Page 56 of Unstitch

Maybe not all their focus. I’ve seen Max cast a few sidelong glances at Dex already. Still, it’s more than enough for one girl. I eye them both up idly as I sip my cold champagne. They’re both tall and lean, broad shoulders counterbalanced with flat stomachs and narrow waists. They look like they should be in an ad campaign together for some fancy label like Brioni or Tom Ford. Max is in fantastic shape, and my brief grope of Dex just now tells me he’s similar.

Max lifts his flute and cocks his head, examining his champagne. ‘You know,’ he drawls in that manner I’ve come to know as studied insouciance, ‘I bet this would taste even better if we sucked it off Darcy’s tits.’

Dex chokes a little on his mouthful, launching a coughing attack, and Max slaps him manfully on the back as I try not to laugh.

Poor little lamb.

He’s well and truly in the lion’s den now.

‘Only one way to find out,’ I say, which is all the encouragement Max needs to spring into Dom mode. He sets his flute down on the cabinet and actually clicks his fingers.

‘Dex, help me.’

Wolford makes my body suits in a single piece, which is apparently some feat of circular knitting that I don’t begin to understand. They have no closures, only a neckline that’s slashed shoulder to shoulder. This nude-coloured version is so sheer you can’t really see the neckline from a distance. It requires shimmying carefully into it, and having help to take it off is always appreciated.

I’ve definitely never appreciated it this much, though.

‘Tug it down from the shoulders,’ I say as Dex puts his flute down and rounds me.

‘You sure about this?’ he asks, hunger and concern warring in his eyes. Just as it’s Max’s total animalism that attracts me to him, it’s the whole repressed self-denial thing that has me crazy for Dex. They both want me, but Max is all in and Dex is doing battle with his baser instincts.

I cannot wait to see him come undone, hopefully inside my body.

‘I’ve never been so sure of anything, believe me,’ I say with a shudder.

‘And if you need any proof…’ Max interjects. He slips his hand between my legs, casual as you like, and swipes two fingers through the slick mess I’ve made of my bodystocking before holding them out to Dex.

Dex stands there, stunned, eyes darting from Max’s face to his outstretched fingers.

‘Go on,’ I tell him. ‘You can taste. I trust Max completely. Anything he tells you to do to me tonight, you can do it.’

‘Tell him your safeword, sweetheart,’ Max says.

The other night, things got pretty heated after our threesome chat and Max had me come up with a safe word.

I chose folklore.

No explanation needed, right?

But, as I say it to Dex and he repeats it slowly, I can tell the cultural reference is absolutely not hitting home.

‘Come on,’ Max says impatiently. He puts his fingers to Dex’s mouth, pushing down on his lower lip slightly, and who can blame him? It’s probably the closest he’ll get to Dex tonight.

Dex opens, and he doesn’t exactly suck, but he lets Max put his fingers on his tongue just like someone would take their Communion wafer, and his eyes drift closed in bliss for a second. I stare at his heavy lids, the dark, feathered arcs of his lashes above his cheekbones. It should be illegal for a man to be this beautiful. Max presses down before withdrawing his fingers on a long, reluctant pull.

Then Dex opens his eyes and turns them on me, but his entire demeanour is different now. More predatory, his hunger at the fore, his luscious mouth in a grim line. It’s like that split second of alone time within the orange-hued respite of his lowered lids has shifted something in him.

‘You taste like you really fucking want it,’ he says, and even his voice is different. Harsher.

‘That’s what I’ve been telling you.’ I hold out my arms and try to keep my voice steady. ‘I want you to do everything you feel comfortable with.’

His capitulation comes in the form of action. With the ragged sigh of a man who knows he’s crossing some line he can’t un-cross, he hooks a finger under the edge of my slashed neckline. Max does the same, and together they peel my bodystocking down my arms until my boobs and stomach are exposed and the fabric is gathered at my wrists.

They kneel, as if by some unspoken agreement, pulling it off my wrists. Over my hips. Down my thighs. Max presses a kiss to my waist. The fabric’s almost completely sheer, but as I look down at them, this Great Unveiling feels significant. They’re quiet, gentle, their movements almost reverent. I use their shoulders for support as I step out of the suit, one leg at a time, the guys tugging the mesh over my feet in the same way a woman pulls off her stockings.

Then Max speaks, and I can tell from his tone that this is the last time they’ll treat me with kid gloves this evening.

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