21. Seb

21

Seb

As my plane approaches Keflavík International Airport, the flight map on the tiny screen in front of me shows our plane inching across a blue expanse. It looks like a very slow-moving sperm approaching the egg that is Iceland.

Oh god, did I really just think that?

This is why I shouldn’t be allowed to make analogies after forty-three hours of travel.

A logical argument could be made that this is a long way to travel for a booty call. Iceland is literally on the other side of the earth to New Zealand.

But I couldn’t turn down the opportunity to see Marcus.

Will it be weird seeing him again? We’ve messaged and talked so much over the past few months, and I feel like I know Marcus better now. I’ve got more of an idea of who he is beneath the charming facade he projects to the world. I know about his career goals, the way negative reviews can send him into a down mood. I know how he laughs at my bad jokes and sometimes even chimes in with worse ones.

But one part of me is inexplicably nervous about seeing him. It’s the part that still hasn’t gotten past that “Holy shit, this is Marcus Johnson. He’s so far out of my league” feeling I had when I was eighteen years old.

The plane touches down with a jolt.

I emerge from the plane feeling like I’ve been put through a very long spin cycle. My hair is doing its best impression of an electrocuted poodle, and I’m pretty sure my right eye is twitching in Morse code.

I have never felt like less of a romantic match to a Hollywood movie star.

Clutching my backpack strap, I scan the arrivals area. All the Icelandic signs are a confusing mess of consonants, like the person writing them fell asleep on their keyboard.

I can’t see Marcus anywhere.

Just as I’m about to reach for my phone, a woman approaches me. Her eyes scan me from head to toe, and I have the sudden urge to stand straighter and maybe recite the periodic table to prove I’m intelligent life.

“Mr. Kleggs?”

“Yes, I’m him. I mean, that’s me.”

“Hi, I’m Erica, Mr. Johnson’s PA. He sends his apologies, but he’s currently filming a scene, so he asked me to collect you.”

“Oh, right. Okay then.”

Erica bustles me out of the airport and into a Mercedes-Benz S-Class that’s so flash I’m afraid to breathe too heavily in case I somehow devalue it.

Her efficient competency doesn’t settle my nerves about seeing Marcus again. It only reminds me how far apart our worlds are.

After a half-hour drive, where Erica and I make polite conversation about long-haul travel and the Icelandic weather, we pull up to what looks like a small city made of trailers and equipment. People bustle about with determined expressions, clutching walkie-talkies, reminding me of a particularly well-organized ant colony.

I feel woefully underdressed in my black puffer jacket and jeans.

Erica leads me through a labyrinth of equipment and people, all of whom seem to instinctively part ways for her.

We round a corner, and I’m transported to 1800s Iceland. There’s a small cluster of buildings: a main house with walls of stone and wood, smaller outbuildings, and what looks like a primitive barn. Props that look straight out of a historical museum—old fishing nets, weathered barrels, even a rusty plow—litter the ground.

A man with a headset suddenly appears, frantically waving his hands like he’s trying to land a plane.

“Quiet on set!” he hisses, and everyone around us freezes mid-motion.

Suddenly, Marcus is there, and my heart does a somersault. He’s dressed in period costume, his hair wild and windswept.

He’s accompanied by a tall, rangy guy I recognize as Peter Beauford, the Hollywood veteran who’s been in more blockbusters than I’ve had hot dinners. Which, given my student diet, might not be saying much, but still—the guy’s a legend.

“The winter is coming, and with it, death,” Peter intones ominously.

Marcus steps forward, his eyes blazing. “Then we’ll face it together, as we always have.”

The air between them crackles with tension. I’m so caught up in their performance I nearly forget to breathe.

The scene ends, and the set erupts into motion, with half the crew converging on Marcus. People adjust his costume, powder his face, and offer him various drinks and snacks. It’s like watching a Formula One pit crew, but instead of a car, they’re servicing a movie star.

Marcus hasn’t seen me yet. Should I approach him now?

I look around to Erica for guidance, but she’s disappeared.

Instead, a very official-looking woman bears down on me.

“Excuse me.” She looks down her nose at me. “Are you supposed to be here?”

My jet-lagged brain struggles with a reply. “Um…I’m here for Marcus. Marcus Johnson.”

“Where’s your ID card?”

I just blink at her.

Her eyes narrow. Suddenly, she’s talking into her wristband.

“Security.”

Two burly security guards appear almost instantly.

“No. I’m not a stalker,” I say desperately, but of course, that is something a stalker would probably also say, so it’s not a surprise they don’t seem to believe me. “I’m his…friend.” I stumble on. “I mean, I’ve just flown here from New Zealand to see him.”

Shit. Maybe now I just sound like a stalker with air miles.

The woman gives me a doubtful glance. “You mean to tell me Mr. Johnson invited you onto the set?”

She says it with so much skepticism that I struggle to believe it myself.

“Yes, yes, he did.”

One of the security guards puts a hand on my arm.

The kerfuffle has started to gather the attention of people around us. I glance desperately over at Marcus and see his hair and makeup team surrounding him are now looking in our direction, their perfectly groomed eyebrows climbing toward their hairlines.

Then, suddenly, Marcus’s eyes lock onto mine. His face transforms. The stern nineteenth-century Icelander melts away and his whole face lights up.

Which, given my current travel-disheveled state and the fact I’m currently wrestling with security guards, is a testament either to his acting skills or his poor eyesight.

“Seb!” he says.

The security guard’s grip suddenly loosens, and everyone turns to look at Marcus, who is now striding over to me.

I can’t help grinning foolishly at him as he approaches.

He ignores the people watching with wide eyes, his attention only focused on me.

“Hey, you,” he says softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Hey,” is my stunningly original reply.

He pulls me into a hug. And, oh my god, it’s Marcus. Marcus pressed against me. The scent of him, the feel of him…it’s almost a sensory overload.

“I see you’ve taken up time travel as a hobby,” I say when we pull apart, eyeing his costume.

He laughs.

“I’ve still got to film one more scene before we wrap for the day. Do you want to watch some more or wait in my trailer?”

“I want to watch you,” I say immediately.

The woman and the security guard have melted away, and Erica suddenly reappears.

“Can you grab Seb a chair so he can watch the next scene?” Marcus asks her.

“Sure thing. Oh, and here’s your security pass, Seb. You’ll need to wear it around your neck.” Erica hands me a plastic ID card.

“Ah, thanks,” I say, pulling the lanyard over my head. “That’s very useful.”

Marcus flashes a smile at me before heading back onto set.

As I sit on the chair Erica conjures up, I’m getting more sideways glances than a puffin would in a penguin colony.

Everyone’s clearly wondering how this rumpled, jet-lagged specimen of a human fits into Marcus Johnson’s glamorous orbit.

I rake a hand through my hair. I feel like I should apologize to the hair and makeup team for existing in their perfectly styled vicinity. I half expect them to descend on me with emergency combs and concealer at any moment.

But as the director calls action, my self-consciousness fades as I watch Marcus transform before my eyes.

He delivers his lines with such raw emotion, arguing with his co-star about the harsh realities of nineteenth-century Icelandic life, and I swear I can almost feel the biting wind and smell the smoke of the peat fires.

It’s like he’s opened a portal to another time, and I’m being sucked in.

When the scene ends, I realize I’ve been perched on the edge of my seat, completely engrossed. I’ve seen Marcus in movies before, but watching him work in person is something else entirely. Pride swells inside me, tinged with a hint of awe.

Marcus exchanges a few words with his co-star and director before coming over to me.

“You were incredible,” I say.

He gives me an almost embarrassed smile. “Thanks. You want to see my trailer now?”

“I’m sure my mother warned me about guys who offered to show me their ‘trailers,’” I say as I stand from my chair.

Marcus leads me to his trailer, which is less cozy mobile home and more luxury apartment that happens to have wheels.

Now we’re alone, I’m hyperaware of every inch between us. Should I touch him? Hug him again? Start a formal handshake?

I mean, I’m sure he didn’t invite me here for a casual catch-up.

I’ve never wished more fervently for a manual on Proper Etiquette for Reuniting with Your Long Distance Hollywood Star …or something.

In the enclosed space, I’m suddenly acutely aware of how long it’s been since I’ve gotten up close and personal with soap and water.

“I really need to have a shower,” I say.

Marcus’s eyes heat. “How about I join you in there?”

My heart begins to thud, and I try for a nonchalant shrug. “It’s your shower. If you want to shower at the same time I am, who am I to disagree?”

He huffs a laugh as he follows me into the bathroom, which looks like someone took a high-end spa and shrunk it down.

I shuck off my clothes while Marcus leans against the door, watching me. The weight of his gaze is like a physical touch. I’m self-conscious of every imperfection I’m exposing—the softness of my stomach from too many late nights in the lab and not enough time at the gym, the farmer’s tan from fieldwork at Mangawhai Beach. But the way Marcus is looking at me… I don’t think anyone has ever looked at me like that before.

I slide into the shower, immediately enveloped by the warm water. It’s definitely an upgrade from my temperamental shower back home, which alternates between arctic blast and scalding inferno.

“I thought you were joining me,” I say.

Steam billows around me, turning the bathroom into a fantasy realm. Through the increasingly foggy glass, Marcus undressing becomes a hazy, dreamlike striptease.

As Marcus joins me, I’m struck by the absurd thought that this must be what it feels like to share a shower with a work of art. He’s a masterpiece of human anatomy, all harmonious curves and angles. My brain short-circuits at the sight of so much perfect…Marcus.

My cock, unlike my brain, definitely hasn’t short-circuited. It’s been half-hard since Marcus watched me undress and now goes to full mast, throbbing in anticipation.

Marcus gently strokes a hand down my side, his fingertips creating sparks wherever they land. I close my eyes, focusing on the sensations as his fingers skim my skin.

He traces the slight softness of my stomach, the jut of my hipbones, the curve of my lower back, like he’s conducting a tactile survey.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so turned on.

My cock continues to throb, but Marcus ignores it, instead continuing the torture of caressing and exploring every inch of me except where I’m aching for his touch. It’s like he’s deliberately avoiding the most sensitive areas, building the tension until I’m about to combust from sheer want.

He leans in, his breath hot against my ear.

“I’ve missed this,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky.

His lips brush my neck, and it’s like a jolt of electricity straight to my core. My head falls back to give him better access, and he continues to kiss down my neck.

I finally find the courage to explore him in return, my hands tracing the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of his abs.

He raises his gaze to me, and I have a heartbeat of disbelief that Marcus Johnson, with water droplets clinging to his perfect eyelashes and rivulets running down his chiseled jawline, is in here with me.

The pouty lips that were the first thing I noticed about Marcus are now slightly parted. I take that as an invitation to lean forward and put my mouth on his.

The kiss starts slow, a gentle press of lips that quickly evolves into something more urgent. Marcus kisses like he’s trying to decode the secrets of the universe using only his mouth, and I’m more than happy to be his cipher.

God, I’ve missed kissing Marcus. I’ve missed the feel of his tongue in my mouth, the way his lips fit perfectly against mine. I’ve missed the way he nibbles gently on my lower lip, the way his hands cup my face as we kiss. I’m growing dizzy with want with every swipe of his tongue.

Suddenly, his lips are off mine and I’m blinking, disoriented.

He turns me so I’m against the tiles, his body pressed against mine.

The cool tiles are a sharp contrast to the heat of his body and the warmth of the water beating down on us.

His mouth is back on my skin, trailing down my neck, then down the planes of my back, his lips and teeth grazing my shoulder blades, the knobs of my spine, the dimples at the small of my back. Each touch sends shockwaves through my system like I’m experiencing a personal seismic event.

If there was a Richter scale for arousal, I’d be off the charts.

Marcus falls to his knees and gently kisses the globes of my ass before parting my cheeks.

Holy hell.

My fingers clench, but there’s nothing to grab hold of but slippery tiles as Marcus takes me apart with his tongue.

Just when I think I can take it no more, he reaches around to stroke my cock at the same rhythm his tongue presses inside me.

The dual sensation makes my knees weak, and I’m grateful for the shower wall.

It’s like he’s found my body’s on-off switch, and he’s flicking it repeatedly.

“Oh…ghsg…” Garbled letter combinations that make no sense come out of my mouth in a stream as my balls clench, and suddenly, I’m coming, painting the wall of the shower.

Marcus leans back on his haunches, looking thoroughly proud of himself, as I slump against the shower wall, trying to hold myself upright after the most epic orgasm ever.

His own cock is so hard, and he strokes himself. I just stare for a few moments before my brain comes back online.

Oh no. There’s no way I’m having that.

I crouch next to him, my legs still wobbly.

“Gimme,” I say, pushing Marcus’s hand away so I can take over.

The water runs in rivulets between us as I stroke his cock with one hand, my other hand exploring him with my fingers, discovering what makes his breath hitch, what makes him groan.

I can’t take my eyes off him, watching his face for every flicker of pleasure.

So I see the moment when he tips over the edge, his eyes fluttering shut, his expression a mix of vulnerability and ecstasy. It’s as if I’m witnessing a rare celestial event, something fleeting, intense, and utterly mesmerizing.

“That’s better than phone sex,” he says breathlessly as he opens his eyes.

“Definitely worth traveling for almost three days for,” I agree.

He leans forward to kiss me, the warm water continuing to beat down on us.

I’m only here for five days, and it goes by far too fast.

My days are spent watching Marcus acting, and my nights are spent in Marcus’s bed.

I have a new appreciation for how hard Marcus works, for how amazing he is at his job.

On the last night before I leave, Marcus takes me apart with agonizing slowness, his touches reverent and intense. It feels less like sex and more like some kind of cosmic alignment.

Afterward, I lie with my head on his chest, listening to his heart beating as he runs his fingers through my hair.

Out of all the miracles in this world, the fact that someone like Marcus exists is still the one that astonishes me the most.

So many unspoken things lie between us. I need to talk to him before I leave. I can’t go home with this thing between us undefined.

But I can’t summon the courage to ask yet.

Instead, I pick up the remote control and flick to the Discovery Channel.

Marcus’s arms around me while I watch an interesting documentary on TV? This is the definition of my happy place.

The documentary shows the riflebird of New Guinea, with its shape-shifting courtship dance, where the male transforms himself into a glossy black oval with an electric blue mouth, performing a mesmerizing side-to-side dance.

“What the hell is that bird doing?” Marcus asks.

“Trying to attract a mate. Courtship rituals are like nature’s version of a dating app. Some species go for flashy displays, others for elaborate dances or gift-giving. It’s all about showing off your best qualities to potential mates.”

I don’t share the universal biological truth. The most beautiful in the species always have the widest mate choice.

“What are our courtship rituals?” Marcus asks lazily.

My heart thuds.

“We exchange text messages, and I fly halfway across the world to watch you pretend to be a nineteenth-century Icelandic farmer. In return, you listen to me ramble about endangered species without falling asleep,” I say.

Marcus huffs a laugh. “That sounds about right.”

I push myself up on my elbow so I can look at him properly.

It’s now or never.

“You said we were in a relationship at university,” I begin tentatively.

Marcus’s eyes are deep and dark. “Yes, we were.”

My heart is beating so fast now that it’s doing an impression of a hummingbird on espresso.

But I need to say this. I need to know.

“It kind of seems like we’re back in the territory of a relationship again,” I say, and it feels like I’ve stepped off a cliff and am potentially about to plunge to my doom.

Marcus tenses. His fingers, which are tracing lazy patterns on my skin, suddenly freeze.

I hold my breath, forcing myself not to fill the silence, waiting.

“That sounds about right,” he says finally, his voice quiet.

I would celebrate his words if it wasn’t for the look of absolute fear on Marcus’s face.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

He pulls his hand away from me, raking it through his hair.

“I…I don’t want anyone else. I mean, there hasn’t been anyone since Fiji…”

My heart soars. “There hasn’t been anyone for me either. And I don’t want anyone else.”

He swallows hard. “I can guarantee there won’t be anyone else while…while we’re doing this, while we’re in a relationship. But I can’t promise you anything else.” He says the last sentence in a whisper.

“I don’t need promises,” I say softly.

Marcus’s eyes dart away, focusing on some distant point beyond the window, his jaw clenching.

The silence pulses between us before he finally meets my gaze again.

“I’m no good for you,” he says simply.

My heart breaks a little at his words. Because it’s similar to what he warned me about back at the beginning in Queenstown, when he said he wasn’t cut out to be someone’s boyfriend.

And I’m beginning to realize Marcus actually believes that, deep down.

I don’t know why this man thinks he’s no good for me when he is the most brightly shining thing in my life.

“How about you worry about your own heart, and I’ll worry about mine?” I say.

Marcus’s response is to pull me in tighter, wrapping his arms around me, his body curling around mine like a shield against the world.

Later, as I doze off, he whispers words against my skin. “It’s too late. I’m already worrying about your heart.”