Page 101 of Unstitch

I wait as he visibly calibrates this information in his head. As he recalibrates what he thought he knew about me to date. And as I wait, I dig my fingernails into my palms and physically restrain myself from explaining or modifying.

Then that grin breaks out again, like he’s tickled to death. ‘Well, well, well,’ he says with a chuckle. ‘I have to admit, I did not see that coming. Wow. You got me on the back foot—I must apologise.’

‘No apology necessary,’ I say stiffly. I’m terrified to let my guard down, but he’s shaking his head smilingly at me.

‘You and Hunter. What a power couple. He’s a most impressive guy.’

‘We’re not really a couple, yet,’ I manage. ‘It’s very… new. But with the announcement... I thought you should know.’ I trail off. Hearing the word couple from my lips is fantastical. Max Hunter and me. A power couple—with Darcy, obviously, because without her we’re a two-legged stool.

But still.

Having this conversation with a man who paid seven figures to hire me and relocate me across the ocean and put his trust in me feels more portentous, somehow, than letting Max touch me. Because Max’s flat is a bubble, a blessedly safe, private space for me to indulge in activities I never, ever thought I’d allow myself to experience.

But this is the real world, with its prejudices and cruelties, with its lack of empathy and its insistence on reducing our physical needs and our hearts’ most elemental human desires to labels.

So it’s only when Thum shakes my hand with genuine joy, and wishes me and Max all the luck in the world for our relationship, and promises to be the soul of discretion until I see fit to share the news more widely, that I realise I’ve been bracing this whole time for the emotional equivalent of a slap across the face.

A slap that hasn’t come.

After all the fear, there’s nothing. Nothing but simple goodwill from a man I look up to, whose respect carries so much weight for my career and my self-esteem.

And it’s a gift. A gift so freely given it takes my breath away, although I’m acutely aware that my surprise at Thum’s reaction is the only lamentable part of this entire interaction.

I feel weightless now. I feel absolved.

Perhaps I’ll save the news that there’s a third, wonderful, party in my and Max’s relationship for another day.

70

MAX

When the Dangerous Ds, as I’ve privately christened them, stayed over on Friday night, we tried falling asleep with Darcy in the middle first. While three adults in a bed may be achievable, it’s not necessarily comfortable, though my eight-footer helps.

But within a few minutes, she was complaining that she was overheating between the two of us, so I allowed her to swap places with Dex. I’d have tucked her in behind me, except Dex hadn’t yet known the distinct pleasure of waking up next to Darcy, with her hair spilling over the pillow and her tits spilling over the sheets.

So he took the middle spot in my bed, which struck me as symbolic. After all, he’d allowed Darcy and me to tug him into the epicentre of our erotic entanglement.

Sleeping with him, though, felt like the right way to close the circle of our intimacy this evening—and I mean right less as correct and more as the most visceral kind of righteous: good and true and just. He submitted to me in my home. He let me unravel him—willingly. He helped me to fuck Darcy, the woman who’s inveigled her way into my head with seemingly no effort on her part.

Really, he’d acquiesced so beautifully, so whole-heartedly all night, that it felt only natural that he should allow me to mould the full length of my body to his. To nestle my cock into the cleft of his arse, to bury my face in the crook of his neck. To feel the strength of his hamstrings against my quads, the firm, hairy shapeliness of his calves against my shins. To have his stomach rise and fall against the hollow of my palm.

That was the most perfect part, I think. Those quiet, even, somnolent breaths that filled his belly and warmed my hand. He even slept prettily. And I knew that, whatever demons and qualms still undoubtedly lingered in that intelligent, sensitive brain of his, sleep had allowed him to lay them aside, for a few hours, at least. His slumber was that of a man at peace with himself and his place in the world.

But the place of a queer person in the world isn’t easy to find, even for someone like me who’s accepted his queerness from the start. For a man like Dex, whose worldview has been warped rather than shaped by loathsome forces—bigotry and fear and shame—that place will be all the harder to find. I’m under no illusions that our orgasm count alone is enough to slay his demons.

That’s why I’ve offered to go to his place this evening. Darcy’s dancing tonight, and I don’t want Dex having time alone to stew or spiral or spin himself any of the troublesome narratives I know he’s more than capable of.

Far better for him to have company. Far better to remind him of all the excellent reasons he’s taking these brave first steps.

His flat is on Poultry, which is an odd but historically relevant name for the wide, sweeping street that continues east from the former markets of Cheapside and which leads to the Bank of England. The flat itself is a smaller, less flashy version of mine, just as modern and soulless. That said, it has a decent view of Poultry, where modern buildings lie cheek by jowl with the kind of handsomely symmetrical sandstone constructions that always give the aesthete in me the best kind of ache.

At least my flat is in one of the best locations in London. Living in the heart of the financial district must be depressing during the week and downright eerie on the weekends. I privately resolve to employ my fine selection of carrots and sticks to induce him to spend more time on the west side of town from now on, either at mine or at Darcy’s. Gen’s former home is by far the most elegant and beautifully appointed of the three, but mine is currently the only one where three adults in one bed have a chance of a decent night’s sleep.

Aside from my concerns for Dex’s emotional and mental wellbeing, I couldn’t give a fuck what his flat is like, because the man standing in the hallway as I stride in is my only focus. He’s the kind of gently rumpled that twelve hours in the office will do for someone, his hair a little less perfect than it was this morning, his eyes screen-fatigued, his shirt rolled up at the sleeves and less creased than softened from its morning crispness.

Still, seeing him in his flat—or anywhere, in fact—is like chancing upon a Rodin sculpture in the middle of Ikea. He’s as astonishing as he was the first time I saw his photo, the first time I had the distinct pleasure of laying eyes on him in person. Dexter Scott was most certainly crafted by the very best of God’s celestial artisanal army. No attention, no expense was spared. His skin is lustrous; his bone structure suggests the angel in charge of his face was both a serious showoff and anal as fuck.

More than all that, more than the undeniable piece of angelic showmanship he represents, is the way he looks at me whenever he sees me. Like he’s equal parts terrified and delirious with longing at the thought of what I might do to him. Of how—what—I might make him feel.

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