.
‘You could wipe your arse with this, these days.’
‘You’re as pragmatic as you are delightful, aren’t you?’ I hiss in a whisper, tugging it over my shoulder.
I push the bedroom door shut behind us as far as I can without closing it completely, in case the kids need to come in in the night. I make my way over to my side of the bed, and Max automatically goes to what used to be his side. I fight a smirk.
‘Still sleep on the same side?’ he asks, and I nod.
‘Yeah. You?’
‘Yeah,’ he says sheepishly, and I allow myself a little ogle at the fine sight of a shirtless Max climbing into my bed. This is far too close to how I remember things being for comfort.
But then he’s right up behind me, tugging me into the cradle of his body, the heat of it enveloping me. His arm wraps around my middle, his huge, warm hand splaying against my stomach in a manner that feels even better than the hot water bottle I’m clutching against my chest.
‘This okay?’ he mutters into my hair, and I take a deep, shuddery breath before exhaling heavily and sinking deeper into my bed. Into Max.
Because this is more than okay. He’s engulfing me, consuming me, with his heat, and his scent, and the strength of his muscles, and the sheer size of his body wrapped around mine. Pressed up against mine.
‘It’s heaven,’ I tell him, deciding to throw him a bone. Because even though I suspect this is no hardship for him, he’s doing me a favour, and it would be both childish and churlish to pretend I’m ambivalent. ‘You’re a full-body hot water bottle.’
He chuckles and pulls me in tighter. ‘That’s me.’
I could die here, like this. The only thing missing from making this the perfect evening is a couple of orgasms, but right now I’m so tired that a cosy cuddle may actually beat an orgasm.
I’m perfectly content to lie here, in the eye of the full-on sensory storm that is Max’s gorgeous body wrapped protectively around me, and luxuriate.
It’s been months since I shared a bed with Felix.
Too long. And even then, he didn’t boast the overwhelming physical size Max does.
No one can cuddle like Max Rutherford. The relief of having a stunning male specimen wrapped around me, heat pumping off his spectacular body, cocooning me from worries and work and the isolation of being a single parent is immense.
It’s like someone’s injected me full of muscle relaxant. My body feels slack and happy. It’s incredible how great the power of human touch is. Except, I suppose you could argue that Max is more godlike than human. In physical form, anyway.
He shifts slightly behind me, his hand brushing my stomach as he does.
‘This is fucking bliss,’ he murmurs.
It really is. So much so that I think I’ll stay awake as long as I can, just to enjoy it.
Unfortunately, my knackered body has other ideas.
Max is true to his word.
When I wake in the morning, he’s nowhere to be seen.