by Meg Maguire
Dear God.
Max extracted himself from her wobbly legs and drew up alongside her. He was smiling, looking very pleased indeed. He clamped an arm around her waist, burying his face in her neck and breathing deeply.
“Wow,” she said.
He laughed against her. “Oh, good.”
“No, I mean, wow.” She inhaled, taking in the smells of their two bodies. The rain drummed against the skylight. Reality.
Then all at once, Fallon began to sob.
Max straightened and held her close, smoothed her hair with his palms. He spoke in soft, patient tones. “What’s the matter?”
She laughed through the tears, feeling idiotic, feeling high. “I’m fine.”
“Why are you crying, mon ange?”
“It’s so stupid.”
“I doubt that. Tell me.”
She laughed, then cried harder. She choked through her tight throat, “That’s the first time I’ve ever…”
Max pulled back to stare at her streaming face for a long moment, his eyes round. “That was the first time you’ve come?”
She nodded, tears redoubling.
“Never? Not even by yourself?”
“Nope. Not ever.”
He pondered this for a minute. “And you’re upset about that? That’s wonderful…wonderful for me, I suppose. What a very good birthday present that is, don’t you think?” He was teasing her, wiping away her tears and trying to get her to smile. “You don’t like it? You can’t return it, you know.”
She broke into a sloppy grin, chest still hitching with the sobs. “That’s so embarrassing. You must think I’m a freak.”
“A freak? Why would I think that?”
“It must seem so silly to you.”
“It’s not silly. Just surprising,” he said. “And you’re not a freak. I have seen a lot of things in my life. Including many people who are professional freaks, who use that word as a job title. Nothing is strange to me. Certainly not that.”
“I was worried. You seem like someone who’s probably used to being with women who are a lot more…adventurous than me.”
He made a shushing noise. “What women? Do you see women in this bed with us now? I don’t.”
“I know, it’s stupid.”
“Would you like to hear something scandalous?” he asked, playful, tucking her hair behind her ears.
Fallon nodded, even though she didn’t really want to hear any such thing at this moment.
“I haven’t been to bed with anyone in eight years,” Max said.
Her mouth dropped open.
“Not since I left New York.” He shrugged. “So what? You’re not a freak.”
“Seriously? Why not?”
He shrugged again. “When I was still the darling, innocent pet of the art scene in London and New York, I saw too much, far too young. I saw people destroying themselves for the stupidest reasons. It had nothing to do with why I create, why I’m here. When I left I just wanted…less. Less of everything. Fewer vices. So I gave up sex and smoking and lots of things. Wine, and a very self-centered lifestyle, I kept. The rest—” He made a dismissive gesture with his hands. “Good riddance.”
“Oh.” Fallon’s mind swam from this announcement. “But you said you ‘waited so long’ for me. What, like a few weeks? I don’t understand. That’s nothing compared to all that time.”
“I have waited years for you. It took eight years for someone to come along and make me need to be this way again. It took thirty-three to find someone who made it mean something.”
“Oh, wow.” She pondered this statement, blown away. The sincerity was too much to dwell on, as was the possibility that these were mere lines, used on any number of women during Max’s…active period. She decided to focus on the baser aspects of his proclamation. “Was it hard? Giving up sex?”
“Not really, no. Actually, it’s made me a better artist, I think.”
“I guess that’s one way to suffer.”
“And of course I’m lying—it hasn’t been easy giving up sex. It was, for all those years. But now I am clearly proving to be very bad at celibacy.” He kissed her lightly.
“Why now?” It felt unlikely that anyone would find her such a compelling sexual interest. She only knew of one other man who’d ever seemed similarly enamored of her that way, and she refused to tar Max with the same brush as Donald Forrester.
“Because you’re so very seductive,” he said in a low voice.
Fallon laughed. “Your English comprehension must be way worse than I thought. I haven’t uttered a single seductive word to you since we met.”
“You may not think so, but you’re quite extraordinary. Did you know, you are the only person I’ve met in the last twenty years who doesn’t treat me like an anomaly or a commodity? It’s very refreshing. It’s very nice to be treated this rudely, you know. Makes me feel human again.”
“So many distinctions.”
“And you are the first person I have met in a very long time who I think it might be worth the effort to wring their neck.” He stroked a finger up her throat.
“That’s very romantic.”
“Of course, now there are far better ways of working out all that tension.” He bent to run his tongue up her jugular where his finger had traced.
“You really want to ruin your eight-year dry spell with me?” Fallon asked, her breath turning shallow.
“I very much would. But not tonight.”
“No?”
“No, tonight is yours.”
She smirked. “What? No condoms?”
“No, as a matter of fact.” He rolled his eyes. “But that is not why.”
“Then why?”
He smiled, so painfully handsome. “Because I quite enjoy suffering, I suppose.”
“So…”
“Yes?”
Fallon blushed, unseen in the dim light. “Did you give up everything sexual? You know. Like when you’re by yourself. Did you give that up too?”
He grinned again. “I’m not a saint. But I gave that up too, for the most part. With transgressions here and there over the years. Until you. You have dragged me back down among the sinners.”
She became of aware of the bed, the sheets, the place where he surely lay, succumbing to the unlikely temptations she apparently brought upon him. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. You should feel quite proud, I think. I am not an easy person to get the better of.”
She nodded. “Ditto.”
He held her tightly. “Well, I feel very proud indeed. I’m sorry you didn’t have the best sex before now. But I’m very pleased to be the man who changed that.”
“Not half as pleased as me.”
They lay together for a long time, exchanging soft kisses then yawns. She felt Max slipping away, his breathing deepening, exhalations warm against her shoulder.
“Good night, Max. And thanks.”
His arms gave her a final squeeze. “Happy birthday, Fallon.”
Chapter Nine
When Fallon awoke the next morning, Max was gone. She lay still for a long time, becoming aware of her body naked beneath his sheets, staring up into the gray expanse of cloud beyond the skylight. When she looked down, she found a piece of paper propped on the comforter atop her stomach. Unfolding it, she squinted through her sticky contacts at Max’s scribbly handwriting.
Running. See you at 9.45 for coffee and awkward, post-coital niceties. MLE.
Fallon glanced at his alarm clock. She had twenty minutes to get herself cleaned up.
She crept down the stairs and found the paper bag with yesterday’s clothes sitting on the counter. She went to the bathroom and scrubbed her face and made use of the toothbrush and eye drops she’d been smart enough to start carrying in her tote. As she combed her fingers through her tangled hair, Fallon let herself dwell on Max’s revelation. Eight years. Eight years, if he was being truthful. Eight years of good behavior and he wanted her to be the one to ruin it. She looked at h
erself in the mirror and smiled so broadly it made her laugh.
Fallon was sitting at the table with the cat on her lap when Max got back. He eased the door closed and drew up a chair to sit diagonally from her. His clothes were soaked through with drizzle and he smelled exemplary. He slicked his hair back and crossed his legs primly, interlaced his fingers on the tabletop.
“How did you sleep?” His eyes were eager, lips tight from effort it took to suppress whatever happy emotion he was feeling.
“Very well, thank you,” she said, mimicking his formal tone.
“Excellent. I’m pleased to hear that.”
“How was your run?” Fallon asked politely, playing along with his charade of uncomfortable, morning-after small talk.
“Oh, just delightful. Such beautiful weather we’re having, yes?”
She looked out the front windows at the gloom. “Just gorgeous. Especially for so late in the season.”
“You would not believe what happened to me last night,” Max said conversationally, brushing his fingernails over the collar of his shirt.
“Oh, yes?”
“Yes…I gave the most extraordinary woman her very first orgasm, right up there, in my bed.” He pointed to the loft. “What did you do last night?”
She grinned and looked away, shaking her head, done with the game. “Thanks.”
“Still happy with your present, then?”
“Yes, very. And thank you for the note, although technically we didn’t have coitus.”
“You biologists…”
“Are you going to take a bath?”
He nodded.
“I’ll make the coffee, then.”
“What a pretty little picture of domesticity we make,” Max teased. He stood and kissed the crown of her head and scratched the cat’s ears before retiring to the rear of the house.
As Fallon prepared the coffee, she went on a mental search for reasons to feel distrustful about all this sudden coziness. She couldn’t pinpoint any, which was nearly as disturbing as the misgivings she’d expected to find. She’d have to call Rachel tonight to get sisterly permission to stop overthinking everything.
Across the studio, Max shut the taps off. “Do you know what I think would be a very good idea?” he called from the tub.
“What’s that?” Fallon poured beans into the coffee grinder.
“I think that at four, when your sitting is done, you should go home and get a change of clothes.”
“Okay.”
“And then you come back here,” he shouted, “and along the way you pick up some good bread from the market, and some condoms, and I will make us supper and then we will have sex all night. How about that?”
Fallon pushed the grinder down and made Max wait for her reply. She dumped the grounds into the French press and turned to him.
“What kind of bread?”
Just as the weak sun was fading and Max began dinner preparations, Fallon excused herself to go outside and sit on the picnic table. She opened her phone and held down the three key.
Rachel picked up almost immediately. “Heya, stranger! How was your birthday?” Fallon heard a television droning in the background, the applause and whistles of a sports broadcast.
“Hey. It was good…” She trailed off, smiling. “I got your card and the bracelet—it’s beautiful.”
“Awesome. Did old Maxie give you anything special?”
“Actually,” Fallon said in a hushed voice, in case Max could hear through the screen door. “He gave me an orgasm.”
“YOU CAME?”
Fallon heard a male whoop in the background. “Oh my God, was that Josh? Does Josh know about my defective junk?”
“He’s my fiancé,” Rachel said defensively. “We talk about everything. And your junk ain’t defective anymore, sweetie—”
“Go in a different room!” She lowered her voice. “I don’t want Josh hearing about this.”
She listened to the television grow faint as Rachel relocated. “Okay, I’m safely sequestered. An orgasm? He gave you an orgasm? How?”
Fallon recounted the previous evening’s events in best-friend-level detail. “So, you know, it wasn’t like he did anything spectacularly complicated. I think it’s…I think it’s just him.”
“How so?”
“I feel like… I feel like a person who was into something really specific, without knowing it, like…”
“Gerbil sex?” Rachel offered.
“Gross. But okay. So I’m some dude and I’m hardwired for gerbil sex. It’s the only thing that can get me going. But I don’t know it until I’m like thirty and I see a video of it online or something—”
“An accident in a nudist pet store?”
“Gross,” Fallon repeated. “But fine, something happens and boom! The whole world makes sense.”
“You think Max Emery’s your elusive sex gerbil?” Rachel asked.
“Let’s abandon this analogy, please. But yeah. He just…he fucking turns me on. Like somebody put batteries in me. I work! I finally work!”
“I’m so happy for you, sweetie. Do you think it’ll happen again? Between you and Max?”
“Yeah. In a couple hours.”
“Nice. Wait—so, does he know? Does he know he’s the only person who’s ever flipped your pancake?”
“Yeah.”
“Is he gloating?”
“In his way,” Fallon said, smiling to herself. “I better go soon. He’s making dinner. I can smell it.”
“I shan’t keep you. I can hear your mouth watering from here. Call me tomorrow. I want to keep tabs on your batting average. I’ll be yo’ sexual statistician,” she said in a jivey voice.
“Lovely. Well, I’m on deck now, so I better get going. Tell Josh he better not smirk at me the next time I see him.”
“You got it. Now go forth and spread your orgasmicosity.”
“Thanks, Rache.”
Rachel laughed. “What did I have to do with it? Go thank Max.”
Max didn’t taste a single spoonful of the stew he’d made for dinner nor a drop of the unremarkable wine, nor did he absorb a word of the conversation. Seated across from him at the picnic table, Fallon looked dreamy in the fading light of the day’s elusive sun. The breeze was brisk and cool, but Max was burning up inside his own skin.
When they finally brought the dishes inside, his heart began to pound, impatient. All day his fingers had been clumsy, as though he were drunk. Thank goodness he was still a week away from any precision work on the statue—he could easily have chipped a whole limb off in this artless state. Fallon had seemed exceptionally level all day, calmer than usual, and Max couldn’t imagine how that was. He was so edgy and eager he’d toyed a dozen different times with tossing his tools aside and taking her right there on the filthy wood of the studio floor. If he didn’t get this out of his system soon, he’d never get Forrester’s sculpture finished on time.
Fallon had been quiet since returning from her brief trip to her cottage after the sitting. Not nervous. Reflective, perhaps. She turned the faucet on in the kitchen sink and squeezed dish soap onto a sponge. Max reached over and shut the water off.
“I’ll do that in the morning,” he said. “My body is going to catch fire and burn this whole house down if we don’t do something soon.”
She smiled at him and replaced the sponge.
“Are you nervous?” he asked.
She reached for her bag and pulled out a box of condoms. “Nope. Are you?”
“I’m impatient.” His eyes darted from her face to the box to the loft and back again.
“I can tell. It’s fascinating to see you so wound up about something—”
He cut her off, pushing her back against the counter and kissing her, tangling his fingers deep in her hair. Her mouth tasted like middle-shelf pinot noir and salt and bouillon. Like heaven. He lapped his tongue softly against hers in the way that seemed guaranteed to make the breath catch in her throat. He pressed his body close to make h
er feel the power she wielded over him. A tiny, distinct noise of approval left her lips, and he felt himself tumbling over the edge of sanity.
Mouths. Endless stairs to be mounted. Hands grasping. The edge of the bed and the sounds of shoes hitting the floor, of one falling from the loft to the studio below and the cat hissing with alarm.
They tumbled across the rumpled bedclothes, and Max lost track of whose hands were whose in the melee of frantic groping. He pushed her shirt up over her head and she returned the favor. He felt her hands in his hair as he struggled with her jeans and finally wrestled them away. He slowed his brain, ordering himself to savor these seconds and nearly obeying the command. All these moments just as he’d imagined them, only a fraction as artful and ten times more perfect.
He settled his knees between her legs and braced himself on one elbow. He willed the other hand to be patient as he reached down and grazed his fingertips between her thighs, against her panties. He found her already excited, the glorious little nub of her clitoris already taut and demanding. A flash of selfish possession gripped him as he realized all of this was his, all the pleasure he’d given her his exclusive, guarded prize. He rubbed her explicitly, high on such a thought.
Beneath him, Fallon transformed. She whimpered and fidgeted and muttered his name, hands wrapped hard around his arms.
Max stifled the groan rising in his throat. His cock ached to be touched, pounding so hard it hurt, just like the previous night when he’d sampled her with his mouth, made her come on his fingers. He craved those sensations, the tightness, the wetness, wrapped around his own pleasure. He prayed to a God he didn’t believe in anymore to make her ask him for it. Against the pads of his middle two fingers, he felt her desire.
“Max.” Oh, the sweetest possible syllable in the world.