Page 90 of Unstitch

I grab at his hair, at the longer ends that curl over his neck, and yank hard enough to turn us both so I’m leaning against the tiles. I release him and cross my arms below my pecs as I eye him. We’re both hard again.

‘What the fuck are you waiting for, then?’ I jerk my head. ‘Go on. Get down there and suck me off, and get yourself off while you’re at it. I want you to know how it feels to come when you’re choking on my cock.’

I stand there, lips pressed tightly together in a mask of impatient exasperation I do not feel, but when his face contorts I know I’ve given him his first breadcrumb.

He rakes back his hair with both hands and gets to his knees in front of me, and I swear on all that is holy that my knees nearly buckle with the raw eroticism of having Dex naked and soaking and on his knees for me, ready to do my bidding.

His eyes articulate it all: the want; the anticipation; the apprehension, too. But then he’s leaning forward and wrapping his hand around me and sticking out his tongue a little uncertainly, like it’s the first time he’s taking Holy Communion and he’s not entirely sure how the mechanics work.

Little does he know that the mere sight of it—of his pink tongue and huge eyes and earnest expression—is almost enough to have me shooting my load.

As he licks me, swirling the sluicing shower water over my cock, I put my hands to his head and follow the path he’s raked through his hair. He’s a beautiful, Mediterranean creature. A Greek god made man. A Renaissance prince, perhaps. He’s timeless and exquisite and so fucking obliging once he gets the fuck over himself, and I allow my head to fall back against the tiles once more and my hands to claw deeper, to grip his jaw harder, to control the speed, the depth, with which his clever, supple mouth takes me in.

One particularly energetic tug on my part has him testing his gag reflex, and as the spongy tissues of his throat contract around me, I have to tense up not to come.

‘You’re a natural,’ I grit out, caressing his jaw, allowing him a moment of latitude, and glancing down in time to see those blessed eyelashes flicker as he hums happily around my dick. His left hand stays clamped around me, his right arm working hard as he strokes himself, and I resolve to hang on tight.

‘Tell me when you’re about to come,’ I manage a few minutes later, when his licks, his sucks, have grown messier and more desperate, and I fucking love that sucking my dick has him writhing and shuddering around my cock.

‘Now,’ he gasps out, popping off me for a quick second before sucking me back in.

Thank fuck.

‘Good,’ I say through clenched teeth, and I grip his jaw again and let him have it, my hips volleying, my dick fucking his mouth and my hands holding him relentlessly in place as he flails and bucks and gives me such wonderful, strangled whimpers.

‘Rub yourself so hard,’ I hiss. ‘I want you to feel how filthy this is, what a dirty little slut you are for getting on your knees for me so soon. And look at you. You fucking love it, don’t you?’

I know how heartily he disapproves of the s-word, so I take enormous pleasure in throwing it at him when he’s teetering on the brink of sanity. Let him take all that shame and humiliation and fucking bathe in it; let it light him up from within.

He comes so prettily, my beautiful, brave boy on his knees for me in my shower with my dick down his throat and his cock in his fist. He takes my cum, he tries, swallowing around me as cum and shower water and saliva drip from his mouth.

And when we’ve both quite finished, I haul him up by his armpits, and I fold his wet, tired body in my arms, and I revel in the righteous weight of his head against my shoulder, and I tell him how very, very proud of him I am.

61

DARCY

Ihave no earthly idea what to expect when I show up at Max’s flat. I’ve second-guessed my decision to let Dex go over there alone so many times over the past forty-eight hours. I’m the buffer: Dex feels more comfortable around me, and Max feels compelled to act like some vaguely civilised creature and not a total fucking beast when I’m around.

I hope I haven’t done the wrong thing by letting him wander into the lion’s den.

What I’m categorically not expecting is to get up to Max’s floor and find Dex lolling against the door frame with damp hair, wearing nothing but a pair of red athletic shorts that I suspect aren’t his and a smile so wide it could split his face in two.

‘Hi, gorgeous,’ he says, hooking an arm around my waist and tugging me against his bare chest, which is frankly an excellent way to be greeted. ‘You look fucking ravishing.’

‘Who are you and what have you done with Dex?’ I demand, planting my palms on his shoulders and dropping a kiss on his lips. ‘What the fuck did you two get up to—are you drunk?’

‘Not on booze,’ he replies with a cheeky wink, releasing me and ushering me inside.

‘He’s drunk on dick,’ Max calls from the living area, and I giggle.

‘Nice. Started without me, did you?’

‘And then some,’ Dex mutters over his shoulder, and I marvel at his personality transformation.

‘You jealous?’ Max asks, climbing off his barstool as I enter the kitchen area and coming towards me. He’s wearing similar shorts to Dex’s, only in navy.

Matchy-matchy.

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