Page 52 of Unstitch

‘She might just be the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.’

His smile fades. He surveys me thoughtfully.

‘You know, she said something very similar about you, too.’

She said something very similar to me, too, but I’m not inclined to tell him that. He’s got enough of her already.

Instead, I avert my gaze from his piercing one and turn my attention back to Darcy.

35

MAX

The woman I’m involved with is onstage, pouring her body into shapes a more religious man would take as proof that there is a God. She has that look on her face that she gets when she dances.

Dreamy.

She’s pulled a veil down between her and the crowd.

We can watch her, but we can’t reach her.

She’s communing with the music, letting it speak through her soul like she described at lunch. It’s as awe-inspiring as it is arousing, and it elevates what should be something base to a level I find almost unbearably erotic.

Darcy Carew is the real fucking deal, and the thrill of possession courses through me, heady and strong. Because she’s mine. For now, at least.

All of which makes it irksome that she’s only occupying about three-quarters of my mental capacity.

The other quarter is taken up by the man standing next to me.

I shoot him a furtive sideways glance and twist my mouth in what I suppose is a mix of amusement and rue. Amusement because every instinct I had when I saw his photo has proven to be right, and rue because I have no fucking proof that he’s queer, no matter what my gut tells me.

If I’m right, and he is queer, I can find a way to claim him, that’s for sure. But something else is certain: he’s straight as a die. And I don’t mean straight in the sexual sense; I mean he’s a rule follower. I saw his WhatsApp exchange with Darce. He has impeccable manners. I bet he wouldn’t put a foot wrong.

Unfortunately for him, not only is he the kind of handsome up close to which no photo could do justice, but I have a particular penchant for uptight good boys who are perpetually in denial and need a firm hand and a hard dick to show them what they’re missing. Those astonishing dark-lashed eyes of his are trained fixedly on Darcy, so I take the opportunity to surreptitiously devour him with my gaze.

He’s clean-shaven, like me. He’s got a decent tan, but I can tell his skin is the kind of olive that still holds through the winter. His lips are full, his jaw as tense as the grip on his whisky tumbler. Still, the line of it is alluring. I’d lick along it before sucking hard on his neck to remind him who he belongs to. My nostrils flare just thinking about it, and if my dick could get any harder, it would.

He hasn’t taken the bait of my last comment. Perhaps the most unfortunate thing of all for poor little Dex is that he’s dealing with a man who will blithely turn anyone’s greatest attribute into their greatest vulnerability before you can say Achilles. And in Dex’s case, those attributes are most likely his impeccable manners and his hankering after our girl Darcy.

I lean in again, admiring how pretty his tanned neck looks bracketed by the curls of his dark hair and the crisp blue cotton of his shirt.

‘You know what else Darcy said about you?’ I murmur. The music’s so loud that I don’t need to keep my voice down. Neither do I wait for a response before delivering my killer blow. ‘She said,’—my lips are so deliciously close to his jawline and he smells like shampoo—‘she wants you to fuck her.’

That’s got his attention.

He turns sharply, taking an immediate step back to reduce our proximity. ‘What the hell?’ he snaps.

Isn’t he pretty when he’s angry? Or discomfited. All I know is Confronted Dex is a treat.

‘It’s true,’ I continue smoothly. ‘She came straight back to mine last Saturday after she met you here. You made quite the impression. Imagine my surprise when she not only asked me for a threesome but said she’d found the exact man for the job.’

I watch his face. I’d hazard a guess it’s far more expressive than someone as buttoned-up as him would want. That’s quite the melange of emotions he has going on so close to the surface.

‘Hang on,’ he says. ‘She wants a threesome?’ He screws his face up at the last word, like it’s one too offensive to have ever crossed his lips before, and I almost laugh.

‘You didn’t think I’d let you touch her without my being there to chaperone, did you?’

‘Chaperone,’ he repeats. I think I may have broken his brain. I turn to face him properly.

---