74. Dex

Max's hard body is on top of mine, his dick pressing at my entrance and his breath hot in my ear, and already tonight is perfect. Already, it's everything I could want.

His inhale, when I tell him I've never fantasised about anyone like I have with him, is sharp, almost as if I've surprised him. But he can't be surprised, can he? After all, he's the only guy who's ever spurred me into action. Though, if I'm honest with myself, it was all him. Him sticking his thumb in my mouth. Him kissing me in the shower, sucking me off in my office, of all places.

He's pushed and pushed, and I've acquiesced so begrudgingly I probably deserve a slap. Thank God he's him. Thank God he doesn't rest until he gets what he wants. Because any other man would have given up, called my bluff and left me to my bullshit and my sham heterosexuality.

‘It's only you I fantasise about,' I tell him shakily.

‘Oh, yeah?' He smears the lube wetly around my entrance once more and shunts forward, and holy fucking shit, he wedges his crown in and it's so intensely confronting and burning that I can't escape the low, anguished sound that escapes me or the instant, panicked coating of sweat that breaks out all over my body. ‘It'll get better in a sec. Tell me what you fantasise about. Stuff we've done, or stuff you want me to do to you?'

‘Both.' I grit my teeth, my entire body tensing as he presses forward a centimetre or two more, because it's so fucking huge, and, honestly, I'm scared. Maybe he should have worked me up to this a bit more.

‘Jesus, sweetheart, you've got to relax,' he says, laughing a little, though his voice is strained. ‘I promise, this is the worst bit. Now tell me what I do to you in your fantasies.'

I wish I could see him. I wish I could see us—me laid out on this bed, Max ranged over me, prodding me with his huge dick. I bet those arse muscles will really contract when he gives it to me properly. Just the thought of him moving over me like that, glutes tensing as he fucks me, is enough to cause a swell of desire within me, my cock jerking uselessly between my stomach and my sheets, and he, of course, takes the opportunity to press forward.

‘The crown's in,' he says, the relief so palpable that I wonder if he doubted he'd get it in. ‘Jesus fuck, you're so tight.'

Max's dick is partially inside my body. Oh my God. It's happening, and it's so carnal, so overwhelming, it almost steals my breath away.

‘When you got me up against your fridge,' I manage, panting out the words. ‘And you jerked me off and told me you were going to sodomise me every which way. That pretty much plays in my mind on a constant loop.

‘Huh,' he says, pleased. ‘It does, does it? Even when you're in meetings?'

‘Especially then,' I groan, and he laughs against my jaw.

‘Good boy.'

‘But when you put your thumb in my mouth in the shower and just stared at me?' I continue in my weak, shaky voice, because all the energy in my body is focused on this hot, monstrous invasion in my arse. ‘I've never felt such a crazy maelstrom of emotions as I did then. I was so fucking horrified, but it was probably the sexiest moment of my life. I'll be thinking of that on my deathbed.'

‘Oh, my sweet boy,' he mutters, rubbing his nose and mouth over my jaw, and he doesn't push in, but he does shift his hips a little, like he's preparing to do battle, preparing to forge ahead, no matter how much harder I'm making it for him with my clenching.

A surge of emotion comes, pricking at my eyes. ‘You said I was perfect,' I murmur. ‘You said something like just as perfect as I thought, and I couldn't believe a man like you was looking at me and pressing down on my lip and having that reaction.'

‘You are perfect,' he whispers. ‘Jesus Christ, you are so fucking perfect. Darcy and I didn't stand a chance. We both fell the moment we saw you, you perfect, perfect thing.'

And with that, he thrusts, and stops, and thrusts again, and the fucking size of him is so outrageous, so implausible, as is the feeling of having him inside my body that goes so far beyond fullness. I'm terrified to move, terrified he'll do what he promised and split me in two. But he's right—it's less brutal than the first couple of inches were.

‘Sweet mother of God,' he groans against my cheek. ‘I won't survive this.'

That makes two of us, pal.

‘If you can,' he grits out, ‘I want you up on your knees. If it's not too deep. Then I can play with your lovely, thick dick while I fuck you.'

He's already in so deep it feels like he's touching my lungs, but the greedy little slut in me, the part I've suppressed for so long and who loves nothing more than hearing words like that, is indecently, pathetically excited by the promises Max is making and the strain in his voice that tells me he's about to unleash himself on me.

With grunts from both of us, he hoists me up with an arm around my stomach and I get inelegantly, unsteadily, to my knees, my cock a stiff rod throbbing into nothingness and Max's sweat-slicked body heating me from behind. He kneels between my legs, the hair of his calves against mine, breaths coming harshly, and I wonder afresh at the fact that it's I who am undoing Max Hunter.

I'vemade him this hard.

I have his entire body straining with effort and need as it cradles mine like a protective outer shell.

It's me he thinks is perfect.

And then he begins to move, and I suspect he's trying to hold himself back for me, but each shunt is so impossibly, wonderfully invasive as his length drags against sensitive, unmapped parts of me, stretching me taut as he plunders and takes.

The sounds he's making each time he bottoms out are low and male and raw, and that's it, really. It's the rawness that gets me—of his noises, of mine, of the implausibly close fit between us, of the wet slurp of lube as my body sucks him in with reckless greed.

This is carnal and sweaty; he's fucking me properly now, with deliberate, thorough strokes, and my cock is jerking and weeping, and every time he bottoms out with that blunt, devastating crown of his, he feeds the delicious, staggering ache that's building and building.

I've wanked off as much as the next person. I've had as much sex as the next person. But to imagine I thought Claudia's slim fingers back there were an indulgence—it's laughable. This is what my body was made for, and my body has always, always known that, always wanted it, yearned for it, dreamed of it, even when I was denying and repressing every urge.

This isn't just fullness—it's oneness and plentitude and holiness. And when he braces himself on one trembling arm and reaches around, wrapping his hand around my cock and giving it the home it's been craving, the heat inside my body finds its outlet and that oneness, impossibly, expands.

Max's dick inside my body and his hand on my dick is the best, most righteous, most powerful circuit I've ever experienced, and I let him know exactly that with my grunts and my full-body tremors and the shuddery gasps that get half swallowed up by the pounding of the rain on my concrete balcony.

Somewhere, I've stopped fearing these invasive thrusts and started demanding them, with greedy ruts against him every time he bottoms out. I'm a live wire, vibrating with need around him, splayed open and raw and wholly at his mercy for the orgasm that's shimmering so beautifully, so promisingly, on the horizon that I can scarcely believe I'll earn it.

So I do the only thing I'm capable of, the only thing I know he'll respond to.

I beg.

‘Please.' I'm fevered, suspended somewhere between awestruck and broken. ‘God, please.'

‘He's praying. That seems like a good sign.' Max's voice may be jagged with effort, but it's still honeyed and superior and sardonic, and every submissive, eager-to-please part of my soul strains towards it.

‘It's so good.' I can't. ‘So good—fuuuck. So?—'

I'm rocking on all fours, meeting him thrust for thrust, even though my wrists are burning and my biceps are quivering and my thighs are shaking. It's nothing compared to the slide of his body against mine, and the sweeping, glorious heat inside me as he works my cock with strokes that are deliberately way too shallow for what I need and his thick head shunts against the gland that has, until now, been so deeply buried I barely knew it existed.

But he found it.

He found me.

Of course he did.

‘This is what I've wanted since I saw that fucking photo,' he grunts. ‘I knew you'd be like this—I fucking knew I could get you to this state. I wish you could see what you look like, taking me. You could drive a man to do dangerous, dangerous things, sweetheart.'

I repeat what I told him in his flat when he had me up against his fridge, only now I say the words far more brokenly. ‘I told you, I want you dangerous.'

More like I need him dangerous. In this moment, I want to be the sole outlet for the extraordinary power he wields. I want him to unleash every ounce of frustration and hunger and venom and might. I want him trigger-happy and sadistically omnipotent.

‘And you'll get it,' he grits out. ‘You have no idea, you perfect thing, how easy I'm going on you tonight.'

It seems the idea of abusing me more thoroughly sends him over the edge, his thrusts turning unfathomably more ferocious, his huge blunt instrument wreaking havoc on my body with the unlikely precision of a laser, the movements of his hand switching from teasing to purposeful as he prepares to milk my orgasm from me in every way he can.

The Max I first saw at Alchemy, with his perfectly long merino socks and knowing smile and incisive stare is now a grunting, sweating beast pumping into me from behind, and it's that as much as the riot of stimulation against my glands and along my shaft that has me hurtling towards orgasm like a skier who's gone right off the side of a mountain.

I submit to the feeling and the emotion and the raw, filthy exhilaration of being fucked in the arse and the rhythmic slap of his hips against my cheeks I fucking yield to it with every starved, deprived, denied atom in this miracle of nature we call the human body.

The swollen gland Max is hitting so mercilessly releases the most profound, violent climax imaginable, and I don't recognise myself in the guttural roar that bursts from my mouth as my cock surges in his fist and I come with violent convulsions, urgent spurts of ejaculate lashing the sheets.

The sound he makes at my orgasm is almost a laugh, a sound full of surprised delight. I thrash my head as I spend myself, but he's right behind me, rubbing his face in my hair and nipping at my earlobe as he fucks me through it, wringing me dry.

And then he's going rigid behind me, my clever, articulate Max a muddle of grunts and unintelligible curses as he swells and bucks and erupts hotly in the deep, marvellous nook of my body that now belongs irrevocably to him.

When he's eked out every drop of his own orgasm, I lower myself unsteadily to the bed. Before, I was afraid to move with him inside me in case it hurt or tore; now I'm afraid to move in case he slips out, because I'm not ready for that. I want us here, like this, with his dick plugging his cum inside me and his heaving, spent body a reassuring mass on top of me and my stomach plastered to the cooling, gluey wetness of my cum that now soils the crisp white sheets I purchased one recent Saturday at Peter Jones in Chelsea.

The Dex who stalked disinterestedly around that department store, beloved by middle-aged women and the epitome of all that is wholesome, who bought sensible, decent quality sheets and never for a moment imagined a dangerous, beautiful man would fuck the cum out of him and all over them, was a different man to the one who lies here, prostrate and immovable under Max like a flower to be pressed.

I never want to be that man again.