Page 75 of Unstitch

His words roll on, callous and dismissive, and I know they’ll haunt me for the rest of my days. ‘You didn’t like it when you watched me stroking my cock, did you, or when I bit your lip, and you didn’t like it when I fucked your mouth with my tongue, and you definitely didn’t think about what it would feel like if I stuck my dick in there instead, did you?’

I groan at that, thrusting my hips into his grip, desperate for as much friction as he’ll give me. ‘Please,’ I moan brokenly, not knowing what I’m begging for. ‘Please.’

He pauses at that, stops rubbing, stops talking. He lifts his head and looks at me, and I stare back at a face I already know I’ll never be capable of erasing from my mind, no matter how hard I try.

‘Please what?’ he asks, and his voice is softer, more openly curious, stripped of its acerbity, its mercilessness.

I freeze.

He waits.

This is it. This is fucking it. There’s no going back from here. I’m rewriting my future with four words, and I don’t care, because I don’t care about anything in the world right now except making this ache go away.

I open my mouth. ‘Please make me come.’

53

DEX

Time stops, but I’m not even embarrassed, because I’m too fixated on calculating the odds that he’ll do as I ask. There’s a twenty percent chance he pulls down my flies and jerks me off with ruthless, angry strokes, I estimate, and an eighty percent chance he laughs in my face.

After all, it would be the perfect revenge. Arouse me into confessing that I’m a cowardly little bullshitter and then walk off and leave me, hard and leaking, humbled and mortified, in my place of work.

His face clears, and he looks for all the world like a proud parent whose kid has finally figured how to pee in the fucking potty. ‘All you had to do was ask,’ he says softly, before releasing my cock and sliding my zip down slowly, carefully over my swollen dick.

The sound I make when his fingers find my bare, taut skin through the flap in my boxer briefs is shuddering and shameful and fragile and raw, and I’m powerless to stop it, because Max has my dick in his hand and I’m trembling with the beautiful, wondrous, disbelief of it all.

‘I don’t make a habit of doing this,’ he says. His tone is conversational, but he’s watching my face closely, and for a moment I think he’ll kiss me. ‘I don’t make a habit of it at all, in fact, so you’d better appreciate it.’

I don’t quite understand what he’s getting at until he proceeds to drop elegantly to one knee, and then to both, his hand still a warm seal around my shaft.

‘Oh my God,’ I say. ‘Oh my God. You don’t—I didn’t?—’

‘I know,’ he says, and I cannot describe the experience of having him look up at me through his lashes, his lips a couple of inches from my tip. I know it’s all wrong, that I should be the one kneeling at his feet right now and begging his forgiveness and showing him how laughably deluded I was, but his tongue slices through my slit, reaping my precum as it does, and my dick is flooded, literally flooded, with searing heat of the most amazing kind.

I groan again, deeply, the sound rolling up from my belly, as involuntary as breathing and the only outlet I have for this overwhelm. In response, he grips me tightly, far more tightly than Darcy did or would, I suspect, have dared. Women have a healthy respect for the fragility of this most critical of organs, I’ve found, but it seems men don’t share that.

Max certainly doesn’t, manhandling my dick in a manner that could charitably be called robust and uncharitably vicious. He squeezes; he rifles between my dick and my zip for my balls, and I swear some fabric rips.

He jerks my dick upwards, pinning it against the cold of my belt buckle as he buries his nose in the underside, sniffing hard and murmuring something unintelligible that I understand to be the basest sort of compliment. Then he licks long and hard along my vein before grazing his teeth over my crown so harshly I break out in full-body goosebumps.

And all the while I’m in survival mode, gasping and thrashing and riding out this wet, hot, carnal onslaught, taking every lick of his tongue, every drag of his teeth, every perfect slide of his lips, and, finally, every deep suck he sees fit to bestow upon me.

My world is blanketed in a man’s warm, relentless mouth, and the rest of the universe can implode into subatomic matter, for all I care. I can’t not touch him. I grab at his face with both hands, palms closing over his ears, my fingers clawing at his short, silky hair and earning a pleased, muffled grunt.

It seems inconceivable and yet inevitable that his mouth is as soft, as velvety, as yielding as Darcy’s, even if his technique is anything but. Even less comprehensible, more wondrous, is that the mere fact of it being him has me deranged with arousal.

Forget that the man knows how to wield his mouth like a weapon.

It’s just him.

Having him here.

Having him do this.

Having him want to do this.

It’s the best porn I’ve ever, ever seen.

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