37. Darcy

Kissing Dex is a balm, a walk in the rain, a sensory bubble of self-indulgence. Max is all agenda, all the time, and it's the thing that gets me hottest: knowing he wants to use and abuse me; knowing he's taking and taking. It makes me crazy in the best way.

But if Max is happiest when everyone is kneeling at his feet in worshipful submission, I suspect Dex is happiest when worshipping. That's not to say he's submissive. The way he's kissing me isn't an act of submission. He's consuming me, devouring me.

It's just my way of suggesting that his agenda in this moment is me. This isn't a power play for him (unlike other people I know). It's an act of veneration. He's treasuring this kiss, this opportunity to learn me.

I sometimes wonder if part of the attraction for Max is knowing everyone out there wants me and he can have me. I don't mind if it is, because the same part of me that gets off on being used also gets off on being his sparkly little trophy. The pretty doll in the music box who spins at his command and is his to defile. That dynamic does it for me every single time.

That distance I put between me and the audience is powerful and heady and addictive, and I'm a shameless little whore for all the praise Max lavishes on me after those performances, but the way Dex is touching me grounds me, because it makes me feel seen—seen as a flesh-and-blood woman and not some kind of toy.

And that sensation of being cherished is something I didn't know I needed until now.

Also:

I can't believe they're both here!

When they showed up at the door in their twin work uniforms, they looked so staggeringly hot I nearly died. I'm genuinely gobsmacked that Max managed to get Dex in here. I'm even more amazed that Dex is going for it with me.

Judging by the heat in those amazing eyes of his when he walked into the room and saw me in just my costume, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Even if this is just a one-time thing for the three of us, I intend to take every single second of everything these guys are willing to give me. I've wanted a threesome for so long, but a threesome with Max and Dex is like insane.

And now Dex's tongue is in my mouth, and his hands are everywhere on my body, and he's actually trembling as his erection pushes against my pubic bone, and oh my God, he might actually be aroused enough, immersed enough, to give us what we want from him tonight.

Max is clattering around somewhere behind me. ‘In your own time,' he says drily, and we pull apart like guilty teenagers. My nipples are so hard they might tear through my fifteen-denier body suit, and I'm already soaked between my legs.

Dex's dark-lashed eyes flicker over my face, glassy with need. He looks slightly shell-shocked, and it almost makes me laugh. If that's how he feels after a kiss, all I can say is, dude better brace himself.

‘You're amazing,' he murmurs, hesitantly releasing me, and I smile dreamily at him.

‘Well, that was fucking hot,' Max announces breezily as he pops a champagne cork. ‘Let's drink to playing very, very nicely together.'

I spin around. He's holding a bottle of Taittinger, and on the lacquered cabinet stands a full-on silver champagne bucket loaded with ice and three glasses.

‘Where the hell did you get that?' I ask with a laugh.

‘Stashed it earlier. Made it worth the server's time.'

I gasp. ‘You're lucky my sister isn't here. She'd kill you.'

‘Your sister is far too busy fucking my best mate right now to care. And you're the one entertaining not one, but two verboten gentleman callers in a private room.'

I snort. ‘Way to make me feel like a lady of the night.'

He pours a glass and hands it to me. ‘You are a lady of the night. You're my absolute favourite whore. And you'll be this one's favourite whore by the time the night is through, too.' He hands Dex a glass.

Dex frowns and opens his mouth to presumably defend my honour from such politically incorrect slurs, but Max beats him to it. ‘Relax. She loves it. It makes her come like a freight train when I talk to her like that. You'll see. Doesn't it, sweetheart?'

‘It does,' I confirm with a mischievous grin at Dex, and he gives me a watery smile back, like he can't believe I'm real. I don't miss the way his eyes scan my body as I slink closer to the both of them until we're standing in a cosy little triangle, flutes in hand.

Max raises his. ‘To Darcy,' he murmurs, and Dex echoes his toast while I smile coyly. Jesus. I've always been an attention whore, but come on. Having these two gods direct all their focus on me is the best feeling in the world.

Maybe not all their focus. I've seen Max cast a few sidelong glances at Dex already. Still, it's more than enough for one girl. I eye them both up idly as I sip my cold champagne. They're both tall and lean, broad shoulders counterbalanced with flat stomachs and narrow waists. They look like they should be in an ad campaign together for some fancy label like Brioni or Tom Ford. Max is in fantastic shape, and my brief grope of Dex just now tells me he's similar.

Max lifts his flute and cocks his head, examining his champagne. ‘You know,' he drawls in that manner I've come to know as studied insouciance, ‘I bet this would taste even better if we sucked it off Darcy's tits.'

Dex chokes a little on his mouthful, launching a coughing attack, and Max slaps him manfully on the back as I try not to laugh.

Poor little lamb.

He's well and truly in the lion's den now.

‘Only one way to find out,' I say, which is all the encouragement Max needs to spring into Dom mode. He sets his flute down on the cabinet and actually clicks his fingers.

‘Dex, help me.'

Wolford makes my body suits in a single piece, which is apparently some feat of circular knitting that I don't begin to understand. They have no closures, only a neckline that's slashed shoulder to shoulder. This nude-coloured version is so sheer you can't really see the neckline from a distance. It requires shimmying carefully into it, and having help to take it off is always appreciated.

I've definitely never appreciated it this much, though.

‘Tug it down from the shoulders,' I say as Dex puts his flute down and rounds me.

‘You sure about this?' he asks, hunger and concern warring in his eyes. Just as it's Max's total animalism that attracts me to him, it's the whole repressed self-denial thing that has me crazy for Dex. They both want me, but Max is all in and Dex is doing battle with his baser instincts.

I cannot wait to see him come undone, hopefully inside my body.

‘I've never been so sure of anything, believe me,' I say with a shudder.

‘And if you need any proof…' Max interjects. He slips his hand between my legs, casual as you like, and swipes two fingers through the slick mess I've made of my bodystocking before holding them out to Dex.

Dex stands there, stunned, eyes darting from Max's face to his outstretched fingers.

‘Go on,' I tell him. ‘You can taste. I trust Max completely. Anything he tells you to do to me tonight, you can do it.'

‘Tell him your safeword, sweetheart,' Max says.

The other night, things got pretty heated after our threesome chat and Max had me come up with a safe word.

I chose folklore.

No explanation needed, right?

But, as I say it to Dex and he repeats it slowly, I can tell the cultural reference is absolutely not hitting home.

‘Come on,' Max says impatiently. He puts his fingers to Dex's mouth, pushing down on his lower lip slightly, and who can blame him? It's probably the closest he'll get to Dex tonight.

Dex opens, and he doesn't exactly suck, but he lets Max put his fingers on his tongue just like someone would take their Communion wafer, and his eyes drift closed in bliss for a second. I stare at his heavy lids, the dark, feathered arcs of his lashes above his cheekbones. It should be illegal for a man to be this beautiful. Max presses down before withdrawing his fingers on a long, reluctant pull.

Then Dex opens his eyes and turns them on me, but his entire demeanour is different now. More predatory, his hunger at the fore, his luscious mouth in a grim line. It's like that split second of alone time within the orange-hued respite of his lowered lids has shifted something in him.

‘You taste like you really fucking want it,' he says, and even his voice is different. Harsher.

‘That's what I've been telling you.' I hold out my arms and try to keep my voice steady. ‘I want you to do everything you feel comfortable with.'

His capitulation comes in the form of action. With the ragged sigh of a man who knows he's crossing some line he can't un-cross, he hooks a finger under the edge of my slashed neckline. Max does the same, and together they peel my bodystocking down my arms until my boobs and stomach are exposed and the fabric is gathered at my wrists.

They kneel, as if by some unspoken agreement, pulling it off my wrists. Over my hips. Down my thighs. Max presses a kiss to my waist. The fabric's almost completely sheer, but as I look down at them, this Great Unveiling feels significant. They're quiet, gentle, their movements almost reverent. I use their shoulders for support as I step out of the suit, one leg at a time, the guys tugging the mesh over my feet in the same way a woman pulls off her stockings.

Then Max speaks, and I can tell from his tone that this is the last time they'll treat me with kid gloves this evening.