Chapter 9
A Pissing Contest, but with Cum
DEX
There are two people in the world who see me clearly.
There are two people who know my real soul, who feel its truth deep in their own souls, who love it for what it is and not for anything it has ever tried or pretended or presumed to be.
And I’m marrying both of them this weekend.
Technically, or in the eyes of the French legal system, at least, I married one of them yesterday afternoon. The civil ceremony between me and Max may have been a privilege I could not have dared to hope for or dream of even a couple of years ago, but wasn’t the main event for me. For any of us.
No. That will come in an hour, in a flowery, shady bower in the gardens of the H?tel du Cap, where the three of us are staying for the week.
Because a civil wedding between two men may be cause for celebration in this new reality of mine, but a humanist wedding between two men and the woman they both love is endgame for us.
It’s the reason we’re here, and it’s the reason so many of our loved ones have flown down to the South of France.
Later, when I look both Max and Darcy in the eye and recite my vows to them, is the moment when all that I am, my heart’s every desire and my life’s very purpose, will be illuminated for everyone to see and hear.
Yesterday was bittersweet, if I’m honest. The awe I felt at standing opposite Max as the notary at the H?tel de Ville in Antibes pronounced us legally married was tempered a little by the fact that Darcy couldn’t be a part of that ceremony with us.
I mean, she was physically a part of it.
I didn’t let go of her hand the whole time I stood there, not even when Max kissed me at the end.
And we intentionally kept the ceremony as perfunctory, as bureaucratic as possible.
It was a case of shoring up our rights, cementing our legal status, and protecting our future selves as fully as possible in the eyes of the British legal system.
We only had two witnesses present—Gen and Anton. Slightly ironic, since Gen had to stand there and watch her sister be excluded from the legal proceedings, a fact for which no amount of circular discussions over the past four months, since our engagement, could really compensate.
Today will be different.
Today, we’ll partake in a ceremony we’ve designed specifically to ensure an equal part for all three of us.
It will be joyous and love-filled.
It will be light-hearted and grave all at once.
It will be us.
As I fumble with my white tie, I glance at my brand-new husband in the mirror. For all the shit I’ve just spouted about today being the main event, I’ve been remarkably guilty of whispering that word to myself over and over for the past twenty-four hours.
Max is my husband.
I am Max’s husband.
And I’m not the only guilty party.
‘How does it feel to take your husband’s cock?’ he crooned in my ear last night as he pinned me facedown on our huge bed and fucked me senseless, Darcy smiling in post-orgasmic bliss right beside us.
I doubt I lasted point-five of a second before coming all over the sheets at those words.
When you’ve had the upbringing I’ve had, and you’ve spent your life believing that the things you want are wrong and sinful and dirty and abnormal, having the most beautiful man in the world whisper that in your ear as he fucks your arse feels like nirvana.
Max’s eyes meet mine. His white tie is, of course, immaculate. So is his hair. He looks patrician and debonair and so handsome he steals the breath from my lungs. So perfect, he makes me want to sink to my knees and pay homage to him with this mouth he adores so much.
The look he gives me tells me there is not the slightest divergence between our thoughts right now.
‘Want me to have a go?’ he offers.
I drop my hands from the ends of my tie in defeat. I’m usually pretty good at this stuff—the benefits of an elite all-male education—but I can’t pull it together enough to get this tie to line up just the way I want it.
‘Please. I want it to be perfect.’
‘I know you do, love.’ He steps towards me and cups my jaw in his hands, tilting my face up to his.
‘But it doesn’t need to be, you know? No one will be looking at your tie, I promise.
Because you are perfect, and you are radiant.
’ He kisses me lightly on the lips, and his words and his mouth and his eyes have my entire body turning to jelly. ‘Remember that.’
‘I love you so much,’ I say, my voice shuddery. Since giving myself over to Max and Darcy completely, it’s as if my body has become nothing but a vessel from which to pour a relentless stream of molten love for these two people.
I can’t stop telling them how I feel.
I can’t stop showing them how I feel.
‘And I love my husband,’ he says, getting to work on my bowtie without dropping my gaze.
The H word sends a full-body shiver through me.
Will it ever stop feeling like a miracle?
I doubt it.
Eventually, his eyes drop to the job at hand, and I have the extraordinary pleasure of feasting on him at close range.
His skin is an even, golden brown from a summer spent sailing and fucking and sunbathing as much as the three of us could manage despite the demands of Wolff, Cerulean and Darcy’s dance studio.
The ends of his eyelashes are sun-bleached, and those lips, pressed together in concentration, have me aching.
I want so badly to run my tongue along their seam and coax them open.
I want other things, too.
‘There we go,’ he says finally, tugging at the tie and training that intense blue stare back on my face. He pauses. ‘You’re a fucking vision.’
We stand there, drinking each other in.
‘I want to show you,’ I mutter brokenly, reaching between us to cup him between his legs. ‘I want to taste your cum in my mouth when I’m saying my vows.’
Really, I want to feel the painful shadows of his dick in my ass and his scratches down my back and his bites on my neck, my shoulders, but we both promised Darcy faithfully that we’d keep the battle scars for after the most important event of our lives.
I’ve said it before, but Max and I are animals together.
We cannot leave each other the fuck alone.
I asked Darcy once if it bothered her, if she felt jealous, and she screamed with laughter.
‘Jesus Christ, no,’ she said. ‘You’re doing me a favour.
Knock yourselves out. You honestly think I could keep the two of you satisfied at that level by myself?
I’d be crippled and incontinent, probably.
Having fifty percent of each of you is just about all I can manage. ’
I’d say she takes us both beautifully, but I get it. If Max and I use each other to fuck out our respective insatiability and keep the best bits for Darcy, then I can live with myself and the dynamics of this relationship.
Max hardens, predictable as clockwork, under my hand. ‘Is that right, you pretty, perfect thing?’
‘You know it is. And I know you wouldn’t have it any other way, either.’ I grin cheekily, closing the rest of the gap between us and whispering in his ear as I massage his thickening cock. ‘So you don’t like it when a man touches you, eh?’
They’re the words he said to me that day in my former office as he hauled me up against the wall and palmed my cock.
His hand comes around my neck, quick as a flash. ‘I only like it when you touch me. Get on your knees like the shameless little slut you are and get my dick out. Quick. Darcy? Darce. We need you.’
‘Coming!’ she cries from the bathroom, where she’s applying her makeup.
A professional stylist has been in to do her hair this morning—now back to the glossy auburn colour it was when we met—but she insisted on doing her own makeup.
Not that she needs much, in my opinion, with that perfect skin and golden tan, the light dusting of freckles that so captivated me that first time at Alchemy adorning her nose and cheekbones.
As I get to my knees like my new husband’s good little slut, I glance at the vision approaching us.
Our fiancée’s hair is loose and artfully curled to look natural.
Small white flowers—gardenias, I believe, based on the portions of floral discussions from which I managed not to zone out—adorn her hair like little stars.
She’s barefoot and in her wedding gown, and Christ alive.
She is positively celestial. At the very least, she looks like the most ethereal member of fae royalty.
I pause with my fingers on Max’s flies as we both gape at our bride.
‘Fucking hell, sweetheart,’ he mutters.
She halts a few feet away. I think our intense stares have made her suddenly self-conscious. ‘Do you like it?’
‘Like it?’ I go to rise, but Max holds me where I am with an imperious hand on my shoulder. ‘You look like an angel. You look—otherworldly. Doesn’t she, Max?’
‘You’ve always been the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, but today you’re like nothing else on earth,’ he says, his voice strangled.
It’s true. I’ve seen her gown—it’s been hanging in the giant closet in this suite all week. There’s nothing conventional about this relationship, so we haven’t bothered with traditions such as sequestering the wedding dress—or the blushing bride, for that matter—away from the grooms.
The dress is a gorgeous, gauzy thing, but seeing it on our fiancée’s insane, dance-honed body is another experience entirely.
It’s only now I realise that, while the bottom half may be long and ethereal, the top half is pretty fucking tiny.
It’s completely backless, and the front swoops far below her breasts.
Max holds out a hand, and I watch from my low vantage point as she steps forward to take it.
‘Look at you guys,’ she says, a dreamy smile creeping over her face as her gaze darts between the two of us. ‘God. I can’t believe I’m getting you both. This is crazy, right?’