Page 68 of Unstitch

‘My turn now,’ she says, and we protest in unison. No, absolutely not. Rest up. Let us wash you. But our words fall on the deaf ears of a woman with all the second wind of a kid who’s trapped in a sweet shop and won’t stop gorging herself until her body makes the decision for her.

‘Up against the wall,’ she says bossily, still wearing the ear-to-ear grin of a thoroughly satisfied woman. ‘Both of you.’

I exchange a look with Max, uneasy at my end and amused at his, before we submit and collapse against the still-cool slab of marble. I tilt my head back and take this opportunity out of the spray for a full inhale and exhale.

‘Holy fucking Christ,’ Darcy says, face flushed and wet hair plastered to her shoulders and breasts, eyes dancing between us. ‘I just found my new screensaver.’

That elicits an appalled laugh from me, Max guffawing far more heartily.

‘Don’t even think about it unless you want a good spanking,’ he says.

She raises her eyebrows. ‘And that’s supposed to be a deterrent? Just look at you both. I could spend all evening on my knees—I’m not kidding.’

I groan at that and risk a glance at Max. His head is back, Adam’s apple jumping as he watches Darcy, all wet, starry lashes and dark, predatory gaze. He and I are almost shoulder to shoulder, and though he has an inch or two on me—in height, I mean—we’re not dissimilar.

I’m darker skinned than him, even with his golden playboy tan in full effect, but we’re both long and lean. Athletic builds. Our arms hang loose, our dicks at full mast.

We’re all aesthetes. I can appreciate the objective physical beauty of the male form as much as the next person. And Max is a man in fine shape. But more marked than that is his enviable demeanour. He saunters and swaggers, he dominates and demands. The man doesn’t have a self-conscious bone in his body. That much is obvious, and it’s magnetic.

Darcy steps between us, a mischievous smile on her face. ‘I’ve suddenly stopped caring that my parents never took us to Disneyland.’

‘Instead you’re in Dickneyland,’ Max quips, and I shake my head because that is lame as fuck. But Darcy’s laughing like he’s Michael fucking McIntyre.

‘Dickneyland. Oh my God!’

‘Come and sit on Uncle Mickey’s lap like a good girl,’ he says, and I snort. Creepy twat.

‘It’s not your lap I want to sit on,’ she retorts, and then she’s pumping the shower gel dispenser next to Max, and wrapping her warm, soaped-up hands around each of our dicks, and we both shut up and groan in unison, because if she wants to make us both come again, we’re not stupid enough to stop her.

I watch in horrified fascination as she pumps us both with slow, deliberate strokes. Our soapy, swollen crowns disappear and reappear over and over, and I’ve given up all pretence of not watching. With every skilful stroke, helpless arousal roils through me.

‘Fuck, this is hot,’ she says. I couldn’t agree more, but the heat of the situation comes not from her deft handiwork or her undeniable beauty but the fact that we’re both using her, both fucking her fists, our hips moving in sync as we arch away from the tiles to rut into her hands.

‘Let Dex finish in your mouth like a good little whore,’ Max tells her through gritted teeth, the audible effort of forming words not detracting from the command in his voice. ‘He’s only fucked one of your holes tonight.’

I’m opening my mouth to protest—no, no way; she’s done enough tonight; she’s not a whore—when Darcy shivers.

‘Oh my God, yes,’ she says with a groan. ‘Will you pull my hair and make him fuck my mouth?’

‘Fuck, yeah,’ he shudders out. ‘Get on your knees.’

I step forward under the spray so I can wash the soap off my cock, dizzy with want, because she’s going to suck it and he’s going to watch and pull the strings, both of our strings, and Jesus Christ, this is every level of depraved and I don’t know what these two are doing to me and I couldn’t fucking stop it if I tried.

Darcy gets to her knees right under the jet of water, and it’s pouring over her head and bouncing off her shoulders, and she looks so exquisite with her blue eyes closed and her wet mouth open and her hands on my quads and her small, pink tongue darting out to catch my dick, to flicker over my crown and then try again when it jerks like a puppy on a leash.

And while her handjob was world class, her mouth is a lavish, sensory feast against my poor, swollen flesh, all heat and silk. Max steps right up behind her, nudging her knees apart so he can stand between them, his hands raking her hair back into a sodden, coppery bridle that he wraps around one hand, and suddenly I’m no longer looking at Darcy.

His face is no more than a foot from mine, and I’m staring straight into his implausibly, absurdly blue eyes as he winds her hair tighter. He uses his rein to impale her mouth further onto my cock, her mmph muffled and her hands coming around to grip my arse tight as my sensitive tip hits the back of her sweet mouth.

And I know, I just know, that when he clenches his jaw and flares his nostrils in frustrated fury, it’s a direct result of the anguish, the ecstasy, he sees written on my face. I jerk my gaze downwards, at the beautiful, amazing woman giving me this pleasure and away from the man presuming to be her puppeteer.

‘It’s so amazing, angel,’ I croon, caressing her temple, her jaw, her shoulders. ‘You’re incredible.’

But fuck. He has his monstrous cock in his other hand, right beside her head, and he’s jerking himself off with jagged, impatient strokes, and I freeze at the sight of it, of the water sluicing over it. At the size of it. The power.

‘Look at me,’ he barks, and I can only blame the alchemy Darcy’s wreaking on my brain chemistry for the fact that I obey without a moment’s delay.

‘Keep going like that, sweetheart,’ he tells her without taking his eyes off me. ‘You’re letting him fuck your mouth so well.’

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