Chapter 34
Thirty-Four
never forget how you deserve to be held
Dylan
Thrumming through my veins is hope, light and warm as the glow of the lamp Max turns on when we enter the cabin, our bags
already packed and waiting by the door. He carefully loosens my plait, and when our lips meet, he cradles my jaw with such
tenderness that I feel the burn of tears at my eyes.
This is it, I think. This is what it means to be held.
We kick our shoes off, and while he kisses me, I surreptitiously push both pairs to the side with my feet, trying to line
them up neatly, and his laugh is hot against my mouth when he realises what I’m doing.
‘Ridiculous woman,’ he says, leaning his weight on to me.
He commands the kiss, slow and heavy, savouring my lips and my tongue like everything about it is a delicacy, and it sends
an electric current running all the way down my spine.
I tug his hoodie off while we stumble to the bedroom, that one floorboard by the door creaking as we pass.
My fingers rake across the hard plane of his chest while his move under my jumper, dipping into the flesh of my hips, grabbing at my waist, until he catches the hem and lifts it.
I get caught in the neck hole and we fumble through it, laughter filling the limited space between us.
He smooths my hair down and kisses my forehead once I’m free, and my heart clenches.
Our remaining clothes join the pile, and when my bra hits the floor and our underwear is all that’s left between us, he takes
a single step back to examine me.
‘You’re so—’ He exhales deeply, something like awe on his face. He’s all cheekbones and feverish eyes in this light. ‘I don’t
think the word to describe you has been invented yet.’
My instinct is to squirm away, to deflect, to let my hair hide my blush, but something about the way he’s looking at me changes
my mind. The way he’s always looked at me, really. Like I’m something to admire.
My fingers glance across my stomach, my waist, and up to my breasts, and the answering rumble in his throat gives me the confidence
to ask, ‘Does any word come close?’
‘Perfect,’ he says immediately, smouldering eyes following the ghosting of my thumbs over my nipples, the subsequent tug between
my fingertips. ‘That one’s pretty good.’
I step out of my underwear, never dropping his stare, and I revel in the way he slowly breathes out, as if he’s trying to
calm himself.
‘No one’s perfect,’ I point out, moving forward to press my lips to the underside of his jaw.
‘At this moment in time,’ he says quietly, voice as abrasive as the stubble beneath my lips, ‘I’m struggling to think of ways
you aren’t.’
Slowly, his rough palms run across my body more purposefully, like he’s trying to chart a map, to figure out every contour
of this landscape. Maybe that’s what it is to him: mountains and valleys and endless places to explore. Maybe I’m the destination.
I notice that indecipherable scrawl on his hand again, but I’m distracted when his lips sink into the point where my neck
meets my shoulders, then the gap between my breasts, then the hollow of my throat; all the negative space, all the parts of
me that welcome him in.
‘This? Perfect,’ he whispers, kissing my nose. ‘Also perfect.’ My wrist. ‘This too.’ The underside of my breast. ‘And this.’ The stretchmarks on my hip. ‘Especially this.’ My inner thigh.
A husky laugh escapes me. ‘Anything else?’
He straightens, and the sigh he lets out feels sad, somehow. ‘Everything else, Dylan.’
Then he walks me to the bed and sets me against the pillows, and there I lie, legs bent, Max at my feet like some sort of
supplicant. And I get it now; the desire to be seen. I want him to look at every inch of me.
When I move my knees apart, his breath comes quicker and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. From the top of my head to
the tips of my toes, he analyses me, and his gaze brings every inch of me to life; a thousand flowers blooming inside me all
at once. Maybe all I ever needed was a bit of reverence to grow.
Confident hands drag down my body, blood rushing to the surface everywhere he touches, and he punctuates his journey back
up with kisses to my calves, my knees, my inner thighs, and he’s so unpredictable that I never know if I’m going to get a
gentle peck, or a dirty nip of teeth and a swipe of his tongue. When he looks up at me from between my legs with gleaming
eyes, silently seeking permission, I nod emphatically, no energy left to be coy.
Then he drops his head and does all my favourite things with his mouth and his hands, learnt over the past few dizzying weeks
in this brand-new life of mine. One hand presses me into the bed, only lifting when he has to adjust himself in his underwear,
which sends me writhing even more. With every deft stroke, every caress, every suck, I plead for more, as if he’s not already
touching me like his life depends on it, as if making me combust isn’t his current singular focus. Even so, I’m still surprised
when I find myself plummeting over the edge, soaring into a riot of thigh-clenching, hair-pulling sensation, my cries echoing
around the room.
His quiet laugh buzzes against me, and it’s only when my thighs relinquish their hold on his head that he pulls himself up,
trailing soft kisses all the way up to my mouth.
‘Hey,’ he says, leaning over me with a wretched smirk.
‘Hello,’ I manage, still trying to ease my heart rate back to normal.
‘I love it when you’re polite.’ At my frown, he adds, ‘All those Max, pleases. Makes me feel like I’m doing a good job.’
I roll my eyes and run a hand over him in his underwear, squeezing lightly, then less lightly, until he pulls at his waistband
and releases himself with a relieved sigh, the whisper of the material down his legs giving me goosebumps, the quiet thump
as they land on the floor making my mouth go dry.
For a few moments, all I do is look at him; that lean, naked body exposed just for me. From a distance, Max is mostly jagged
edges; long limbs, defined cheekbones, sharp smile that slashes across his face. But I’ve savoured him up close. I know his
hair is silken, know exactly where his skin is softest, know his touch can be so delicate you can’t quite tell if you’re imagining
it.
‘Stop that,’ he says, a smirk tugging up one side of his mouth as he shifts on to one knee. ‘I’m shy.’
But I haven’t been able to stop looking since the moment I laid eyes on him. Those tattoos and scars and bruises tell a story
I want to read over and over, until the cover’s battered and the pages are worn out and dog-eared and no one else knows the
words but me. My gaze lands on the tattoo on his thigh, and then the dark line of the scar on his hip. Two marks denoting
the same thing, in different ways. Both equally precious.
They remind me of our conversation from the beach, and I choose my words carefully, reaching between his legs. ‘If we’ve both
been tested recently, and you’d prefer not to wear a cond—’
‘I’m all clear,’ he interrupts, the mattress dipping as he moves closer. ‘But it doesn’t matter. I don’t wanna risk it.’ I
pump him slowly, and a muscle in his jaw ticks. He closes his eyes briefly when I tug a little harder, before adding, ‘Feel
like it’d be just my luck for my singular remaining sperm to get you pregnant.’
‘No, you’re right.’ With my free hand, I dig through the box on the nightstand, fingers scraping the cardboard a few times before grabbing hold of a condom and handing it to him. ‘I really don’t want your demon spawn.’
‘Good, because I really don’t want my demon spawn either,’ he says through a laugh, tearing the packet open.
It strikes me that I’ve had the complete opposite conversation in the past, and a delirious giggle slips out of me. Max lifts
a single amused eyebrow while he rolls the condom on.
I collect myself and say, ‘Okay. Cool. Same as usual, I guess.’
‘Haven’t heard any complaints from you thus far,’ he says. ‘But I’m all ears if you have any feedback. Always looking to improve
my craft.’
‘Wouldn’t want you to get complacent.’
‘Right, yeah,’ he says, lining himself up, achingly close. ‘Because I’m the one who lies there looking pretty, approximately,
uh,’ he frowns as he pretends to think, ‘ninety-eight per cent of the time.’
I let out an indignant huff. ‘Wow.’
That boyish grin spreads, mocking me. ‘But you do such a good job of it, honey.’
I hold his chin to keep his face in front of mine. ‘Remember when I never argued back?’
‘Nope,’ he says simply. His hair tickles my cheek as he dips to my ear to mutter, ‘You’ve always argued back with me.’
He pushes into me slowly, gauging my reaction. One half of his face is illuminated by the orange light spilling in from the
living room, while the other is shaded by the darkness of the bedroom. And I see it, right there, in this man made of shadows
and warmth. I want both sides of him. I want his gilded edges, his easy affection and inappropriate jokes, and I want the
parts of him that live in the dark. The parts he thinks will destroy everything in their path. I want to hold his hand when
he causes damage, and keep holding it while we pick up the pieces together.
I tug his face towards mine and taste the urgency on his tongue, lifting my hips to meet his and starting the push and pull of our bodies.
His expletives fill the air as he works himself into me, and when he catches my eye, I know he’s just as unwound as I am.
The pressure builds, and he keeps one hand between my legs, taunting me any time I get close, keeping me just solid enough to be coherent.
My fingers leave indents at the tops of his arms, and for the briefest moment I’m too aware that my imprint on him might be
as temporary as those marks. But then he takes hold of my bent legs and firmly pushes them back against me, and he goes so
deep that my eyes roll, and all thoughts are lost to the sensation of him moving steadily, slowly, like he’s searching for
something within me.
‘Max,’ I say on an exhale. ‘Is this as good for you as it is for me?’
He pauses for a fraction of a second, and the look in his eyes is a little feverish, a little wild. I clench around him and
he whimpers, and it’s such a helplessly needy sound that it makes me want to do confusing things like stroke his hair and tuck him into
bed, but also let him use me for every single depraved fantasy he has.
‘Better,’ he murmurs raggedly, and I want to dissect every letter of that word, but he flips me until my hands find the headboard
and my knees settle on the mattress, and he takes hold of my hips with that sure grip of his and presses into me again, and
I can do nothing except plead while he moves inside me, one hand working between my thighs.
More of you, I say as he pushes deeper.
More of this, I gasp as he thrusts quicker.
More of us, I keep to myself, as his other hand leaves my hip to interlace with my fingers on the headboard. I want to beg him to stay
like this forever, entwined with me in every way.
Hot breath hits my cheek when he lowers his head, and I understand I’m completely insatiable when it comes to him. I’ll never
get enough of the way he feels, the way he sounds, the way he presses praise into my neck, between my shoulder blades, against
my mouth; those whispered compliments inking my skin more permanently than any tattoo.
His fingers keep up the tempo between my legs as he drives into me, and pleasure swells like the tide, rising higher until
it spills over me and washes away every coherent thought, wave after wave of release tumbling through my body.
Amidst it all, a singular current tugs me back, and my shattered brain comes together again just in time to watch Max’s undoing.
To hold his hand while he loses control, to hear my name tearing from his lips in a desperate plea, and then to drag my fingernails along his scalp and down his spine when he’s lying flat against me afterwards, both of us panting in synchronised, shuddering breaths.
Later, as dawn’s pale fingers stretch across the sky, I tug the duvet back from him and drape it over both of us evenly. When
I settle into his body heat and feel his warm breath against my throat, I realise it’s the first time he’s ever fallen asleep
before me.