“I haven’t been inside you for that long, man.”
My brows shoot up. “You’re counting?”
“I have to.” His eyes redden.
I stand off the island, and I want to close the distance and touch him. Badly.
But I detour to the fridge. I open the door, grab two water bottles, and shut the thing in one seamless, calm movement. When I rotate to Maximoff, I hold out a water for him.
He exhales a tense breath and takes the water in a tight fist.
“You haven’t wanted to be on top in a while,” I say matter-of-factly. “Where’s the problem?”
Tears well up, but he fights that emotion. He shakes his head. “What if it’s a year or two years or five or a goddamn century, and I never top again?”
I skip over the quip I could make and stay serious. “Then you’re more of a strict bottom, and I’ll enjoy fucking you until I die.”
He breathes like he’s running a backbreaking marathon. “You make it sound so damn simple.”
“It is.”
“It’s not to me.” His face contorts, his eyes on mine. “My mom is a sex addict, and I’ll never know if that makes me one. What if the more I give up control, the more I’m actually heading there and spiraling, and I’m too lost to see it?”
I’m concerned he’ll never let himself relax again if this is his mentality. “Maximoff, it’s a good thing that you feel comfortable enough to let go and partake in healthy shit that makes you feel good. And I’m looking out for you, every fucking day. Every time we’re in bed.”
He inhales strongly. “I just…I hate that there’s fear in sex. The better it makes me feel while I let go, the more scared I get.” He winces, and it’s like a jackhammer to my ribcage.
I near him, and his eyes plead, come closer.
I cup the back of his head. “You don’t have to count.” My voice is a whisper. “You don’t need to obsess over this.”
A single tear rolls down his cheek. “I’m trying…” He swallows. “I’m trying to believe that.”
His biggest problem isn’t actually being a sex addict, I’ve been realizing. It’s the fear that one day he could become one. And this didn’t use to be an issue. I remember the day I asked him if he was worried about becoming a sex addict. His answer was a definitive, resolute no.
Things changed.
He’s now with me. And he’s become comfortable enough to drop walls and be completely vulnerable, but with that vulnerability lies new fears.
If I have to spend each night reassuring him, I gladly will. These talks are something I’ve come to expect, and I care too much about Maximoff to let this shit fester.
“Better?” I ask.
Kitchen lights suddenly flip on, and we squint in the brightened room.
“Moffy?”
Shit.
I glance backwards at sharp-edged, amber eyes that cut between me and his son. Loren Hale just entered a tense moment that he’s not going to understand.
Maximoff rubs the tear streak off his face and unscrews his water bottle.
“Are you alright?” Lo asks him.
“Yeah. I’m fine.” He swigs his water tensely, acting like nothing’s wrong. He’s shut down.
I grip the edge of the island counter.
Lo punctures me with a glare. “What happened?”
What I can’t say: don’t worry, Lo, your son is extremely paranoid of becoming a sex addict like his mom, and he needed reassurance that he’s okay.
Not only do I not love advertising our sex life to his parents, but his dad knowing just how deeply their addictions affect Maximoff will make him feel like shit.
“Stress,” I say vaguely.
Lo eyes his son again. “With the wedding?”
Maximoff swigs more water. “There’s just a lot going on, Dad.” He recaps the bottle. “We’re handling it.”
His dad is just wearing sweatpants, tired lines across his forehead.
I ask, “Did we wake you up?”
“Lily heard some noise, and I came down to make sure Kinney wasn’t trying to communicate with the dead. She has school tomorrow.” He flashes a tight smile. “Didn’t expect to see my son crying—”
“Dad—”
“You can cry, bud.” He tries to soften his tone. “You know that?”
Maximoff looks like he wants to be anywhere but here. I place a hand on the back of his neck. He practically leans into my palm.
“I know, Dad,” Maximoff says. “But I promise, I’m fine.”
Lo hones in on me comforting Maximoff, and he seems to stare faraway, then he nods. “Alright.” He heads towards the fridge, and I can’t mistake the look he slips me.
It’s a thank you.
For taking care of his son.
It only concerns me because he looks like shit. Exhausted, tensed, and I remember the footage in the docuseries where Lo saw our love and felt a lack of responsibility towards his son.
If Maximoff doesn’t need his dad anymore, then why not go grab a drink?
“How are you doing, Lo?” I ask.
He inspects a leftover container of ground beef and cheese. “Better than yesterday. Or so my new therapist tells me.”