Chapter 26
Max
Hunter and I have been sharing a bed for a week now.
We only planned on doing it once. Or maybe we didn’t have a plan, but the first night went so well that it made sense to continue, at least until this assessment weekend.
I’ve spent so long sharing a bed with Mr Peanut that I’m used to having another warm body beside me.
And Hunter has been in a relationship, so he must be used to it.
Still, that first night was like nothing I’ve ever experienced.
Do you want me to hold you until you fall asleep?
I’ve never wanted anything more. It could have been so awkward, but it wasn’t at all.
As his warmth enveloped me, I tried to remember the last time I’d felt so held.
Sure, a lot of people have hugged me in the last five years, but this wasn’t like that.
With Mr Peanut, it’s always me doing the holding.
But with Hunter, it felt so natural and soothing that my body gave in without protest. I fell asleep almost instantly.
After that, the second and third nights were a little more uncertain.
Mr Peanut turned out to sleep fine without me, so there was no need for Hunter to offer to put his arms around me again.
We both danced around the fact that he was naked.
I told him it wasn’t an issue because I didn’t want to seem like a prude, but my god, knowing he was lying there with no clothes on drove me wild.
The fourth night was unseasonably hot. We were sharing a single sheet, but that morning, I woke up at dawn and gazed over in the half-light to see Hunter asleep on his back, fully exposed.
What was previously suggested in the fitting room, in the dark on our wedding night, and through the steam on the shower door, was now in full view.
I couldn’t take my eyes off it, hanging there between his legs, soft but heavy.
It wasn’t even the size of it that took me aback.
It was the feeling it inspired in me, urgent and ravenous.
I wanted to reach out and take hold of it, trace its curves with my tongue, feel it swell in my mouth.
But with Hunter asleep, it felt wrong to even look.
I rolled onto my side and lay there awake until my alarm went off and I could jump into the shower and jerk off.
From then on, I was determined. Don’t look.
Don’t think about it. Don’t give any opening for those thoughts to enter.
More than once, I thought I was out of the danger zone only to meet Hunter in my dreams. There, all bets were off.
We did things I’ve never done with anyone in real life, things that have always felt out of reach but are now at my fingertips.
One time, I woke up feeling flushed with ecstasy and sticky in my underpants.
I looked over at Hunter, and it felt impossible that he could be lying there asleep and unaware.
Maybe it’s because today is the day we head to the assessment, but my sleep was unusually bad.
I was aware of Hunter’s presence in the bed all night, how much space he takes up.
I was irrationally annoyed at him and at myself for being unable to get him off my mind.
I finally got to sleep in the early hours, which means that as the sun rises, I’m still in bad need of rest. I’m drifting in and out of sleep when I feel it – a gentle pressure against my butt. What is that?
Oh.
Hunter’s breath is even. Is he asleep? He’s probably dreaming about some actor he once railed on Broadway. Then he shifts, a low murmur escaping his throat, the words indistinct.
I want to turn and look at him, to know for certain if he’s awake. Instead I lie there, rigid in more ways than one. I’m not used to this kind of ambiguity.
Sure, maybe on a first date, you’re unsure if you’re boring them, how much you’re into them yourself, whether it’s just the wine talking. But once you’ve made up your mind to go home with someone, it’s pretty clear what’s going to happen.
Here, in the dawn light, I don’t know anything. Except that I’m hard, and feeling Hunter’s dick against my butt is making it worse.
By which I mean better.
This can’t be accidental, can it? Would it be wrong to press back, just the smallest amount, to see if he notices? My hips tilt before I can make up my mind, as if my body is deciding for me.
Another mumble. I don’t catch the words. I don’t even know if they are words. But Hunter doesn’t move away. I can feel that he’s hard too, his dick resting gently against the gap between my cheeks. I can’t take much more of this.
I roll onto my back as if that will solve the problem, but it places Hunter within my peripheral vision. His eyes flicker open. He gazes at me dreamily. We’re dangerously close.
I should say something. Anything to cut the tension. But my mind is blank. I open my mouth, assuming that the right words will come out.
That’s when my alarm clock goes off.
As we rouse ourselves, I’m convinced it was another dream. It’s impossible to believe that minutes earlier, I was on the verge of asking Hunter – what? If he wanted to have sex? Now that the moment has passed, it feels unimaginable. But I didn’t imagine that. Did I?
There’s no time to wonder, because it turns out that’s the third time my alarm went off.
I must have hit the snooze button in my sleep.
In fact, now that I’m properly awake, I’m remembering what a terrible night’s sleep I had.
I don’t know what I was thinking, sharing a bed the night before a job interview.
There’s no time to pack properly. Hunter says he’ll grab some clothes for both of us, so I race into the bathroom, bleary-eyed, and throw a random collection of toiletries into a wash bag.
I can’t stop thinking about what happened just now.
I’m sure Hunter was at least partly aware of what was going on.
Which means . . . maybe he’s no longer against the idea of us sleeping together.
Or maybe his subconscious wants what he knows he shouldn’t have.
I can’t decide which is hotter.
We make it onto the train with seconds to spare, spilling a coffee I insisted on picking up. The train is packed with people heading to an opera festival, and I’m relieved when I find two free seats. I plonk down just as the train sets off.
‘Hello, hello,’ says a horribly familiar voice.
Quentin and the brilliant Flora Forbes are seated across the aisle from us.
Fuck these two, honestly. Everything about them is immaculate, from their single leather suitcase to their casual sweaters in complementary shades to their Tupperware containers of yoghurt and granola topped with hazelnuts that have, it is reasonable to presume, been hand-toasted by Flora.
They’re sharing a travel flask of tea and each has a book for the journey, the latest Kate Atkinson mystery for Flora, some historical non-fiction for Quentin.
The only thing ruining the picture is, for some reason, a pungent smell of cheese.
‘Don’t let us interrupt,’ I say, gesturing at their books.
‘Not at all,’ says Flora, closing hers decisively. ‘It’s not Atkinson’s best.’
She turns to Quentin. ‘Have you finished your granola?’
Not waiting for a response, she confiscates Quentin’s Tupperware, gets out her travel bag, and hands him a tube of Aesop hand mist. They both clean their hands, the product’s sophisticated floral scent filling the air.
I can’t bear these two, I really can’t. The way they are so embedded in their routines as a couple . . . they must think Hunter and I are total frauds. How do we compete with this? I pull my wash bag from my case and rummage around in it.
‘Hey babe,’ I say to Hunter. ‘Do you want your . . . er . . . Bonjela?’
I’ve plucked out a crusty old tube of Bonjela cold sore gel. Hunter stares at me.
‘I’m good.’
Why isn’t he playing along? Quentin and Flora are watching us like hawks.
I put back the Bonjela and search for something more suitable, but I packed in the dark, and it’s not like I even own anything on a par with Aesop hand mist. I’m only now realising that everything I chucked into my wash bag was from the medicine shelf.
Throat pastilles. That’ll do. There’s something very intimate and domestic about carrying your partner’s medication for them.
‘Sorry,’ I say to Hunter. ‘I meant these.’
Hunter frowns. ‘What are they for?’
‘Dry, tickly cough,’ Quentin reads from the pack.
I give Hunter an urgent look. Cough, motherfucker! How hard can it be to produce a dry tickly cough? I thought he was supposed to be an actor.
‘I’m good,’ says Hunter, in a tone that’s clearly designed to make me stop whatever I’m playing at. But I’m committed now. And Quentin is still watching in gleeful fascination. I peer back into the wash bag, and it can only be sheer desperation that leads me to produce a slender red tube of Anusol.
‘Here you go, darling,’ I say to Hunter. ‘Here’s your—’
‘Anus Oil?!’ Quentin exclaims.
‘That’s not how you pronounce it.’
Hunter looks at me as if I’m insane. ‘That’s not mine, babe. It must be yours.’
I hold his gaze. ‘Oh. Silly me.’
Hunter turns to Quentin and Flora. ‘He slept badly, poor guy. Hey Max, why don’t we go find the quiet carriage so you can have a nap?’