Chapter 20 #2
He’s said exactly what I wanted him to, but when he leans back in his chair and meets my eye, I don’t feel like I’m in control at all.
Max behaves over the next couple of days, and it makes things worse. He doesn’t kiss me again. He keeps his eyes resolutely
on my face when we talk, even when I wear those shorts that he usually makes some flirtatious comment about. He doesn’t murmur
inappropriate things under his breath when we all go on a beach walk. And any time there’s no other option but to squeeze
past each other in the cabin, I keep finding myself anticipating a touch on my lower back that never comes. A set of hands
on my shoulders, moving me out of the way. A graze of his fingers at my waist. All he offers is a hovering hand, and, sometimes,
a small, knowing smile. If I thought I was aware of him before, that was nothing.
I shouldn’t be frustrated. He’s doing what I asked, which proves he was capable of it all along. In fact, the only negative change is that he’s started taking longer showers, which messes up my morning routine. But aside from that? He’s relaxed.
I, on the other hand, am unwell.
How is it fair that I had a taste of him and my body’s decided to crave him even more, while he seems perfectly fine waiting
for his next bite?
One evening, our fingers brush as he passes me the toothpaste, and electricity shoots through me.
‘You okay?’ he asks.
‘I’m great,’ I reply, finally remembering that I should breathe.
‘You seem a little tense.’ He catches my eye in the mirror. ‘Any particular reason?’
‘Nope.’
When I get in bed ten minutes later, after a long time staring at the mirror and telling myself to get it together, I find
that my side of the mattress is warm. I don’t question it, I just let the warmth send me to sleep.
And the following morning, I wake the way I often do; before my alarm, after a dream that I wish desperately had been real, lying on my side with a familiar arm slung low on my stomach.
Seagulls caw, the wind sings, and a strip of daylight peeks through the curtains.
I know if I turned around, it would cast a ghostly glow on a shirtless man with dark hair, probably frowning in his sleep.
Instead of moving away, I let him hold me. He’s still asleep, his breathing slow and heavy. I’m . . . basically still asleep.
I nestle backwards an inch, secretly hoping he’ll tighten his hold. But his arm loosens and his hand draws back, his thumb
hitting the strip of skin above my waistband.
Maybe this innocent contact of skin on skin will appease my desperate craving for his touch, and if not, at least I can use
the even flow of his breathing as a lullaby, can drift off again to the soothing circles he draws on my hip, can—wait. His thumb. That movement is intentional. Finally. It’s such a relief that it makes my breath catch.
His thumb stills.
‘Are you awake?’ he whispers into my hair.
I nod, but he doesn’t move. His chest presses against my back, and I’m not sure if it’s my heartbeat or his that I can feel.
I’m too aware of every rustle of the duvet, of the heat pulsing through me, of his mouth behind my ear.
His voice is barely audible. ‘Sorry.’
I can pretend I’m still in one of my hazy dreams, I think. We both can.
In silent permission, I tuck in closer, pushing my hips back until I’m flush with his front. Carefully, a warm, rough palm
slides just under the hem of my top, and he resumes that delicate touch, so welcome that my breath spills out in a satisfied
hum. Round and round his thumb goes, summoning goosebumps on my skin, the pad of his thumb glancing off the bottom of my ribcage
and igniting soft, dusting sparks that settle as heat in my lower belly.
It’s agonisingly slow and deliberate, and I melt into the steady surety of his touch; spine curving, thighs squeezing, body liquefying.
He releases ragged exhales against my neck, a quiet grunt when my ass moves against him, a reflexive push of his hips that shows me exactly how much he likes this daydream we’re in too, alone on our featherdown island.
We drift into a careful rhythm, hips chasing hips, gently knocking against each other the way the waves jostled us in the
ocean, breath tightening in sharp inhales and loosening in hushed sighs.
If I weren’t so keenly attuned to everywhere Max touches me, maybe I’d be too distracted by what’s pressing against me from
behind to notice the slow ascent of his hand, the way his thumb halts right below the curve of my breast, achingly close,
but still too far.
But I notice it all, because my skin buzzes at every contact, and all I can do is squeeze my legs together tighter and rock
against him harder and let out a breathy, ‘Max.’
The noise that escapes him is so filthy, it must’ve come from the very back of his throat, from the very edges of his consciousness.
His hand abruptly leaves my ribs, and the sudden coolness reminds me of the bed when he leaves it every morning, but he finds
my hip again, this time digging his fingers in, and he guides me to him increasingly insistently, assertively, the thick,
hard press of him between my legs heady and enticing and—
My alarm goes off, and it brings me back to reality with a heart-stopping gasp.
I feel Max’s deflation as I move out of his hold, scrambling to my phone.
But I’m deflated too, a balloon with its air let out, messily trying to get back to normal, despite the ache between my thighs
and the soft warmth in my belly begging to be set alight. So I sit against my pillow and wrap the duvet tightly around my
front in the hope of holding myself together.
My pounding pulse worsens when I spot the stream of messages I missed, and I sit up straighter as I scroll through them.
‘Everything okay?’ Max’s voice is thick. I look over at him and immediately wish I hadn’t. His eyes are dark and hungry, his
bare chest rising and falling too fast, the duvet around him as rumpled as his hair.
But he’s asked a simple question. We can pretend that whatever just happened was a shared dream. Some glitch in the matrix.
‘It’s my sister,’ I reply. ‘She sent me a bunch of messages last night and I’ve only just seen them. She’s going off to uni
soon and she’s trying to figure—sorry. You don’t want to hear about all this.’
Not when we almost crossed the line I said I wouldn’t cross.
He props his head on his hand. ‘Tell me.’
If he’s making an effort to be normal, I should try too. He’s used to doing stuff like this. I can follow his lead.
I set my phone on the bedside table and start to explain. ‘Mum’s on shift the day Tahlia’s meant to move into halls, so she’s
asked her dad to come with his car instead. But he’s being as noncommittal as ever, so she’s not sure if she should figure
out an alternative.’ My mouth pinches. ‘I don’t like talking badly of him in front of her, but he’s not exactly dad of the
year, you know?’
‘He’s not your dad,’ he notes. ‘You never talk about yours.’
I glance at him again, the early-morning light casting dim shadows on his mercilessly beautiful face. ‘No. Mine left when
I was two. But I’ve never needed him.’ I clear my throat and continue, ‘Anyway, I’m just worried things won’t go smoothly
for Tahlia. Even without the moving-in hassle, I think she’s more nervous about everything than she’s letting on.’
‘What makes you think that?’
I let my mind cycle through it all. ‘She’s so loud and confident, and to other people she probably seems like she’s got it
all together, but I know her.’ My phone screen glows on the nightstand, lighting up the photo of us at her eighteenth: Tahlia
in a silver dress, dark curls topped with a crown, me in jeans and a red-wine-stained T-shirt. ‘I know that when things are
too quiet, she gets anxious and withdrawn. I’m worried everyone around her will be so focused on themselves that no one will
be there to take care of her when she needs it. I really wanted to be there to move her in, but she practically forced me
on this trip and said she’d be fine without me.’
‘You don’t think she was telling the truth?’
‘How could she be completely fine with such a big change?’
He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but waits a few seconds before saying gently, ‘Do you think you could
be projecting your own fears on to her?’
‘What, because I’ve never done anything big? Because I’ve barely left London? Because I still live with my family?’ The retort
comes too quickly, embarrassing evidence that it’s something that’s been on my mind.
‘Hey, that’s not what I said. I live with my parents too. They’d lock me in the house if they could. I always have to leave
for trips while they’re at work so they’re not around to drag me back inside.’
He grins, and it’s disarming. It also lowers my defences a little. ‘Really?’
A shadow crosses his face briefly, before he corrects it with another smile. ‘No. I always make sure to say goodbye.’
My fingers find the bracelet on my wrist. ‘I’m just saying that my own experience with change is not related to how I feel
about Tahlia leaving home. She’s my little sister. Her whole life we’ve stuck together, and I don’t like the thought that
I won’t be there when she needs me.’
‘You don’t think it’s related to how, for eighteen years, you’ve only ever thought of yourself in relation to your sister,
looking after her and teaching her and cheering her on, and now that she’s leaving and growing into her own person, you’re
not sure who you’ll be without her?’
My heartbeat thunders in my ears. ‘I wouldn’t be anyone without her.’
‘You would. You’d be you. That’s it.’ His eyes lock with mine, and a crease forms between his brows. ‘It’s one of the things
that gives me comfort. Knowing that people will keep pieces of me, but no one is wound up so tightly in me that it would kill
them if I’m cut away.’ He clears his throat. ‘We all carry parts of the people we’ve loved, but we’re not an empty shell without
them. There’s still something that’s solely, fundamentally you underneath.’