Page 11 of Unstitch

She’s there. She comes like the well-bred, well-educated girl she is, with just the right amount of ecstatic whimpering. Enough to make me feel like a porn star; not enough to disturb the neighbours. As soon as she’s come down, I give a last, long lick—delicious—and help her up to sitting. She wraps her arms and legs around me and I carry her like that through to my bedroom and drop her on the bed.

I have to say, she makes a lovely sight against my crisp white sheets. Naked and long-limbed and bronzed, eyes still glassy and filled with appreciation as she watches me unbutton my shirt as quickly as my compromised fine motor skills will allow. I get the shirt off and make quick work of my trousers and boxer briefs, and then I’m tugging open the drawer of my bedside table and pulling out a little foil square.

Condom on, I crawl over her, enjoying the outright awe on her face at the sight of my cock, fully sheathed and ready for utter fucking oblivion inside the body of this beautiful, lithe woman. I lower myself so I can kiss her. Slowly. Indulgently. I want her to taste her own arousal on my mouth, taste how honey-sweet she is.

Then, with an arm wrapped firmly around her, I flip us over so she’s sprawled perfectly on top of me. ‘Give me one last show,’ I whisper, and her face flickers with understanding and—possibly—the thrill of a challenge. There’s no way this competitive little power player can resist picking up that baton: the challenge to make her own mark on my memory.

We’re not dissimilar, Claudia and me.

She pushes herself up, treating me to the immensely gratifying sight of her hovering right above my cock. How this woman holds down such rigorous workout and waxing and blow-drying schedules on top of Clifford fucking Chance, I have no earthly clue, but she’s in spectacular shape. I’m sure she views every stray body hair and ounce of subcutaneous body fat as a personal affront to her self-discipline.

Whatever demons propel her forward, I’m here for the results, because she’s wrapping her long, slim fingers reverently around my dick like it’s a fucking Oscar and lowering that hot, primed pussy down, down, until my tip is in, and I groan-laugh because it feels so fucking good.

‘Fuck, yes,’ I hiss, running my hands up her toned thighs. The sight of her above me has me wondering how long I can hold off before I shoot my load. Her tits are small and so perfect. I want to sit up and take one pebbled little nipple between my teeth and roll my tongue around it, but a larger part wants to lie here and give her as much leverage as possible so she can drag those impeccable internal muscles up and down my poor, swollen, aching cock.

Happily for me, Claudia’s as much of an overachiever in bed as she is at work, and she milks me perfectly. We find a rhythm, and I interlace my fingers behind my head and grit my teeth as I drive up as hard as I can with each thrust. She’s into it; she’s half lost in the chase of her own bliss. She reaches behind and cups my balls, and holy fucking Christ.

I’m close. Close enough to lose most remaining inhibitions. Most of my pride. Most of my decency. ‘Do that thing, baby,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘With your finger.’ I screw my eyes closed for a second, because I hate asking for it as much as I love getting it.

I’d like to say at this point that it was she who started this. It wasn’t my idea, but she did it off her own bat one night, and I practically shot off the fucking bed. It’s an important distinction in my head.

I open my eyes, and she smiles like she’s pleased I asked her for something. For this one last sexual favour. And then she releases my balls and sucks her finger into her mouth seductively before reaching back again and breaching that tight ring of muscle that guards what is always, or at least ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time, strictly an exit hole for me. It’s only in these brief moments of arousal so extreme I lose my fucking mind that it’s an entrance hole. It’s only in this fleeting abyss between sanity and insanity that I allow myself to acknowledge the deep, clawing hunger I feel to have this hole breached and filled and violated and?—

As she works her finger in and out of my arse and my dick in and out of her pussy, the hazy form of my impending orgasm gathers mass. Takes shape. Burns brighter. Sharper. This time, I squeeze my eyes even more tightly closed. I don’t see the beautiful woman undulating on top of me during a New York sunset as she rides my cock. I don’t offer her the connection I know she must crave in these final moments together.

Instead, I’m somewhere else entirely.

I’m—God help me—in one of the shower cubicles at the Goldman gym. I’m standing facing the wall, palms flat on the cool tiles, the torrent of water like a baptism.

There’s a guy there. At work. I don’t know who he is, or where he works. Somewhere on the Macro trading floor, I think. Fixed Income, maybe? I’ve seen him get off the elevator on the forty-ninth floor a couple of times.

He’s huge.

He’s ripped.

And he gives me looks, sometimes.

Looks that?—

Never mind.

But right now, as Claudia’s finger crooks inside me and my cock bottoms out inside her, over and over again, Gym Guy is standing behind me. His skin is so fucking soaked, and his huge palm is an anchor across my stomach, and I can actually feel his chest muscles contracting against my shoulder blades, and it’s the second best thing I’ve ever, ever felt, because the best thing is without a doubt the burning, excruciating epiphany that is his huge, hard cock, pumping into the most shameful, secret, filthy place in my body from behind, over and over and over until I’m in danger of screaming the whole fucking place down and his free hand clamps over my mouth.

When I come, deep within the body of the beautiful woman who’s let me inside her, it’s not her finger back there. And it’s not her face emblazoned on my mind’s eye.

Thank God I’ll never have to see that guy again.

Because the stuff I’ve imagined with him, with others, makes the sin of fucking willing, available women look like the faintest of stains on my eternal soul.

I may have made uneasy peace with the knowledge that the purity culture I was brought up with is bullshit at best and dangerous at worst.

But that? That’s a sin I will always, always rage against with every fibre of my self-control.

9

DARCY

When I say my sister’s South of France wedding is an operation, I mean it’s an Eras Tour-level operation. We’re talking insane amounts of logistics and expense. But the weird thing is that neither Gen nor Anton have seemed particularly stressed by it.

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