Page 11 of Vine (Island Love #3)

CHAPTER 10

CASPIAN

After my latest contretemps with Leigh, half a bottle of local rosé, ripe with overtones of self-pity and a lingering aftertaste of melancholy, had gone down very nicely. As had the swift brandy chaser, brimming with bass notes of righteous anger. I wasn’t much of a drinker as a rule, but right now, my regular evening tipple at L’Escale felt like the only dab of glue holding my shit together.

All afternoon, I’d drowned in my own overthinking, and the stinging fresh cut on my thigh reminded me of it every time I moved. Hence the appearance of my stalker/hero/fetish fantasy/psychokiller was a very welcome diversion.

As was tonight’s choice of white T-shirt. If it clung any tighter to his magnificent frame, he’d be wearing it on the inside. Physically, the guy was a perfect blend of everything I could never resist back in the days before my libido jumped into the same filing cabinet as my divorce papers and made a home there. Since that horrific sequence of life events, Max had been the only guy tempting it to peek out again.

Watching him moisten his lips like he was building up to deliver a rare speech, I was getting the distinct impression the feeling was mutual. From anyone else, that sliver of a kiss on my doorstep each evening would have been nothing more than a matey goodnight, but I sensed very strongly that Max didn’t do casual mateyness.

However, just because my dick was paying attention didn’t mean the rest of me should. Did I really need another complication? Except, why would he be? As Emma had pointed out, he was very different to Leigh. Inviting Max to pin me up against a wall and take me apart until the whole village knew his name would certainly be a welcome respite from ruminating on my usual internal soup. Or would Max just become an extra ingredient?

In the end, I let the brandy make the decision for me and tugged on a dangling blue rubber sleeve. “Off somewhere special later?”

He regarded me blankly. “Yes. Home.”

“I know.” I threw him my best smile. “I was only teasing you.”

If my perfectly shaped left earlobe hadn’t been so riveting, I’d swear he almost smiled back. He licked his lips again. “If I was hitting the town, I’d be wearing my red sequinned waders.”

I burst out laughing. So the guy had a sense of humour after all. Who cared if he was a little weird? He was the only person on this bloody island giving my nerves permission to take the night off.

“éti teases me a lot,” he explained, eyes back on my earlobe.

“Who’s éti?”

“Sister-in-law.”

As I took a gulp of brandy, his gaze swerved to my mouth, then just as smartly swerved away again. The tight T-shirt made no attempt whatsoever to hide the quickening of his breath, confirming in CAPS LOCK everything I’d grown to suspect. Not a serial killer, just a lonely horny gay. Fuck, I could work with that. After 500 days without sex, I was contemplating going to church this Sunday just to remember how being on my knees felt. Seemed Sunday was coming early.

“Well, she sounds a fun lady.”

“She is. You have blood coming through your trousers, by the way. On your thigh.”

With a flash of irritation, my fingers automatically went to the growing damp patch. “You know something, Max? Most people would be too polite to mention that.”

“Yes.”

He sounded like that was an irrelevance, but I quelled my urge to give him a piece of my mind. After all, he’d peeked into my world and was still talking to me. Most people, on witnessing the full extent of my arms, would give me a very wide berth.

“You should stop,” he said. “Hurting yourself.”

“Easier said than done, mate.”

“Do you do it because you want to die?”

I snorted with laughter. This guy was something else. “Therapists tend to wait until at least the third expensive appointment before building up to that question, Max.” I paused. “No, I don’t want to die. I do it because…”

My voice trailed off. Because I was an idiot? A drama queen? An attention seeker? Lost? Broken? Spoiled? Immature? Destructive?

My inquisitor supped on his beer, waiting patiently for an answer.

I sighed, feeling awfully weary all of a sudden. “Just because people sing sad songs, Max, it doesn’t mean they want to die.”

He chewed on his lip, brown eyes staring at my thigh in concentration. “That’s a metaphor,” I added. “And incidentally, I have a terrible singing voice. For sad or happy songs.”

He opened his mouth and then shut it again. Then opened it once more. “You should tell me when you think you’re going to need to cut yourself. I could stop you.”

I laughed again, kindlier this time. “Thanks for the offer, but it doesn’t work like that.”

We sipped at our drinks in unison. As a conversation stopper, especially with someone you were hoping to hook up with, recent visible evidence of self-harm was fairly high up the list. Max was still here, though, and still eyeing me like he wanted… something .

Over his shoulder, the landlord wiped down a couple of empty tables. The two hot guys he’d been with earlier had vanished. Only a handful of customers remained.

“You gonna walk me home, then?” Standing with a slight wobble, I reached for my jacket, scarf, and the hat he’d given me and refused to take back. From his expression, my new friend approved of my attention to personal warmth.

“Yes.” His fingers tapped rapidly against each other, like he was itching to get his hands on me. “And then I’m going to kiss you.”

Promising. In for a penny, in for a pound. “On my cheek?”

“Yes. And your mouth.”

I snorted. “Anything else you want to do?”

The skin under his beard pinked. “Florian says you’re homosexual too.”

“Fuck knows who Florian is, but you can tell him his gaydar is on point.”

As we left the pub, Max grasped my hand in his bigger warm one like it was his divine right. I had no objections; the biting wind sweeping in every night from across the Atlantic had lost its amusement value weeks ago. Not bothering to refasten his rubber onesie, my silent companion seemed oblivious.

“Don’t you feel the cold?”

“Yes, but only when the ambient temperature falls below two degrees Celsius with a wind chill factor dropping it to zero.”

He needed to communicate that info to his nipples, poking through the thin cotton fabric of the T-shirt like a signal of all the things he wanted to do to me, the ones Max struggled to articulate.

Would he loosen up if we got to know each other? For his own sanity, he shouldn’t get too close to me, but I was intrigued by him, his short sentences, blank looks, and peculiar social skills. At some point, he’d probably been assessed as having an autistic personality trait, but whatever the diagnosis, it wasn’t holding him back. The stuff he created out of other people’s discards, the nonfiction books on his shelf, the ordered way he kept his small home, spoke of intelligence and curiosity. He was honest, too, laying out his intentions very clearly. There was a lot to be said for that—saved a hell of misunderstanding further down the line. So what if he had no small talk? A refreshing fucking change as far as I was concerned. No one needed polite chitchat while having their dick stroked.

Our gatehouses were a seven-minute brisk walk from the pub, shaved to five and a half when a giant determined to wrap his tongue around yours was pulling you along.

“My place or?—"

His. And not up for discussion. From the thumping of Noir’s tail, the dog was delighted his master was home, but he was going to have to wait in line. No sooner had the door slammed behind us, Max crowded me up against it, those thick fingers working nineteen to the dozen and those keen brown eyes burning a hole in my mind.

“Consent,” he growled, in that bowel-shaking way he had. “I should ask for consent.”

Consent? Hadn’t I implied it already? Oh my God, what was he planning on doing to me? “What, for a kiss?”

“For anything.”

The fucking delicious scent of beer and pub and horny man rolled over me. It really had been way too long. “ Caspienne . I need your consent.”

Fuck, that voice again. It could crack stone.

“Yes, please, fuck yes.”

Our lips met, and my feet nearly left the ground. Bloody hell, I should have guessed he’d be like this. This was no cautious how-do-you-like-it hello kiss. One big hand seized the back of my skull; the other slammed me back against the door. Max’s mouth attacked greedily, ravenously, branding his name on my soul with every stroke of his tongue.

“Want you, Caspienne ,” he grunted through a hot breath. His hand wasn’t quite around my throat, but close enough to steal the air from my lungs. “Want you as mine.”

His hips pushed against me, and I pushed back, the hard jut of my thumping erection meeting the even harder wall of his thigh. Desire jerked low in my belly. With both hands gripping his arse cheeks, I rubbed up against the solid length of him, getting myself off. On an urgent groan, his mouth slid down to my neck, sucking and scraping along the sensitive skin like he wanted a chunk out of every piece of me.

“Oh Christ.” I threw my head back; he could take his fill. I’d made a barrel load of mistakes over the last few years, but letting this quiet bear of a man ravage me against a doorframe wasn’t one of them. As I fumbled for the opening of his waders, a flush of heat I hadn’t experienced for months swept through my balls. If I hadn’t been guzzling so many pills, I’d have been close to exploding already.

“Too much fucking rubber between us,” I gasped, part of the French lexicon I hadn’t ever anticipated voicing.

Shoes were kicked aside, the T-shirt came next, and my own layers practically took themselves off, left in a trail behind us as Max tugged me towards the bed. And then I was tumbled onto it, already stripped to my tighty whiteys. He towered over me in his boxers, eyes suddenly uncertain and perhaps shocked at the speed of it all. But there was no mistaking the magnificent heat of determination burning brightly behind.

“Hey, don’t stop now.” I held myself through my underwear, out of necessity as much as anything else, beckoning him to fill the space next to me. With his eyes fixed on my hand, Max’s fingers counted themselves madly. I gave myself a rub. “Do you want me to take these off?”

“Yeah.”

His huge chest rose and fell, as if overwhelmed by the deep well of possibilities suddenly opening up. Or, as a bolt of disquiet flitted across his gaze, like he wasn’t used to finding himself in this situation. As if we needed to slow it down.

That could be arranged. I might not have had sex in a while, but not so long I couldn’t remember I liked to fool around a little first. Hooking my thumbs into the elastic of my briefs, I pushed them a fraction lower.

“All the way off?” Glancing down at myself, I teased them an inch more until my tip poked from the waistband, all swollen and slick. With a desperate helpless sound, Max touched himself, leaving his hand there. My own dick pulsed in response.

“I’d love to watch you do that properly some time, Max. Show me how you like it.”

“Hard,” he said, his eyes glued to my dick. “I like it hard.”

My mouth dried. “Come over here and show me.”

When he climbed onto the bed, I was on him, straddling his hips and attacking his mouth as greedily as he’d attacked mine. Layers of simple smells rushed over me: ocean spray, the bitter salt of fresh sweat, beer, the pub. Rubber. It was an intoxicating mixture. Like a connoisseur of fine wine, I wanted to sample every inch of him, to clamber over those ropey straps of muscle, lose my hands in that wild beard, lose my mind in the thick dark pelt across his chest.

Lose my relentless misery in the circle of his arms.

Pushing a hand between us, I closed my palm around the hot shaft of his straining dick. “Christ, this is something else,” I gasped. “Big everywhere, yeah?”

He moaned as I traced a thumb over the head. “Yes. Ah… merde …yes. 15.9 centimetres erect, with a… merde … a circumference of 12.6.” His fist curled around mine, engulfing it. “Yours is smaller.”

I snorted. Yep, this man was different, and for some reason, I fucking dug it. Right down to that last fucking precise millimetre.

We found a choppy rhythm, in a side-by-side urgent tangle of legs, arms, hands, dicks, and tongues. Instinctive, uncomplicated, mutual handjobs with some old-fashioned spit to smooth the path. Maybe it was the ease, maybe it was the primeval simplicity of the other person chasing the same, but I’d forgotten how good someone else’s rough hand on my dick could feel. For a rare moment, my mind emptied of all the shit crowding it out save the giving and receiving of raw pleasure.

Max was close. I sensed it from the jerkiness of his hand, the tightening of his meaty thighs around my wrist, the heaves of his chest. I worked him harder, faster, urgently. I wanted to see it. Wanted his blunt contradictions of strength, force, and hesitancy to spill over into my hand. Wanted him to finally look me in the eye, gasping, wanted to please him.

“Don’t stop,” he moaned. “I’m... I’m…”

Hot jets streamed through my fingers, on and on. I pumped him dry, then turned on myself, putting his slippery release to good use. So close, I was so fucking close, if I could just… just fuck… With a delicious spike of pain, Max’s teeth clamped down onto my shoulder, and, unbelievably, I joined him.

“Oh my God, I managed to come.” I flopped onto my back, fighting for breath. “I can’t believe it.”

Max was panting too, his arm flung over his face, his huge man wang glistening wet and still semi-hard against his hip. Both of us riding the crest of a petite mort : me chasing the elation and holding onto it for as long as I could, and Max doing… whatever Max did.

“Why.” His voice sounded even growlier than usual.

“Why what?”

“You said you can’t believe it.”

Shit, I’d said that out loud and he was waiting for an answer. The long or the short version? Neither were especially sexy. My euphoria leached away. As my dick turned soggy and cold, I groped for my underwear, failing to locate it. I really wasn’t much of a catch.

“Because I… I’ve struggled to come recently,” I said, sitting up. “I can get it up, no problem at all, but…” Fuck, way too much information. “It’s no big deal.”

I hadn’t had many casual encounters—I’d met Leigh not long after the beginning of my sexual journey—but enough to know how pick-ups panned out.

Seemed my new friend hadn’t. He hauled me back down, arranging me across his chest and in his arms as though the space was reserved especially for me.

“I should go…” I began, but a heavy dog landed on my feet, stymieing my second attempt to leave. I snuffled a chuckle into Max’s broad chest. “Two against one, hey?”

“Yes. I’m not finished with you.”

A big hand stroked across my hip. The tips of his fingers walked their way down to my flaccid dick. Delightful in its way, but he’d get no joy there again, not tonight.

“I’m on some medication, Max. For my… um, mental health? It kind of, you know, dampens things down a bit? In the sex department? Physiologically? I’m amazed we got this far. So you… um… might have a bit of a wait for round two. Like, several months. And it’s horribly embarrassing and not something I go around telling people, except that you’ve already seen for yourself how fucked up I am and… and I’m still here, so I guess… well, yeah. This is me. Pretty fucking special.”

His fingers changed route, pausing no more than an inch from the dressing covering my thigh wound. Inconceivable to hope he’d forgotten about it. Mental and physical issues. I truly was the gift that kept on giving.

Soft lips pressed against the top of my hair. “This medication. Does it stop you cuddling someone?”

“Um… no, it doesn’t.”

“Then shush.”

We lay in darkness, and miraculously, I didn’t fall asleep. The slow stroking continued unabated, as if he enjoyed it, not caring it wasn’t leading anywhere, or that I wasn’t reciprocating. As though he’d recognised my mood had swooped from elation to misery in the time it took me to wipe our combined release from my hand onto the sheet, and it didn’t matter. Hot tears pricked my eyelids.

“Don’t feel you have to do this, Max. I’m kind of a lost cause. You’ve probably realised that, but just because you found me and helped me, that doesn’t mean I’m your extended problem.” My voice grew thick and unsteady, but I pushed on anyhow. This touch of his was way too thoughtful, the touch of a man who wanted to lie like this with me again. “The last half hour has been fun, really, more fun than I’ve had in forever, but you absolutely don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“You’ve cut yourself again.”

“Yes, I have.”

“Because you’re ill.”

“Yes. It’s not a new thing, Max. I do it to cope. The cutting. It’s a symptom, you know? Like some people cope by drinking too much, or chain smoking, or taking drugs, or starving themselves. I don’t do those things—well, perhaps the starving thing every now and again—but I have a serious issue with anxiety. Like I have 99 problems all the time, and 86 of them are totally made up in my head. I’ve been this way for years. So honestly? I’m not someone you need to take on. I’m poor company, bad tempered, and stressy. A hot mess. I have no friends because of it.”

“Are you getting better?”

I huffed a laugh. “No. I don’t think I will, either. I think this is me. There isn’t a cure. I’ve tried… doctors have tried everything. I’m a lot . I don’t see a way out of it.”

He said nothing for a while, though I sensed him mulling over my words. I could get used to his silences. They calmed me more than my meds ever had.

“I won’t ever change either,” he said. “I’m not ill, though.”

Lifting my chin from its perfect pillow, I looked up. I couldn’t see much of him in the dim light, just an outline of a big head. “I don’t think you need to, Max.”

“My mum used to say that.”

He sounded wistful and very past tense. I didn’t press him. Our quick handjob had already somehow slid into a much longer snuggle and dissection of my inner psyche; add in the loss of a parent and we’d kill the mood forever.

“What do you do in the television programme?”

“I’m one of the presenters. But… what’s that got to do with it?”

“Do you like it. Are you good at it.”

“Are those questions?”

“Yes. I don’t always ask them properly when they’re important.”

“Oh, okay. Well…um… yes, I am good at it. Or at least people say I am. My agent has lots more job offers coming in after the filming here ends, which tells me something, I guess.”

“You’re famous, then?”

“Hah! A bit. Not really. I get recognised back in England by people who watch the show. If I took up the work my agent is offering, then I’ll probably become more well-known.”

“But you don’t like it.”

I leaned up on an elbow. “What makes you say that? I didn’t say that.”

In reply, he pulled away from both my embrace and the bed, walked naked to the bathroom, then returned with a couple of damp cloths. Kneeling on the bed, he held one out. “For you.”

The second cloth he used on me too, dabbing carefully around the dried blood on my thigh he’d pointed out earlier, and the answer to his question.

“Oh, I see what you mean and how you might jump to that conclusion. But it’s not solely due to the job, although that doesn’t help. It’s a stressful environment sometimes. It’s me, and the people I work with don’t help. I’ve got myself in a bit of a hole. It’s a long story. I won’t bore you with it.”

“I’m not bored.”

Max’s big fingers were surprisingly tender, and I squeezed my eyes shut, turning my head away. I did not deserve this. This man’s unfussy, methodical care.

“Do you have lots of friends, Max?” If we talked any more about me, I might cry, and he didn’t need to see that. “I get the impression you do.”

He’d been with two very hot guys in the pub, head-turningly so. Jonas would have been over like a shot trying to butter them up.

He shook his head. “No. But I have family.”

Crouching over me, Max’s nakedness didn’t seem to bother him, his impressive dick swinging loose against his big hairy thigh. Above, his gut hung free and loose too, the belly of a man who enjoyed his food. He reached across me for a tissue to dry the skin.

“Those fit men in the pub, they’re family?”

He nodded again. “Yeah. Brother and brother’s best friend. I’m lucky.”

He’d said that before. Lucky. I hadn’t felt that way in a very long time. The stroking the gentle words, the kindness. It was too much too soon, already moving away from the holiday fling Emma had mooted and I’d come to think wasn’t a bad idea. I couldn’t cope with romantic attachments, the highs and the lows, yet here was my brain conning me into believing I’d met someone who might not mind all the shit I dragged along with me.

But it was too soon; if I let it pull me any deeper, it would all end in tears, mine, not his. I made myself move. “This has been great, really. But I should go. We’re filming early in the morning. Catching the avocets on the nests over at La Phare. I’m doing a piece to camera.”

“There are a pair nesting half a mile down the beach. Don’t need to go all that way.”

As I gathered my things, Max began doing the same, but I pushed him back down. “No, please, you should stay here.” Otherwise, I’d be tempted to invite him in and not let him back out again. “I don’t need you to walk me home. Honestly. I need to clear my head.”

“Text me when you get there.”

I laughed; this was ridiculous. “It’s literally twenty metres!”

For a guy short on conversation, his walnut brown eyes knew how to compensate. His naked expanse of man flesh wasn’t a hindrance either. He held out his phone and stood over me as I punched my contact details, scrutinising them before putting the phone away. If Max had been anyone else, I’d have thought those eyelashes, fluttering ten to the dozen as he expressed concern for my safety, were nothing more than a sneaky ploy to get my number.