I lean back and use my hand to trace a path down to my thigh, then up and over to the other one. Then up and over yet again. The next time, I let my palm rest in the center. The bubbles dance on top of the water, floating left and right a little less, and I remain still until they stop completely.
My memory flashes like heat lightning to last week in his childhood bedroom—his body melded with mine, his hands holding me closer, closer, and the hardness of his cock through his pants.
I know myself. This craving won’t go away until I make it go away. I’m only going to keep thinking of Max in ways that no friend, no roommate, and no business partner should, and I can only ignore my needs so much…
Or I could handle them on my own terms.
The best orgasms of my life have been solo, and I consider myself skilled at getting myself off in record time. Most of the work happens in my head, so with a little fantasizing, I’m halfway there. And with Max practically everywhere these days, I have a lot of mental imagery to choose from.
My fingers move in slow, meticulous circles as I picture Max opening the door. My body hums. He strolls in confidently to the tub, no questions asked, and with those gorgeous hands, he rolls up his shirt sleeves. As he glides a palm down my torso, it’s like he already knows the map of me. Max cups one breast as his thumb runs across my nipple. He’s leaning into my neck, hislips against my skin, his fingers dragging lower and lower, until finally,finally, he’s working my clit at a rhythmic pace.
I bite my lip to hold back a moan and savor this version of Max that I will never have. A Max who follows through on all the glances that seem to linger a second too long. A Max who wants me and won’t let anything get in the way of having me. A Max who isn’t bound for bigger and better things beyond this town.
With a breathy exhale, I inch closer to release—and the thought of him a mere ten feet away while I’m masturbating tips me into a series of shudders and near-silent sighs. An explosion of heavenly heat overtakes me, swelling at my center, and I only realize how quiet this bathroom is when I come down from the high of my orgasm.
There’s an abrupt knock, followed by Max clearing his throat. “Dinner’s here.”
“Great,” I croak, a swarm of stars still twinkling on the outer edges of my vision. “Be right out.”
Chapter Seventeen
Max, Now
Becs, one of the artists I’d like to confirm for the exhibit, takes contemplative strides through the barn. She graduated a year before me, and we stayed in touch. At a pop-up in Dubai last spring, she did some outstanding work that played a lot with textures, and she’d be perfect for our show.
“Love the place,” she says, inspecting the space. “Reminds me of this coffee shop I went to every day in Morocco during my residency. I’m tempted to stay the night.”
“I could get a room ready for you, if you’d like.”
So she can talk. That might be the first full sentence Daisy’s said in days. Ever since tacos last week, she’s limited her responses to three words or less. I would have asked her what was up, but between applying for permits, designing flyers, andmaking endless calls with managers, I’ve barely had the chance to breathe.
“I wish,” Becs replies. “Early flight out of LAX for Art Basel. Have you been?”
“Uh.” Daisy twirls a ring on her finger. “No.”
“Why would you, though?” Becs gestures to the setting sun. “When you’re surrounded by this? I’d never leave.”
“It’s incredible, isn’t it?” Daisy’s tone is wistful, and she looks at the landscape like she’s seeing it for the first time, too. Her shirt has ridden up in the back, revealing some peach fuzz that glistens in the light, and I want to rub my palm on it.
“Max always talked shit about his hometown,” Becs says to Daisy.
“No more than any kid talks shit about their hometown,” I say.
“On our first date, you told me you were—”
“Okay, we don’t have to get into that.”
“Oh.” Daisy looks between us. “Max didn’t mention that you two dated.”
She doesn’t look jealous or annoyed, just curious—at attention. I wish the comment bothered her as much as it bothered me.
“God, it was nothing.” Becs shakes her head. “In art school, everybody dates everybody. Very incestuous.”
A few months into my freshman year, I started dating. There were women who I thought could be my type but really weren’t, like Becs. There were a couple of longer-term partners—girlfriends who I liked a lot—but once things fizzled, we parted ways and stayed friends. Reflecting on it now, I don’t know what I was looking for in those relationships. I guess I never found that invisible string connecting me and someone else.
“He told me,” Becs goes on, “that he was from Bumfuck, California.”
“That was a joke,” I rush to explain.
