Page 63 of Unstitch

‘You’re doing so well,’ he tells me. ‘Fuck, look how hard you’ve made her come with your big, beautiful dick. Now take what you need. Fuck that greedy little cunt of hers and take something for yourself.’

I nod to myself. I’m delirious. Yeah. I’m going to take—I need to—I’m?—

Right as my body releases its orgasm with all the violence of a catapult, Max lowers his face to my shoulder and bites me hard through the fabric of my shirt, so hard his teeth may well have found naked flesh. The pain is shocking and excruciating and intrusive, and it’s fucking petrol on the flames of my orgasm.

It’s less that I come than that my orgasm happens to me, like an explosion that rips through everything in its path, sparing nothing and leaving in its wake total oblivion.

That’s how I feel as my climax subsumes me, annihilating time and space and sending me spinning through a vacuum as my physical being empties itself shudderingly into the condom, leaving an exhausted, stupified shell of a man.

43

MAX

It seems mine is the only brain in the room capable of adulting.

Dex slumps forward, head drooping, as soon as I release his shoulder from my teeth and his arms from my grip. Darcy’s lying on the bed, trying to catch her breath, looking for all the world like stars are spinning around her head like a cartoon halo.

That’s what I call a thoroughly fucking successful threesome.

I tuck my dick up hastily, stuffing my shirt tails back into my trousers but leaving my belt undone, and walk around to the head of the bed so I can untie Darcy’s wrists. I release one hand and rub it between mine, but it’s nice and warm, which is excellent. A knee on the bed and a bit of a stretch and I’ve got the second one loosened, too.

She raises them in the air and instantly makes a grab for the back of Dex’s head.

‘That was fucking unbelievable,’ he murmurs to her, his voice soft and adoring and still slurred with the aftermath of his violent orgasm. She whispers something laughingly back, and he crouches as far as he can over her without getting the front of his shirt covered in my cum, kissing her with what a less cynical man would call ardour.

‘Wait there—I’ll get a cloth,’ I order them both, striding through to the ensuite bathroom and cranking up the mixer above the washbasin.

I was definitely Billy No Mates in that scenario just then, but that was the idea. Tonight was about getting Dex to sample Darcy’s delights, getting him so hooked on her that he won’t be capable of declining next time we offer.

And, while it may also have been about acclimatising him to my presence, to having the three of us fool around together, it most certainly wasn’t about making a move on him, or suggesting he should succumb to me in more ways than simply fulfilling my instructions for how he should touch Darcy, or doing the remotest thing that might scare him off.

All of which means there is no room in the slightest for the pleasing effect the lingering taste of laundered cotton in my mouth has on me.

And there certainly wasn’t any room for that bite.

I wonder what he thought of it. I wonder if he’s telling himself it was uncalled-for. Unfair. Unwanted. I wonder if he has any clue, any clue at all, how much pent-up desire, how much utter savagery, I left on the table.

I wonder if he has the slightest inkling of how lightly he got away, because that bite was a fucking drop in the endless ocean of the things I wanted to do to him in there. The things I wanted to show him. Teach him.

Make him fucking feel.

He gives me nothing. He gives me so little, in fact, that I’m absolutely certain his disinterest is studied. Most of the group sex I’ve had has yielded a certain level of camaraderie, if you like, among the men involved, even if there’s no guy-on-guy action. I know he’s uptight and conservative, but the only encouraging reactions he had to me were the involuntary ones.

The way my teeth sinking into his flesh had him hurtling towards an even stronger orgasm.

The looks he gave my cock, especially when I was coming over Darcy. I didn’t miss them, and I didn’t miss their meaning. Disbelief. Longing. But more like a longing he didn’t permit himself.

As if it was a weakness he was ashamed of.

I would bet every pound I have that his reaction to me is far more than that of a first-timer in a threesome. Because, even if he’s a spineless little liar, those beautiful tiger eyes of his don’t lie.

They don’t lie at all.

I rinse the washcloth under the hot water and wring it out more viciously than necessary before composing myself, grabbing a dry hand towel too and returning to the lovebirds. A man less kinky and less open-minded than me would have a fit if he saw his girlfriend like this with another man.

I’m less jealous than wistful, because Dex is a closed book with me, and an open one with her, and I wonder, I just wonder, how it feels to be Darcy in this moment. To have him still inside you, to have come together, to have him gaze at you through his lashes like that, as if your mere existence and ability to deliver a pretty orgasm is worthy of great wonderment.

And yet I can’t look away, because Dex’s orgasm wasn’t endgame for me tonight—it was merely a turning point. Because where he was first suspicious and conflicted, and then needy and hungry, he’s now relaxed and smiling and unguarded, and an unguarded Dex is a specimen I wish to study, to feast on, very much indeed.

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