53. Dex

Time stops, but I'm not even embarrassed, because I'm too fixated on calculating the odds that he'll do as I ask. There's a twenty percent chance he pulls down my flies and jerks me off with ruthless, angry strokes, I estimate, and an eighty percent chance he laughs in my face.

After all, it would be the perfect revenge. Arouse me into confessing that I'm a cowardly little bullshitter and then walk off and leave me, hard and leaking, humbled and mortified, in my place of work.

His face clears, and he looks for all the world like a proud parent whose kid has finally figured how to pee in the fucking potty. ‘All you had to do was ask,' he says softly, before releasing my cock and sliding my zip down slowly, carefully over my swollen dick.

The sound I make when his fingers find my bare, taut skin through the flap in my boxer briefs is shuddering and shameful and fragile and raw, and I'm powerless to stop it, because Max has my dick in his hand and I'm trembling with the beautiful, wondrous, disbelief of it all.

‘I don't make a habit of doing this,' he says. His tone is conversational, but he's watching my face closely, and for a moment I think he'll kiss me. ‘I don't make a habit of it at all, in fact, so you'd better appreciate it.'

I don't quite understand what he's getting at until he proceeds to drop elegantly to one knee, and then to both, his hand still a warm seal around my shaft.

‘Oh my God,' I say. ‘Oh my God. You don't—I didn't?—'

‘I know,' he says, and I cannot describe the experience of having him look up at me through his lashes, his lips a couple of inches from my tip. I know it's all wrong, that I should be the one kneeling at his feet right now and begging his forgiveness and showing him how laughably deluded I was, but his tongue slices through my slit, reaping my precum as it does, and my dick is flooded, literally flooded, with searing heat of the most amazing kind.

I groan again, deeply, the sound rolling up from my belly, as involuntary as breathing and the only outlet I have for this overwhelm. In response, he grips me tightly, far more tightly than Darcy did or would, I suspect, have dared. Women have a healthy respect for the fragility of this most critical of organs, I've found, but it seems men don't share that.

Max certainly doesn't, manhandling my dick in a manner that could charitably be called robust and uncharitably vicious. He squeezes; he rifles between my dick and my zip for my balls, and I swear some fabric rips.

He jerks my dick upwards, pinning it against the cold of my belt buckle as he buries his nose in the underside, sniffing hard and murmuring something unintelligible that I understand to be the basest sort of compliment. Then he licks long and hard along my vein before grazing his teeth over my crown so harshly I break out in full-body goosebumps.

And all the while I'm in survival mode, gasping and thrashing and riding out this wet, hot, carnal onslaught, taking every lick of his tongue, every drag of his teeth, every perfect slide of his lips, and, finally, every deep suck he sees fit to bestow upon me.

My world is blanketed in a man's warm, relentless mouth, and the rest of the universe can implode into subatomic matter, for all I care. I can't not touch him. I grab at his face with both hands, palms closing over his ears, my fingers clawing at his short, silky hair and earning a pleased, muffled grunt.

It seems inconceivable and yet inevitable that his mouth is as soft, as velvety, as yielding as Darcy's, even if his technique is anything but. Even less comprehensible, more wondrous, is that the mere fact of it being him has me deranged with arousal.

Forget that the man knows how to wield his mouth like a weapon.

It's just him.

Having him here.

Having him do this.

Having him want to do this.

It's the best porn I've ever, ever seen.

I'm rutting into his mouth, my orgasm building from my feet upwards, spreading like I'm walking into a sea of molten lava. I release his head—there is no place in this time-space continuum where Max Hunter swallows—and tilt my head back, squeezing my eyes closed and interlacing my fingers behind my neck as I brace for what I know will be total fucking annihilation.

‘I'm close,' I pant. ‘I'm so close. Jesus, you've got to—you can move?—'

But he harrumphs his displeasure at that idea and keeps sucking, his soft, strong lips a perfect seal around my shaft, his tongue laving me with indecent gusto.

Behind my tightly shut eyes, the black turns purple and orange and red. Angry colours. Violent colours. My toes curl in their sensible loafers. The trembling of my entire body could register on the Richter scale. My fingernails threaten to draw blood on the back of my neck, and I rupture one of my nearly-healed blisters with my teeth. The sour tang of blood is nothing, though, because my body ignites as though Max has doused me in petrol and tossed a lit match at me, and if this is how Hell feels, count me in.

Count me fucking in.

He works me through my orgasm with the ruthlessness of one who will be personally affronted if he doesn't wring me human jerky-levels of dry. And when I'm softening and pulsing in his mouth, he cleans me with his tongue. I stare down at him, shattered and reborn, as he sits back on his heels and carefully tucks me in.

It's only when he's zipped me up and got to his feet that he looks me in the eye. ‘How do you feel?' he asks with the detached concern of a drill sergeant who's watched you puke your guts up from exertion and wants to make sure you've got it all out of your system before he sends you on your way.

I laugh a little, because it's impossible to articulate how I feel, physically or emotionally. ‘I don't know. Devastated. Euphoric. Fuck knows.'

He's hard, though. I know that much. Really, really hard, like he's got a rolling pin stuck down those impeccably tailored trousers.

‘Do you…' I ask, gesturing feebly at his crotch. I don't know what I'm asking, and I certainly don't know if I'm remotely capable of following up on any implied favour I may propose.

Amusement flashes across his otherwise deadpan face. No one knows better than Max how pathetically ill-prepared I'd be to deliver on that vaguest of offers. ‘The only thing I want you to do is process,' he tells my mouth, and I find myself wishing he would kiss me, even once. I want him to brush his dick-swollen lips over mine. I want to taste myself on him.

‘Process,' I repeat stupidly.

‘Process.' He taps my temple. ‘Tell yourself some hard facts. Meanwhile, you're going to go and splash some cold water on your face, and I'll sit here and have a gander at this research—if my gut is right, it should cure me of any residual hard-on by around page five.'

I laugh a little. ‘I'm confident it'll deliver,' I say shakily.

‘Good. Take your time. I'll be gone when you get back—I can see myself out.'

I nod, deflating more quickly than an unknotted balloon. I feel needy and squirmy and flayed wide open.

‘Oh, and Dex.' He smooths an errant lock of hair away from his face, and I find myself wishing I had thought to do that for him. ‘I'll tell Darcy you're recovering from your little hissy fit. Come and have dinner with us on Friday night at mine. I'll send you the details.' He turns and picks up the weighty research report, pulling out the chair his jacket is strewn over.

I hesitate, watching him sit gingerly down and cover his erection with the report.

He looks up, eyebrow arched, and sighs. ‘It's not a request.'