by Cooper Davis
By the time we get back to the apartment, I’m feeling a little windblown and tired as Maxwell hits the shower. I open drawers, looking for a change of T-shirt, and spying a hidden package, get inspired. It’s a Christmas present, one I kind of lost my nerve about giving him once his dad showed up on the scene. I’ve been holding on to it ever since.
I remove it from the bottom of the drawer, fluffing the smashed bow and wrapping. It’s a small, flat box, and I’m thinking that now might be the right time to give it to him, when Maxwell steps into the room.
“What’s that?” he asks, toweling off his dark, wet hair. Damn, he’s luscious when he’s wet like that. Another towel is draped around his waist as he settles down on the edge of the bed. “This is Christmas wrapping,” he says, surprised. He picks up the box, grinning, but clearly confused.
“Christmas in April,” I say with an awkward laugh, reclining on our bed. I prop my head on my arms, just studying him. “No time like now.”
“Okay,” he says, sounding uncertain.
He picks up the flat package, running his fingers over the paper. He’s so easy to please, I know it wouldn’t matter to him if there was only paper inside; he just loves the mystery of it all. I begin to wonder if he’s ever going to open the freaking thing up, though, because he just keeps tracing his fingertips over the ribbon, kind of shaking the box.
“Baby, you gonna open it or what?” I tease him, and he looks up at me through those long lashes. It’s a flirty glance, and it causes a tightening in my groin just like he means there to be.
“Just checking it out,” he says with a soft smile, and then begins untying the ribbon.
When the wrapping opens like a flower, a thin black box with glittery lettering appears, with only the words For Him in cursive on the front. Just the sight of that box nearly gives me a raging hard-on. Sexy, demure, it says a whole damn lot.
Again, Max glances up at me, his eyebrows forming a curious question mark, as he opens the box. He peels back the thin layer of tissue paper, smoothing it with his fingertips, and then his eyes widen in disbelief. Apparently that’s the first time he notices the inside of the box lid, where the silver writing teases coyly, Or…For Her?
“Wow,” he says, as with incredible care he removes the lace lingerie. It’s white and unbelievably feminine, in fact, I ordered it because it was called “Bridal Suite”.
“That all you gonna say there, Max?” I gloat, feeling damned proud of myself because I see how pleased he is. Hell, he’s grinning from ear to ear.
The tips of those ears, by the way? They’ve turned bright red, and he’s sexy as hell when he gets that flustered.
“I-I can’t believe you, well, thought of it,” he admits a little breathlessly, just teasing his fingers over the extremely generous material on the front of the panties. “Or found this at all.”
“Internet, baby. The key to all of life’s mysteries.” I don’t share the details of my surreal venture into crossdress.com, or talk about those tantalizing pictures of guys with bodies a lot like his, kind of slightly built and waxed to girlish perfection.
A little like Maxine did during our one night together.
No, I don’t share those details at all. I just lean back against the pillows, studying his reaction.
“I guess so.” He lifts the bra out of the box with a wildly curious expression, drawing in a sharp breath as the cascade of silk and lace unfolds across his lap.
“For you,” I assure him. “And I mean really for you. Designed that way.”
“I can see that,” he agrees with a nod. But then he’s back to the panties, because they’re what fascinate him most, something about how roomy they are, built just like he needs them to be.
“I had to remember my girl, you know,” I admit softly, and for the longest moment he won’t even look at me. Just keeps staring into his lap where he holds the lacy lingerie. Until he finally meets my gaze there in the semi-darkness, and I see how furiously he blushes. “Maxine. Had to think of her,” I explain and wonder when my voice became rough as malt whiskey.
“She’s thrilled.” His voice has literally changed, pitched upward, as he stares at me with sultry, feminine eyes, kind of fanning his lashes slightly.
“You know, I was kinda thinking I’d like to see her again,” I admit, avoiding his gaze as I toy nervously with the box lid. “Soon, you know?” I feel like I’m asking a girl out for a very first date, that’s how bashful I suddenly am about the whole damned thing.
“She’d like that.” Full on Marilyn Monroe, right there in the near dark with me.
“You think?” I ask, finally looking into those feline eyes. “Would she have anything to do with a big lug like me?”
“Any time, sweetheart.” Lashes flutter and fan, lips part almost imperceptibly. I can’t fight what I’m feeling for another minute, I swear it.
I lean in close, brushing my lips against his, and my heart is hammering an insane rhythm, as I whisper, “I’d really love to see my girl.” I release a nervous breath, feeling like I’ve scored big time with the gift, as he wraps his hands around my neck, nuzzling close.
But my chest thumping is cut short when he reflects, “You’re really into Maxine.” Unlike months ago, there’s no jealousy in his voice, just unabashed curiosity. “I know that Dr. Erickson encouraged this, but I’m still surprised by how taken you are with her.”
Taken with her? Is that like being smitten? Fuck, I’m smitten with Maxine. That’s what he’s saying, and suddenly I find that I’m blushing like an imbecile as heat creeps downward into my neck. I’m on fire with shame, because he’s pulled back the curtain on our clandestine illusion; he’s thrown on the stage lights, and I’m the one left exposed for everyone to see.
“I mean, you’ve definitely responded to her more than I ever imagined,” he adds, and I know he’s studying me, even though I refuse to meet his pointed gaze.
“Guess so,” I manage, cursing myself a fool for making over the whole damned thing so much. I should have left the goddamned gift hidden in the bottom drawer.
Maxwell reaches for my hand, cocking his head sideways. “Hunter, I like that you’re so into that side of me,” he admits, his voice thick with obvious emotion. Soft, yet ragged all at once.
I nod, but the warmth just keeps spreading across my face. My shame is stupid, with all that we’ve shared, with how much I love everything about him. “Hunter?” he asks uncertainly, stroking my hair. “I wasn’t laughing at you or anything. Just observing, okay?”
Finally, I allow my eyes to track upward, until they lock with his. “Yeah, well, I do dig Maxine. A whole fucking lot, okay?” I’m testy now, feeling really pissed at him for making some big deal out of it all.
“Hunter,” he presses, his voice still incredibly gentle. “I get it. I really do.”
“Okay.” I have no idea what he means, but I feel so vulnerable, so raw. Like that night last summer when I first understood that our coupling wasn’t just some short-term fling. The night when I realized I’d fallen in love with him.
I feel the same spiraling, choking panic right now. Like I want to hide from him for eternity. Please just anything but this burning, insistent shame.
I rake my hands through my hair in frantic desperation, looking at the ceiling, the floor, everywhere but into the eyes of my lifetime lover.
Funny, but Maxwell isn’t backing down an inch; in fact, he moves even closer to where I’m huddling on the bed. “Hunter, I get why you respond to Maxine so much, okay?” he says, his voice quiet and soothing. “I totally get it. So why don’t you?”
“Why don’t I what?” I snap, rubbing my palm over my chest. My heart is beating like a fucked-up clock, and all I can think is that I want to bolt. I mean, what kind of freak responds so strongly to a drag queen?
The simple answer traipses across my heart—a freak that loves someon
e as deeply as I love Maxwell. Simple, simple answer, yet it feels complex as hell.
“Why don’t you realize the truth of what you told me that day? That you accept Maxine because of how much you love me.”
“I said it ’cause it was true.”
“But, Hunter,” he says, reaching a tender palm to my cheek, and caressing it, soft skin against bristling stubble. “It’s more than that, don’t you see? It’s like Dr. Erickson said. You love Maxine because she accepts all of you.”
Oh, shit. He’s right. Of course he is, and I wonder how the truth never hit me before this moment, not even earlier in our session. But he’s Maxwell, and he’s not stopping now. Before he opens his mouth, I know what he’s going to say next; I hear the words flash through my mind like lightning before he even utters them.
“You said yourself you were straight as an arrow until you got with me.”
“I wanted you from the moment I saw you.”
“And Maxine, well, she embraces that in you.”
I nod, unable to speak as he just keeps touching me, loving me. So unbelievably gentle, so kind even when I’m a straight up bastard.
“I told you before, I don’t wish you were different,” I whisper, closing my eyes as he strokes my hair, pressing a sweet kiss against my jaw. “I’ve never wished you were a woman, or anything like that. No matter how bisexual I am.”
“Hunter, I know that. I was just freaking out a little that day. But I know how you feel about me,” he says. “And I do mean me.”
“God, you can turn me on just by walking in a room,” I blurt, my voice kind of cracking over the words. “Everything just gets all electric whenever you’re near, baby.”
“You’ve never loved anyone the way that you love me. I know that.” So confident, so absolutely sure—hell, I must be pretty freaking obvious in how much I love him. Easily, he draws me right into his arms; I don’t fight him at all.
“’Course not, baby,” I mumble against his shoulder. “Never wanted anyone this much, either. I’m just lost to you. Totally lost.”
“You’re not lost, Hunter,” he disagrees gently. “You found love. So what if it was with someone surprising?”
“I don’t want women anymore. Only you.”
“And Grace, right?”
Before I can even answer, he blesses me with that soul-rending smile that always spells my doom, and whispers, “Until a year ago you’d never even kissed a man. Now, you’re marrying one. I’d say you’re entitled to feeling weird at times. Especially when it comes to sweet Maxine.”
“Sweet,” I laugh, a little begrudgingly, and his eyes widen in reaction.
“Isn’t she?” he teases in a husky, seductive voice, becoming a coquette right there beside me. “Isn’t she sweet, your girl?”
“Oh, you bet, baby,” I growl and then I’m just all over him. Nothing could stop me as I take him, tumbling in his arms across the length of our bed.
My hands stroke his silky hair, loving the feel of it beneath my fingertips. Loving that I’ve got a man in my arms as we roll and tug and nip at one another in a flurry of intense desire.
Scratchy beard brushes against my cheek, Ralph Lauren cologne mingles with the smell of salty brine and fresh air. He’s a man, all right, and even though I couldn’t have anticipated being with him until a year ago, there’s one thing I know for sure now.
Sometimes you find love where you least expect it; and hopefully when you do, you’re smart enough to grab it.
Chapter Seventeen
When I hear the words “bachelor party” I immediately think of Tom Hanks and a bad eighties movie. So when Maxwell tells me he’s planned a secret shindig for me, I instantly balk at the idea.
“Nah, baby. Let’s not.” We’re heading to Vermont in ten days, and the thought of some wild night doesn’t do much for me. I think I’d rather cozy up under the sheets with him and have wild sex. Screw everybody else. Well, so to speak, which is kind of my point.
“Hunter, are you kidding me?” he asks, reaching for the toasted bagel I made for his breakfast. “You really are joking, right?”
“What do you mean?” I hand him a napkin and small thermos cup of coffee, which he sets on the counter with a smile of gratitude. Papers are shuffled together, arranged neatly as he tucks them into the side of his Coach briefcase.
As always, Maxwell looks like a million bucks as he gets ready to head downtown in his designer suit, but you’d never guess it by the critical way he turns to examine himself in the mirrored refrigerator.
“Well, you strike me as the bachelor party type guy,” he says, adjusting his tie with an assessing gaze.
I shrug, sipping my own coffee. “Never married anybody before. Especially not a guy.” It’s a little early for gazing this closely at my swinging pendulum of sexual orientation.
“Ah, so that’s it.”
“What?” I ask, padding after him barefoot, clad only in my boxers and T-shirt as he heads toward the apartment door.
“You’re scared.”
“Like hell,” I protest as he turns to kiss me. He’s crisp and clean, and I feel less than adequate as his lips linger against mine.
“You look gorgeous all rumpled like this,” he laughs, running his fingers through my unkempt hair. Funny, it’s almost as if he intercepted my telegraphs of insecurity.
“Humph.”
“And you are scared about the party.” He gives me a sly look, and I know he’s just trying to push all my macho buttons, working to get his way. “Worried that it might be more bachelorette than bachelor, Hunter?”
I choose to ignore his little dig at my bisexuality, especially because he gives me another slow kiss.
“You don’t kiss like you’re scared,” he teases.
“I like to know what to expect, that’s all,” I whisper against his smoothly shaven cheek. “I don’t care what you’ve got planned, baby, really. Just don’t like being surprised by it.”
He pulls back and his eyes narrow. “You’re going to love this party. I promise you, Hunter.” He’s still running his fingers through my hair, combing it back from my eyes with a gentle gesture.
“I’m not getting out of this, am I?” See, I’m just a sucker when he strokes my hair, little more than a puddle of mush, I tell you.
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not, you asshole. You’re not one bit sorry.”
He grins at me mischievously, waving the bagel as he turns to open the door. “Thanks for the breakfast. I love you!”
“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble. “You’re just in it for the bagels.”
“No, that’s not true,” he disagrees over his shoulder, stepping into the hall. “I’m in it for the sex.”
“No, I’m in it for the sex. You’re in it for the Harley!” I say, snapping the door shut before he can answer.
Truth is, we both know the score. We’re in it for our lives.
“So, isn’t this something we’re supposed to be doing separately?” I ask, staring at my reflection in the mirrored closet doors. We’re getting ready for the dreaded bachelor party, switch hitting on clothes and preening like a pair of girlfriends. I’ve tried on a couple of his polo shirts, but nothing works, so I’m back to my ever-reliable flannel shirt.
Max, on the other hand, is still practically naked. He traipses past me in nothing but his boxers, and I give his ass a playful fondling. “Hey, hey, sweet thing,” I laugh, squeezing his generous behind.
He tosses me a lazy-eyed look that makes me want to fuck him on the spot. “Separate?” he asks, his voice all husky as he watches me. He even has the nerve to run his tongue across his upper lip. “You would rather be separate tonight?”
It takes all my willpower not to bed him then and there, especially when he kind of thrusts his chest out at me.
“Don’t play innocent with me, Max
well.”
“I’d never claim innocence in this relationship,” he admits, stepping past me into the closet. “Not with the way you make love.”
“Answer my question, Daniels. Traditionally speaking, shouldn’t we be having separate bachelor parties?” I stare at his back, at the defined cordons of muscle that appear and bulge as he pulls a pair of pants off the hanger.
“Well, we’re not exactly traditional groomsmen, are we?”
“Nah, not really.” I fold my arms over my chest, just watching him move in those boxers.
“So why not enjoy partying together?”
Good question, and he’s right. Nothing about our wedding runs the gamut of typical, so why should I start worrying about it now?
“It’s something I’d like to give you, Hunter. This party.”
A little light blinks on for me then, and I finally get it. This night is one of Maxwell’s sweet little gifts. If he could’ve done it, he’d have wrapped the whole thing up and plopped one of his flouncy bows atop it all. What did I ever do that he loves me so damned much?
“Cool. It’ll be really…special.”
“That’s what I want it to be,” he admits. “A real wedding memory.”
With that pronouncement, he steps into a crisp pair of black jeans that are undoubtedly the single sexiest piece of clothing I’ve ever seen on my boy. My heart gives a desperate leap as he pulls them onto his slender body.
“Whoa!” I kind of karate-chop my hands, my gaze roving down the sinewy length of him.
“What?” he asks, running his palms over the pants self-consciously.
“Danger, Will Robinson. Those are fucking tight, man.”
“Yeah,” he grins boyishly. “I know.” He’s pleased as hell with himself that they look so amazing on him. His gaze wanders to the mirror and he gives a little turn, studying his appearance.