Chapter 115: Chapter 115
Olivia’s POV
Getting Maxwell up the stairs to the private jet was a challenge that required both me and the flight attendant - the same one who had welcomed us on arrival, and who I’d heard someone refer to as Claire.
She looked at Maxwell’s pale face with concern.
"Sir, are you sure you don’t want to wait until you’re feeling better?" Claire asked as we hauled him up each step.
"I’m fine," Maxwell insisted through gritted teeth, though his breathing was labored and his face had gone from pale to almost gray.
I was getting seriously worried now. The man looked fragile in a way I’d never seen before, and his stubborn pride was the only thing keeping him upright. I just hoped that stubbornness would be strong enough to keep him alive until we landed.
Once we got him inside the plane, Maxwell immediately headed for the private bedroom at the back, and collapsed onto the bed with a groan that he tried to disguise as a sigh.
"Can I get you anything, Mr. Wellington?" Claire asked from the doorway. "Water? Medication? We’ve prepared delicacies..."
"Just privacy," Maxwell said, waving her away. "I need to rest."
Claire looked at me helplessly, and I gave her a small nod. "I’ll stay with him," I said quietly. "Just make sure we have water and any medical supplies nearby, just in case."
As the plane began taxiing down the runway, I pulled up a chair beside Maxwell’s bed. He had his eyes closed, one arm thrown across his face, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.
"You know," I said softly, "it’s not weak to admit you need help."
"I don’t need help," he muttered. "I just need sleep."
The plane took off smoothly, climbing into the afternoon sky. For a while, Maxwell seemed to settle into an uneasy rest, his breathing evening out slightly. I allowed myself to relax a bit, thinking maybe his confidence in his ability to travel wasn’t entirely misplaced.
Then, about thirty minutes into the flight, everything changed.
Maxwell suddenly sat bolt upright, gasping for air. His hands flew to his shirt collar, pulling at it frantically.
"Can’t... breathe," he managed to choke out, his face going red with the effort.
"Sir!" I jumped up from my chair, panic flooding through me. "Claire! I need help in here!"
But Maxwell waved his hand sharply, dismissing the idea before Claire could even appear. Instead, he beckoned to me with desperate, jerky movements, still pulling at his shirt with his other hand.
"Help... with this," he gasped, gesturing to his buttons.
I immediately moved to the bed, my fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely work the small buttons through their holes.
"Hold on, hold on," I muttered, finally getting all the buttons undone. "Just breathe slowly. Try to calm down."
"My chest," he groaned once I’d gotten his shirt open. "Muscles... so tight. Can’t expand properly."
I stared at him, my mind racing through every first aid lesson my mum had ever taught me. Chest tightness, difficulty breathing, muscle spasms - this could be a complication from the pneumonia, or it could be something worse.
"Lie down," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Lie on my lap. I’ll massage the area, try to help the muscles relax."
Maxwell didn’t need to be told twice. He shifted immediately, laying his head in my lap with great eagerness, as if he’d been waiting for me to offer all day.
I placed my hands on his chest, feeling the heat radiating through his skin, the rapid hammering of his heart beneath my palms. I began rubbing in slow, soothing circles, trying to ease the tension I could feel in his muscles.
This was a mistake. A huge mistake.
Maxwell’s head was in my lap, his face turned slightly toward me, his lips mere inches from my flattened breast. His chest under my hands was hard and warm, the defined muscles flexing beneath my touch. With his shirt open and his eyes closed, his face had taken on a peaceful, vulnerable expression that made him look more handsome, less guarded.
God help me, this felt intimate. Too intimate.
Heat was building in my body, a dangerous warmth that had nothing to do with concern for his health and everything to do with the fact that I was touching him, really touching him, in a way I’d never thought I ever could.
I tried to focus on the massage, on keeping my movements firm and impersonal, but my mind kept betraying me. The urge to lean down and kiss him was too strong and overwhelming. His chest seemed to be calling out to me, begging for me to kiss every inch of that hard rock body.
Stop it, I told myself firmly. Think about your stranger. Think about the man who’s been loyal to you, who protects you, who could be your actual boyfriend someday.
What would he do if he knew I was having these thoughts about Maxwell? He’d already beaten David to a pulp for threatening me. What would he do to Maxwell if he thought something inappropriate was happening between us?
And somehow, that man seemed to know everything. Every move I made, every danger I faced - he was always watching, always aware.
I forced my thoughts back to the present, back to the medical emergency at hand. Maxwell’s breathing had started to even out under my touch, his face losing some of that panicked redness.
Just when I thought he was getting better and I could finally stop this torturous intimacy, I started to pull my hands away from his chest.
But his hand shot up and grabbed my wrist.
"Don’t stop," he said, his voice rough. "The moment you stop massaging, the breathing problem returns."
I stared down at him, "Are you sure? You seem better now..."
"I’m sure." His grip on my wrist tightened slightly.
So I continued, my hands moving over his chest in those slow, circular motions, trying desperately to ignore the heat building between my legs, the electricity shooting through me whenever my skin touched his.
For several minutes, there was only the hum of the plane’s engines and the sound of our breathing - his gradually stabilizing, mine becoming unsteady and raw.
Then, without warning, Maxwell started coughing. But this time it was worse - harsh, violent coughs that shook his entire body. His breathing became ragged, desperate gasps between the coughs, and his face went from red to an alarming shade of purple.
"Maxwell!" I screamed, jumping up and laying him flat on the bed. "Stay with me! Claire, get the oxygen. Hurry!"
But there was no time to wait for Claire. Maxwell was losing consciousness, his eyes rolling back, his lips turning blue from lack of oxygen.
I’d never performed CPR on a real person before, but I had to try. My body moved immediately, panic fueling me on.
I tilted his head back, checked his airway, positioned my hands on his chest and began compressions. Thirty of them, fast and hard, counting in my head as I pushed down with all my strength.
Then I leaned down to give rescue breaths.
The moment my lips touched his, everything changed.
Maxwell’s hand suddenly flew up to the back of my head, tangling in my hair, and he kissed me back with a passion that had nothing to do with medical emergencies and everything to do with pure undiluted hunger.
His lips moved against mine like he wanted to consume me whole, his tongue seeking entrance, his other hand coming up to cup my face. It wasn’t a rescue breath anymore - it was a real kiss, the kind that made my entire body ignite with heat.
For a moment -a stupid, reckless, beautiful moment - I forgot everything. I forgot I was supposed to be Oliver. I forgot I was his employee. I forgot about my stranger and propriety and the thousand reasons why this was the worst possible idea.
I kissed him back.
My hands, which had been positioned for CPR, instead moved to his shoulders, gripping him as I deepened the kiss. He tasted like desperation and something uniquely Maxwell that made me want more, more, more.
His chest rose and fell beneath me - breathing, definitely breathing now - but neither of us pulled away. The kiss went on and on, growing more heated with each passing second, his hands exploring my back, my neck, my face, as if trying to memorize every inch of me.
It was Claire’s shocked gasp from the doorway that finally broke the spell.
I jerked back like I’d been electrocuted, my eyes flying open, reality crashing back down with brutal force.
Maxwell was staring up at me with eyes that were definitely alert now, his breathing rapid but steady, his lips swollen from our kiss, an expression on his face I couldn’t begin to interpret.
"I... you were... CPR," I stammered, scrambling off the bed and backing away. "You weren’t breathing, and I had to..."
"Oliver," Maxwell said, his voice hoarse but strong, "that was not CPR."
My face burned with humiliation and confusion. "You kissed me back! I was trying to save your life and you..."
"And I what?" He sat up slowly, his shirt still hanging open, his hair messed up from my hands, looking thoroughly kissed and completely unrepentant. "YOU kissed me first."
"You weren’t breathing!" I practically shouted, desperate for any excuse that would explain what had just happened.
"I’m breathing now." His eyes held mine, challenging, questioning, seeing far too much.
Claire cleared her throat awkwardly from the doorway. "Mr. Wellington, I have oxygen if you need it. And perhaps we should call ahead to have an ambulance meet us when we land?"
"That won’t be necessary," Maxwell said, though he didn’t break eye contact with me. "I’m feeling much better now."