Page 76 of Unstitch

I’m rutting into his mouth, my orgasm building from my feet upwards, spreading like I’m walking into a sea of molten lava. I release his head—there is no place in this time-space continuum where Max Hunter swallows—and tilt my head back, squeezing my eyes closed and interlacing my fingers behind my neck as I brace for what I know will be total fucking annihilation.

‘I’m close,’ I pant. ‘I’m so close. Jesus, you’ve got to—you can move?—’

But he harrumphs his displeasure at that idea and keeps sucking, his soft, strong lips a perfect seal around my shaft, his tongue laving me with indecent gusto.

Behind my tightly shut eyes, the black turns purple and orange and red. Angry colours. Violent colours. My toes curl in their sensible loafers. The trembling of my entire body could register on the Richter scale. My fingernails threaten to draw blood on the back of my neck, and I rupture one of my nearly-healed blisters with my teeth. The sour tang of blood is nothing, though, because my body ignites as though Max has doused me in petrol and tossed a lit match at me, and if this is how Hell feels, count me in.

Count me fucking in.

He works me through my orgasm with the ruthlessness of one who will be personally affronted if he doesn’t wring me human jerky-levels of dry. And when I’m softening and pulsing in his mouth, he cleans me with his tongue. I stare down at him, shattered and reborn, as he sits back on his heels and carefully tucks me in.

It’s only when he’s zipped me up and got to his feet that he looks me in the eye. ‘How do you feel?’ he asks with the detached concern of a drill sergeant who’s watched you puke your guts up from exertion and wants to make sure you’ve got it all out of your system before he sends you on your way.

I laugh a little, because it’s impossible to articulate how I feel, physically or emotionally. ‘I don’t know. Devastated. Euphoric. Fuck knows.’

He’s hard, though. I know that much. Really, really hard, like he’s got a rolling pin stuck down those impeccably tailored trousers.

‘Do you…’ I ask, gesturing feebly at his crotch. I don’t know what I’m asking, and I certainly don’t know if I’m remotely capable of following up on any implied favour I may propose.

Amusement flashes across his otherwise deadpan face. No one knows better than Max how pathetically ill-prepared I’d be to deliver on that vaguest of offers. ‘The only thing I want you to do is process,’ he tells my mouth, and I find myself wishing he would kiss me, even once. I want him to brush his dick-swollen lips over mine. I want to taste myself on him.

‘Process,’ I repeat stupidly.

‘Process.’ He taps my temple. ‘Tell yourself some hard facts. Meanwhile, you’re going to go and splash some cold water on your face, and I’ll sit here and have a gander at this research—if my gut is right, it should cure me of any residual hard-on by around page five.’

I laugh a little. ‘I’m confident it’ll deliver,’ I say shakily.

‘Good. Take your time. I’ll be gone when you get back—I can see myself out.’

I nod, deflating more quickly than an unknotted balloon. I feel needy and squirmy and flayed wide open.

‘Oh, and Dex.’ He smooths an errant lock of hair away from his face, and I find myself wishing I had thought to do that for him. ‘I’ll tell Darcy you’re recovering from your little hissy fit. Come and have dinner with us on Friday night at mine. I’ll send you the details.’ He turns and picks up the weighty research report, pulling out the chair his jacket is strewn over.

I hesitate, watching him sit gingerly down and cover his erection with the report.

He looks up, eyebrow arched, and sighs. ‘It’s not a request.’

54

DARCY

DEX

I am so unutterably sorry for not replying to your lovely messages. It had nothing to do with you, but it makes me feel sick that I caused you doubt. I hope you can forgive me. For what it’s worth, I haven’t stopped thinking about you all week. You are incredible and I feel so honoured to have had that experience with you. I can’t wait to see you on Friday xox

Thank you. I needed to hear that. Roll on Fri xx

It feels like my sister has been away for years, when it’s only been a month. I’ve been excited to see her, obviously, mainly to catch up and hear all the goss from the honeymoon. But this past week I’ve felt as though my world has been crumbling to pieces and I just need a hug from my big sis, dammit.

Dex’s text yesterday made me tear up with relief, which is a bit pathetic, but honestly. That guy put me through the wringer. Max had already called me to tell me he’d “made him see sense”, so the text wasn’t completely out of the blue, but when Max came over to my place last night I couldn’t believe the story that came out of his mouth.

“Made him see sense” isn’t code for “gave him a blowjob at his place of work” in any reality I know, but it’s given me real hope for the first time since Dex left me on read last Thursday—and all the days after. Because Max and I may not have admitted it to each other in so many words, but we’re both insanely attracted to him, and I feel something for him, too.

Don’t ask me what, but he tugs at my heartstrings (and my lady parts). It’s probably stupid to say, because I’m sure every single human who crosses paths with him falls hard, but after what we did last week, I can’t stop thinking about him. Can’t stop remembering how it felt to have him lie on top of me and move inside me. The way his dark hair fell over his eyes. The shadows on his face as he came, like he was learning something new about himself.

I definitely didn’t realise quite how many new things he’d learnt about himself that night, and I have to admit, I’m really fucking glad Max called him out on everything. That could have gone horribly wrong—Max is so impatient, and so intolerant. His riding roughshod all over poor Dex’s Big, Scary Feelings could have been an absolute disaster.

I guess he found a better way of using his mouth to, erm, persuade Dex than by bawling him out.

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