Page 106 of Unstitch

‘The crown’s in,’ he says, the relief so palpable that I wonder if he doubted he’d get it in. ‘Jesus fuck, you’re so tight.’

Max’s dick is partially inside my body. Oh my God. It’s happening, and it’s so carnal, so overwhelming, it almost steals my breath away.

‘When you got me up against your fridge,’ I manage, panting out the words. ‘And you jerked me off and told me you were going to sodomise me every which way. That pretty much plays in my mind on a constant loop.

‘Huh,’ he says, pleased. ‘It does, does it? Even when you’re in meetings?’

‘Especially then,’ I groan, and he laughs against my jaw.

‘Good boy.’

‘But when you put your thumb in my mouth in the shower and just stared at me?’ I continue in my weak, shaky voice, because all the energy in my body is focused on this hot, monstrous invasion in my arse. ‘I’ve never felt such a crazy maelstrom of emotions as I did then. I was so fucking horrified, but it was probably the sexiest moment of my life. I’ll be thinking of that on my deathbed.’

‘Oh, my sweet boy,’ he mutters, rubbing his nose and mouth over my jaw, and he doesn’t push in, but he does shift his hips a little, like he’s preparing to do battle, preparing to forge ahead, no matter how much harder I’m making it for him with my clenching.

A surge of emotion comes, pricking at my eyes. ‘You said I was perfect,’ I murmur. ‘You said something like just as perfect as I thought, and I couldn’t believe a man like you was looking at me and pressing down on my lip and having that reaction.’

‘You are perfect,’ he whispers. ‘Jesus Christ, you are so fucking perfect. Darcy and I didn’t stand a chance. We both fell the moment we saw you, you perfect, perfect thing.’

And with that, he thrusts, and stops, and thrusts again, and the fucking size of him is so outrageous, so implausible, as is the feeling of having him inside my body that goes so far beyond fullness. I’m terrified to move, terrified he’ll do what he promised and split me in two. But he’s right—it’s less brutal than the first couple of inches were.

‘Sweet mother of God,’ he groans against my cheek. ‘I won’t survive this.’

That makes two of us, pal.

‘If you can,’ he grits out, ‘I want you up on your knees. If it’s not too deep. Then I can play with your lovely, thick dick while I fuck you.’

He’s already in so deep it feels like he’s touching my lungs, but the greedy little slut in me, the part I’ve suppressed for so long and who loves nothing more than hearing words like that, is indecently, pathetically excited by the promises Max is making and the strain in his voice that tells me he’s about to unleash himself on me.

With grunts from both of us, he hoists me up with an arm around my stomach and I get inelegantly, unsteadily, to my knees, my cock a stiff rod throbbing into nothingness and Max’s sweat-slicked body heating me from behind. He kneels between my legs, the hair of his calves against mine, breaths coming harshly, and I wonder afresh at the fact that it’s I who am undoing Max Hunter.

I’ve made him this hard.

I have his entire body straining with effort and need as it cradles mine like a protective outer shell.

It’s me he thinks is perfect.

And then he begins to move, and I suspect he’s trying to hold himself back for me, but each shunt is so impossibly, wonderfully invasive as his length drags against sensitive, unmapped parts of me, stretching me taut as he plunders and takes.

The sounds he’s making each time he bottoms out are low and male and raw, and that’s it, really. It’s the rawness that gets me—of his noises, of mine, of the implausibly close fit between us, of the wet slurp of lube as my body sucks him in with reckless greed.

This is carnal and sweaty; he’s fucking me properly now, with deliberate, thorough strokes, and my cock is jerking and weeping, and every time he bottoms out with that blunt, devastating crown of his, he feeds the delicious, staggering ache that’s building and building.

I’ve wanked off as much as the next person. I’ve had as much sex as the next person. But to imagine I thought Claudia’s slim fingers back there were an indulgence—it’s laughable. This is what my body was made for, and my body has always, always known that, always wanted it, yearned for it, dreamed of it, even when I was denying and repressing every urge.

This isn’t just fullness—it’s oneness and plentitude and holiness. And when he braces himself on one trembling arm and reaches around, wrapping his hand around my cock and giving it the home it’s been craving, the heat inside my body finds its outlet and that oneness, impossibly, expands.

Max’s dick inside my body and his hand on my dick is the best, most righteous, most powerful circuit I’ve ever experienced, and I let him know exactly that with my grunts and my full-body tremors and the shuddery gasps that get half swallowed up by the pounding of the rain on my concrete balcony.

Somewhere, I’ve stopped fearing these invasive thrusts and started demanding them, with greedy ruts against him every time he bottoms out. I’m a live wire, vibrating with need around him, splayed open and raw and wholly at his mercy for the orgasm that’s shimmering so beautifully, so promisingly, on the horizon that I can scarcely believe I’ll earn it.

So I do the only thing I’m capable of, the only thing I know he’ll respond to.

I beg.

‘Please.’ I’m fevered, suspended somewhere between awestruck and broken. ‘God, please.’

‘He’s praying. That seems like a good sign.’ Max’s voice may be jagged with effort, but it’s still honeyed and superior and sardonic, and every submissive, eager-to-please part of my soul strains towards it.

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