63. Dex

Max is hard and lean and uncompromising. He's fucking relentless, and while this evening has confirmed for me just how much I love being on the receiving end of that relentlessness, I'm craving an antidote.

And that antidote is Darcy, with her soft curves and her easy smile and the sensual sway of her hips. She's a pre-Raphaelite painting come to life in the most contemporary, irreverent way, and my need to worship her is just as visceral as the need I feel to impose my authority on her.

I feel no vulnerability with Darcy. I don't feel flayed open by her the way I do when Max puts his eyes on me. Two people, both blue-eyed, both so vastly, vastly different. And they're both on the sofa in front of me, Darcy reclining in the cradle of Max's body, winched right open for me.

My performance, therefore, is as much for him as for her. Her eyes are closed; his are steadfastly on me. I want him to see my mouth on her pussy and wish it was on his dick. I want him to feel the aftershocks of her pleasure vibrate through his body as though they were his own.

I want this extraordinary, radical thing we're doing to bloom into something that's so much more than the sum of its parts.

Her body, though.

Satin skin, silken flesh. The way he has her trussed up, those long fingers that brought me such pleasure earlier toying so imperiously with her breasts. My tongue cuts through her core in a single exploratory sweep, and she arches into my touch with the breathiest, most blissed-out little moan.

‘Look at your mouth on her,' Max says, his voice gravelly. ‘Fuck, look at your perfect tongue on her pussy. Hold her open, why don't you, so she can feel every single lick you give her?'

A week ago, the sound of his entitled narration would have filled me with an emotion I'd probably have called irritation. I would have told myself it was bothersome, all the while allowing his voice to fuel that rush it gave me.

But now, I can't get enough. There's no conflict. Now, his filthy voiceover spurs me on, makes me more determined to reap unthinkable pleasure from Darcy's spectacular body. It's a golden thread, weaving itself into this rich, complex tapestry the three of us are creating together.

So I grunt my approval against her flesh, and I inhale the addictive essence of her, and I do as he says. I use my fingers to part her delicate lips, to pin them back like butterfly wings so I can sample her. Tease her. Drive her to distraction.

And it works. The sounds she's making are unabashed and wonderful. She writhes in Max's arms as he massages her breasts and tugs at her nipples and as I go to work on her.

I tongue-fuck her a couple of times, because the sensation of her wet heat gripping my tongue is out of this fucking world, and I lick along her delicate layers, and I roll her swelling clit around like it's a national sport, and all the time I'm growing impossibly harder, and Max's voice is growing more honeyed, more intoxicating, winding its tendrils around my consciousness.

Just like that, yes.

See what a slut she is? She fucking loves having one of us at each end like this.

I hope you're making that cunt nice and wet for your cock, because she's going to need it.

Drive her crazy. I want her begging. I want her fucking unhinged. Jesus, her nipples are so greedy.

Darcy's not the only one getting audibly more tightly wound in the face of my and Max's takes on lingual onslaughts. I'm devouring her more hungrily, more noisily, grunting against her as I slide my tongue inside her once more and rub my nose against her clit.

‘She's going to come,' I mutter, coming up for air.

‘Yes she is,' Max says. ‘She's going to come because she loves having both of us working her, and because she knows in a few minutes she'll be lying between us, so full of dick she'll never be the same again. Do it.'

And I do. I drive two fingers inside her wet heat in the most vivid foreshadowing of where my dick will be shortly, and I lave at her clit like a starving man, and she pushes against my tongue and my fingers, practically sobbing with the need for release until Max turns her head and swallows her cries with frantic kisses.

And as she unravels, with full-body convulsions and kiss-strangled moans, I marvel at the extraordinary honour of undoing her.

I lick her until her shudders have subsided and she's slumped in Max's arms, and then I press a kiss to her pelvic bone and straighten up. She turns her head and opens her eyes and sees me grinning at her. Watching her. I must look enraptured, because she strokes Max's arms and he helps her to sit up.

I lean forward on my knees and kiss her. I kiss her so she can taste her own perfection and so she can understand what she does to me. How new and mesmerising and transcendent it is for me to be a passenger on these inner journeys she takes.

Max oofs behind her, presumably because she's shifted on his dick. ‘Let's move into the bedroom,' he says.

Yes.

I need to be on a bed, fully naked, with this man and this woman.

Finally.

His eyes meet mine as though he understands the significance for me, for Darcy, for all of us, of what he just said. As though he wants to make sure I'm still onboard.

‘You want to go to the bedroom?' I ask Darcy, cupping her face and peppering it with kisses.

Her blue eyes meet mine, and she nods. She still looks spaced out, which I guess is a good thing. Because I know I want nothing more than for Max and I to be inside her body.

Together.