Chapter 32
Hunter
Max makes it back in the nick of time, heading straight in for the afternoon assessment. I’m not sure doing it on an empty stomach is ideal, but he doesn’t have a choice. At least the past hour has focused his thoughts.
I need a moment to catch my breath myself.
That was an emotional rollercoaster, especially coming after the conversation Max and I had on the train.
There, it was Max who held me. Here, the roles were reversed.
I’m starting to think that my relationship with Max is the first time I have experienced true partnership.
It’s completely different than what I had with Rafferty.
Max and I have bared our souls to each other, and I don’t think it’s going too far to say that it has changed how we see each other.
We showed each other our deepest wounds, and for me at least, it hasn’t made me want to back away. Quite the opposite.
But what are we supposed to do about it?
This has gone way beyond a mutual crush.
It’s a friendship, for sure, but it’s more than that.
It feels like the start of something bright and blazing.
Letting it burn freely could be irresponsible, but I don’t know how to contain it.
I want to fan the flames of our desires and see where it takes us.
What I really need is to speak to Zosia and Thiago about it, but Thiago is spending the afternoon dressed as Princess Peach and handing out cupcakes in Leicester Square, and Zosia is auditioning to play a manure farmer in Lena Dunham’s feminist reimagining of My Little Pony.
Instead, I head up to our room and lie on the bed in a state of paralysis until Max comes back from his assessment.
‘How did it go?’ I ask, scanning his face.
‘Better,’ he says.
He explains what they were tasked with, which thankfully didn’t involve Gerald Pope this time.
The candidates were asked to brainstorm and pitch soft power initiatives, and Max’s idea of a touring art exhibition was chosen as the winner.
Nothing too bold, nothing offensive, just good clean diplomacy.
He’s relieved it went well, but the day has left him exhausted. He declares that he needs a shower.
I hear the water splash over his body, and my imagination refuses to stay idle. I picture him covered in soap suds, his hand gliding between his butt cheeks then around to the front. The thought turns my blood to fire.
When Max emerges, he’s wearing a crisp white bath robe, a single lock of hair falling over his eyes. He puts his hand on his neck and groans.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘Nothing.’
‘It’s not nothing.’
Max hesitates. ‘It’s been a long day. My neck hurts.’
Now that I look at him, the tension is visible.
‘Do you want me to give you a massage?’
All the air is sucked out of the room. We both know that a massage is dangerous territory, but I can see how much he needs it.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ says Max.
‘Max. I’m here for you.’
‘You’ve done enough for me today.’
‘Lie down.’
The command stops him short. He walks over to the bed, then hesitates.
I realize it’s because he’s naked underneath his bath robe.
I’d love nothing more than for him to lie there naked, but it’s better for both of us if he doesn’t.
I tell him to lower the robe to his waist, then avert my eyes as he gets in place.
Still, when I turn towards him, the sight stops me in my tracks.
The curve of his back glistens with droplets from the shower, and I can see the top of his butt peeking out of his robe.
I need to shift it down just a little to allow my hands to move smoothly, so I check that he’s OK with that before doing so.
But now his butt feels like it’s teasing me.
Damn. The things I want to do to this boy.
I sit on top of him and get to work. With the massage, I mean.
As I knead his muscles, I feel how knotted and tense he is.
But slowly, my hands do their job. In some ways, this feels just as useful as the conversation we had earlier, undoing him in a way that words never could.
His body yields to my touch, and it’s like he’s surrendering to the feelings we discussed on our walk.
It’s a beautiful thought, which is why it’s a shame about the situation between my legs.
I’m not sure what I expected. I can feel the threads of Max’s bathrobe against my calves.
I can’t resist imagining what’s underneath.
It’s not that I’m being suggestive with my movements.
I’m being entirely professional. But that’s making it worse.
Each time my hands stop at the top of his butt, my urge to slide lower grows stronger, and my dick gets harder.
I tuck it into my waistband so it doesn’t flop against Max by mistake, but now it’s straining to be set free.
I’m doing everything I can to ignore it when Max lets out a moan.
‘Too hard?’ I ask.
‘No, no! All good!’ Max gasps.
Now my thoughts run wild. Is he turned on too?
He must be. I could swear his breathing has got faster.
Maybe his body is betraying him too. Maybe he’s longing for me to take this in the direction we started on our wedding night.
I can no longer resist the impulse. But it has to come from Max too.
There’s one very easy way to find out if he’s up for it.
Face to face, neither of us will be able to hide.
‘Do you want me to do your front?’ I ask.
A scene flashes before my eyes: Max rolling onto his back, us seeing the unmistakable evidence in each other’s pants, reaching in and taking it from there.
Is that what he’s hoping for?
If he is, surely he’ll detect the note of mischief in my voice, but that’s as far as I’m prepared to go. I’ve put the ball firmly in his court. If he wants to keep this platonic, that’s his call. I hold my breath as I wait for him to respond.
‘Thanks,’ he says, ‘but don’t worry about it. We should get ready for dinner.’