Page 30 of Vine

“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 asMax 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?”

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