58. Dex

He's so still. So entirely sure of himself. So commanding, without raising his voice or a finger. And it makes me want to put myself in his hands. Literally. Metaphorically. Emotionally. Spiritually, because I will give him my fucking soul if he wants it.

There's a smudge of colour high on his cheekbones, like the sun kissed him very recently, and I wonder how he managed to sunbathe during the work-week.

His forearms are taut, so taut, beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his slubbed linen shirt, and I can't stop myself from wondering how it would feel to have one of them banded around my throat as he tugged on my cock, laughingly and tauntingly and mercilessly.

His eyes are so blue they terrify me, because they possess none of the molasses-soft subterfuge of dark eyes. There's nowhere to hide when those eyes are on you.

And they're on me now, and that stillness is quite extraordinary. I made my move, and he's made his, and now he's waiting for me to raise or fold.

Whether walking straight into his arms is raising or folding, I'm unclear, which seems unwise, reckless even, with the stakes this high.

But walk I do, and I take all of one step before he's rushing forward to meet me, to yank me close, to band that arm around me and plaster me against his hard body, to grip my hair so brutally my eyes prick, and to finally, finally kiss me.

Our kiss in the shower was very specifically that of two people about to shoot their load. This is less angry but by no means less urgent. It's not a slow getting-to-know-you kiss; it's a pressing kiss with lips dragging and teeth clashing and tongues invading and breath coming in hurried gasps and hot, uneven pants.

I'm dizzy with relief at getting my hands on him, because I couldn't remember, I couldn't fuckingremember, exactly how it had felt when he destroyed my mouth with his tongue or bitten down on my lip.

But this is so much better, because I'm not paralysed with horror or self-loathing or real-time denial. I'm an active participant, giving as good as I get, frantic with need and no fucking clue where to start.

He chuckles into my needy mouth, against my lapping tongue, before breaking our kiss so he can wrench my head to one side, his lever a fistful of my hair. ‘You certainly did a one-eighty,' he observes tauntingly, his teeth dragging against my neck as he cups my arse and grinds our dicks together through our trousers, and it is so unspeakably, gloriously arousing that I might come in my boxers like a fucking fifteen year old.

‘Can't help it,' I gasp, clawing at his shoulders, wriggling in his arms. ‘When you touch me, I nearly pass out.'

It's true. I'm unmoored like this; I am absolutely not in control of my emotions or responsible for my actions. He's frying my brain with his clean-smelling skin and his greedy kisses, and when he puts his capable, confident hands on me, I am dead.

Dead.

I want them to never, ever leave my body.

My own hands are equally desperate. I get one under his shirt and press my palm flush against the arc of his lower back. Of all the things I've mourned this week, one was certainly the wasted opportunity last Wednesday represented. I was naked in a fucking shower with him, for God's sake, and I was so busy clutching my pearls that I barely did anything.

I've spent the past few days cataloging those memories, attempting to stuff what's far too ephemeral into a mental treasure chest. But mostly, I just remember fleeting moments.

That astonishing sideways view of his wet body as we stood almost shoulder to shoulder against the tiles, Darcy's hands moving our dicks in tandem and our hips rutting into her touch. The anchor of his thumb on my lip. Inside my mouth. The devastation of his praise. Just as perfect as I thought. That's something I know will never leave me.

But none of it was enough, none of it touched the sides of this yawning chasm of need he's conjured within me. So I'll take skin on skin however I can. Wet or dry, I don't care, though God, if he was to drag me into a shower, I know I'd never fucking leave.

Happily, he seems to be on the same page. ‘Strip,' he orders, pushing away from me and running quick fingers over his shirt, sliding buttons through their buttonholes with elegant efficiency. ‘I want to see you strip for me.'

I'm less elegant, less efficient, my motor skills as pathetically compromised as the rest of my brain function, but I cross my arms and pull my polo shirt over my head just as Max slides his shirt off his shoulders. And then it's a flurry of movements, of yanking belt buckles open and tugging at zippers and pushing trousers and boxer briefs down and, in my case, getting my socks off, until we're standing, naked and erect and breathing hard, in the middle of this light-filled room.

I've never wanted anyone like this, where I want every single thing all at once. I want my tongue, his tongue, in every conceivable nook, I want his hands around my dick and pulling my hair and squeezing my arse and pinching my nipples, and I want to do the same to him. It's all-consuming and a little paralysing, this blind fucking hunger, so it's a relief when he, predictably, takes charge.

‘Don't move,' he orders. He turns and strides, godlike, across the kitchen, pulling one of the tall cabinets open so hard the bottles stacked on the door shudder and clink. Then he's returning with a large jar in his hand and unscrewing the lid as I gape at lines of muscle that would make Da Vinci ache.

‘Coconut oil,' I say faintly. Of course.

‘Extra virgin, naturally,' he says with a wink, and I grin despite myself. Evil bastard. But my grin fades when he scoops a load out and smears it between his hands. A step forward has him toe-to-toe with me, so he can reach for my dick with one richly oiled palm and his dick with the other, daubing them with firm, sure strokes that have me instantly making throaty sounds I have no business making as he chuckles at what a total fucking pushover I am.

And then impossibly, wonderfully, he nestles my dick next to his in his palm and I marvel at the heat of him before he closes his hand around us and grabs at the back of my neck. I'm opening for him before he even pushes his tongue into my mouth. I will open up everything, everywhere, for this man, if it means feeling like this and calling his oil-coated hand and cock home.

His hand is as brutal as it was the other day in my office, but his dick is pulsing next to mine and it's all so unctuous, the oil softening the impact of his grip, and I want to die from the sensory sublimity of it all.

He allows me a few strokes like that, indulging my agonised morse-code groans of ahh-ahh-ahh into his mouth, and I think he might let me come like this, in the silken grip of his hand with our crowns pressing up against each other's pelvic bones and my fingers clawing at his shoulders, his back, his hair, but instead he releases my mouth and our dicks and I'm hauled across the kitchen with one hand on my shoulder and the other around the jar of coconut oil.

‘Brace your hands on the fridge,' he commands, and I want to weep at the joy of it all, because how many times, when I'm close to orgasm and fantasy bleeds into my consciousness, have I wished and prayed for someone to order me to do this so they can use me and defile me and render me utterly fucking useless for anything that's not this?