Page 123 of Unstitch

The first time I came here, a woman bewitched me.

The second time, a man cast a spell on me from which I will never recover.

And now, all these times later, the timid, jumpy version of myself who first crossed this threshold is unrecognisable. I stand here, one lover blowing me, and as I cradle his head in my hands and bask in his onslaught while I watch the coquettish antics of my other lover on stage.

Just when I think my evening can’t improve more from the very fucking low base of my father’s reaction, Darcy spots me. Us. The two women who were blocking Max and me from her view move away, and I see the second she finds me before her gaze drops to Max’s head and shoulders.

She gives me a wonderful Dita-Von-Teese-style smile, a curvature of her scarlet lips, before spotting what Max is doing and full-on breaking character for a second with an epic jaw-drop. She quickly recovers and blows us a saucy kiss before resuming a precarious crab-like pose, arched over the glass.

I drag my fingers through Max’s hair in approval, because fuck is his mouth a wicked, wicked thing, and shudder with pleasure. It’s only the second time he’s done this to me, and I suspect the lessons he intends to impart is very different from the ones he taught me in my office.

You’re mine now.

You made the right choice.

I promise it’s worth it.

I’ve got you.

It’s not romantic. It’s not intended to be. He’s devouring me, tongue swirling and cheeks hollowed as he caresses my balls and trails a decisive fingertip along my taint. As usual, he makes it feel like he’s doing this for himself, that he’s taking rather than giving, using me rather than indulging me.

It’s as if, when he sees fit to milk me dry, it’ll be imperiously, for his own pleasure, and I’ll come on demand because he’s declared it so, and that very arrogance, the entitlement with which he plays my body, knowing precisely how I’ll respond, has my senses heightening and my inhibitions fading and that sublime heat in my dick building.

Darcy’s torn down whatever veil she usually maintains between her and the audience, as her performance takes on a new edge. It’s less playful, more hungry, as if she wants to contribute to my growing ecstasy, to feed my senses right alongside Max. As if my arousal is fuelling hers.

She faces the crowd and spreads her legs right there for us, her nipple tassels swaying, and God. I can’t wait to lay her on a bed and feast on her and make those little pink nipples feel all better.

Keeping my eyes open is growing arduous, or it would be if my favourite little tease wasn’t putting on one hell of a show for us. She bites down on her bottom lip and slides her hand under the front of her thong, which is taking things further than she usually does.

Everyone cheers her on.

But she doesn’t take her eyes off me.

Max has ramped up his pace as if he can wait no longer for me to blow, as if my holding off any further is a personal affront. I groan aloud, the noise vibrating in my throat before being swallowed up by the music, and let him know with the dig of my fingertips into the base of his skull just how close I am.

When the intoxicating wetness and clever pulls of his perfect mouth tug me all the way under, I yield, head back, eyes squeezed shut, my body subsumed by wave after crashing wave of violent pleasure. He wrings every drop from me and I stand there, in the centre of a sex club, taking it all and wondering how an act that should apparently be a new moral low for me can be quite such a spectacular high.

I’m suddenly, horrifyingly aware of wolf-whistling and cat-calling around me and jerk my head upright and my eyes open. Surely they’re not applauding me and Max?

But no. They’re applauding a soaking wet and brightly smiling Darcy, who’s leapt down from her kinky glass bath and is shimmying off the stage and forging a path straight to us.

84

DARCY

There is no way I’m letting my boys love each other like that and not muscling in on the action.

No way in hell.

Max is getting unsteadily to his feet when I reach them. The group of guys next to them is applauding me, and I see one of them do a double take when he gets a look at Max’s face. Probably finance bros. But I’m not interested in random dudes, because tonight I’ve broken the house rules for my guys. I may be soaking wet and sudsy from the waist down, but that doesn’t stop me from launching myself at them in front of the whole club.

Dex is all orgasm-flushed and dopily shellshocked—he’s the guy who just woke up married in Vegas and is still too drunk to care how the fuck it happened. I throw my arms around his neck and jump on him, and he laughs out an oof as my cold, wet body collides with his softening dick. Max helps me get my legs around Dex so I’m wrapped around him like a koala and presses up behind me.

A Darcy sandwich. My favourite thing.

‘Shit, you’re soaking,’ Max drawls, but he sounds amused.

‘No change there,’ I tell him, turning my head to accept his kiss before I bury my face in Dex’s neck. ‘So did you do it?’

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