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But most of all, I hadn’t realised how fucking awesome all of those aspects were combined. Like every nerve in my body was trying to fire at once and in all directions, paralysing me, but the best kind of paralysis, frozen in a time and place I never wanted to be rescued from. As he closed his mouth over my tip, then swallowed my penis deep, past his plush lips and gums to the narrow back of his throat and beyond, I sunk my fingers into his hair, lost in a tight grip of pleasure.

“You can,” Caspian croaked around me, “pull on it.” He breathed heavily through his nose. Spit drooled down his chin; one perfect smooth cheek was slick wet. Never had I seen a more beautiful thing. “Fuck my mouth, Max. I like it.”

Days later, just thinking about him saying those words and me letting go continued to make my penis impossibly hard. Thinking about my semen streaming down Caspian’s throat. The way he shivered as I tugged his hair, the grunts as I thrust into him, the tip of his pink tongue as he cleaned my length afterwards, lapping up my release like a feral cat. And I’d giggle to myself. All those nights I’d been perfectly content to lie inbed listening to a radio documentary on carp fishing at Etang 13 when I could have been doing that!

Eventually, I gathered strength to move. Knowing my luck, my dad or Colette would choose this exact moment to pop over to check I wasn’t doing something weird, like lighting my wood burner with hoof fungus, and find me with my pyjamas around my ankles.

Caspian stood too, and we faced each other.

“Nice sweater,” I told him, because complimenting a lover was important. I pretended not to notice his massive erection. And then I also remembered that there should be no secrets between lovers, so I added, “You should pull the hem down so that if someone knocks at the door, it will hide your penis.”

For some reason, he found my advice funny, and left his sweater and his erection where it was. Maybe English television presenters were more relaxed abouthidden social curriculum violationsas Colette called them. She had given me a whole list to memorise; it also hung on the inside of the bathroom cabinet. Don’t wander off halfway through a boring conversation. Don’t dominate a conversation. Brush your hair regularly, wear deodorant, try and look at people when they talk at you but don’t turn it into a stare. Keep erections private.

Instead, he reached up onto his tiptoes and kissed my mouth. Not like we’d kissed before, when I’d also had an erection and the kisses had been frantic and sloppy, like on pornography videos. This one was more like the soft, gentle ones I saw Nico give to Éti sometimes, when they didn’t know anyone was watching. A private kiss, commanding all my attention.

Caspian’s hands stopped me moving my head, and his palms were flat against the sides of my beard, which I wouldn’t have liked with most people, but with Caspian it was okay. For a moment, I was concerned I might taste my own semen, not a flavour I relished, but mostly, I only tasted him.

“This was a flying visit, Max,” he said as he stepped away. “I have a work meeting starting in ten minutes. I just… well, I’d been thinking about, you know, cutting myself because I’m anxious about the meeting. But your texts cheered me up, and I wanted to tell you that. And to thank you. In person.”

“You thanked my penis,” I answered, and he laughed. I could be good at jokes when I was in the right mood. And, because I was on a roll, I added boldly, “I could thank yours for the nice kisses if you think you can ejaculate.”

The skin on his perfect, kissable cheeks turned pink. “Maybe next time. A cuddle will do for now.”

Naked cuddles like we’d shared in bed were my preferred type, but this standing cuddle was good too, much better than when my family attempted it. Less prickly, more like how I felt when Florian hugged me close, although even better. For a long time, I just held him, squeezing out the sadness, imagining how happy I’d be if I could do this every day.

“One of these works better than the pills,” said Caspian into my chest, so I doubled my efforts by adding in some back stroking. Without any of the common, very common, or rare side effects listed on the patient information sheet, too. Falling in love hadn’t been listed either, so I was going to have to make him fall for me the old-fashioned way. With lots more cuddling.

CHAPTER 12

CASPIAN

Flinging the last vestiges of winter aside, our vines came alive. The fertile soil warmed; nutritious sap scaled the twisted roots. Buds burst open as more leaves unfurled. I caught a snatch of a light delicate fragrance wafting on the wind. Emma said this was a critical stage in the wine-making calendar, and I nodded like I cared. She had come alive too, returned from her weekend in Amsterdam with a spring in her step and a list of Australian wineries advertising viticulture jobs.

Selfishly, I hoped she wasn’t too successful too soon.

I shouldn’t have embroiled Max in the farce I called living, but somewhere along the line, I’d accidentally pressed the like button. As I swayed in his arms with my head against his chest, during one of our quiet evenings together, breathing him in, I nearly spilled everything about Leigh and Jonas.

Soon, I would, but at that moment, I didn’t want them spoiling the safe little haven of Max’s gatehouse. Like hugging a tree or a welcome lighthouse in a storm, he soothed me. He even stopped me cutting—once, before a hellish meeting, his cute, abrupt texts had me giggling long enough for the addictive urgeto pass. Jonas and Leigh seemed lesser foes after his hugs and kisses. Shadows seemed smaller, tomorrow seemed lesser, my future brighter. My heart stopped racing. He performed a minor miracle on my libido.

Then, like front-line soldiers issued rare weekend passes, Leigh and I flew back to the UK.

Miraculously, Jonas stayed behind. With the advent of bluer skies, he wanted to capture some backdrop pics of the island. Also, abreast of the rumours Emma might not stay the course, he wanted to persuade her to compare and contrast French versus New World vines.

Leigh and I didn’t add much to that, so we travelled alone. Leigh’s thick leg touching mine through denim on the narrow seats of the small plane felt like the flesh of a stranger, and I tried to occupy my mind by imagining it belonged to Max instead.

“That Emma’s a nice girl,” he commented as the plane taxied on the runway. The early morning flight was half empty. A nervous flier (naturally), I used to grasp his hand for take-off and landing.

Now I just gritted my teeth and hoped no one spotted the dark circles of sweat forming under my armpits. “Woman.”

“What?”

“Woman,” I repeated irritably. Flying never improved my mood. “She’s in her late twenties.”

As the flimsy aircraft gathered energy and courage to take off, I pictured Max in his blue jeans pottering about his tiny blue kitchen. Fuck knows what he saw in me. Another pet, perhaps, like his dog or his, oh fuck, hissnake.No matter how comfortable I became in his home, no way would I ever be opening any of the lower kitchen cupboards.

“We’re meeting Libby at two.” Leigh’s strident tones cut through that weird grinding noise small aircraft made when the wheels retracted, as if an important rivet was working looseand the whole thing was seconds from falling apart. “With more details about the breakfast telly proposal. She’s trying to organise a screen test for Monday.”

Grateful for the interruption to the voice of doom in my head insisting I was moments away from a watery grave, I turned to him. “Does Jonas know we’re meeting her about it?”

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