10. Max

‘The best man and the bridesmaid. Oldest cliché in the book. We should do it.'

I gaze down at the stunningly beautiful woman in my arms with what I like to call my Closing Smile, but this is one deal I appear to be struggling to close.

‘Oldest being the operative word where you're concerned,' she retorts, and I grin, because, while her attempts at holding me off are tiresome, I'll admit they're also mildly amusing.

I'm pretty confident they're also verbal foreplay.

I've stood next to Anton at the top of the aisle three times now. We didn't know each other when he married his first wife. Never have I seen him this happy, and never have I been as fond of—or as sure of—any of his matches as I am of Gen.

(I've also never fucked any of his wives—before, during or after his relationship with them—but that's beside the point.)

So yeah, I've loved every bit of this weekend. Loved the rehearsal dinner they threw by the sea last night, down at the Eden Roc Hotel, where Anton took Gen on their first date. The jaunt to Nice's H?tel de Ville to legally seal the deal was brief, thanks to the chopper, and this evening has been magical enough to soften even my unromantic heart.

As I glance around the space, I can admit Anton's money and Gen's impeccable taste are a pretty powerful combination. It's a relatively small wedding, which says less about the importance of this union in Anton's eyes and more about his total lack of interest in having business acquaintances and industry bores present to witness what he calls his forever match.

It's intimate. Everyone here is important to Gen or Anton. But low-key it is not. I eye the long trestle tables that sit under the pines and French oaks. They look less immaculate post our four-course dinner than they did when we sat down, but they're still beautiful. Their centrepieces of sculptural white flowers and thick candles in hurricane lanterns look stunning in the evening light.

Over Darcy's exquisite shoulder and beyond the guests in their silks and sequins and white tie, the swimming pool shimmers with the light of hundreds of floating candles. On the small stage behind me the world-famous tenor, Santiago Vale, croons.

He looks disgustingly debonair in his white tie, if a little too alpha for my tastes, but at least I don't need to worry about Darcy making a beeline for him. The whole world knows he's hopelessly smitten with his father's former chef.

When the happy couple swayed their way through their first dance to Santiago's sultry arrangement of The Best is Yet to Come, even I grew misty-eyed. Told you this entire setup was romantic.

Verbal foreplay may be my jam, but I'm not particularly in the mood for sparring tonight. Besides, I don't feel like giving Darcy the satisfaction. I'll let my body do the talking—let's see how she likes that. I tug her closer against me, my palm splayed across the soft skin of her bare lower back.

While her sister changed out of her wedding dress for the reception and into some gloriously sexy white beaded mini-dress reminiscent of the Roaring Twenties, Darcy's stayed in her bridesmaid gown, and I approve of it just as much as I did when I watched her slink down the aisle earlier.

I don't miss her slight shiver as I slide my palm slowly up her back. She sighs softly, resting her head on my shoulder in what feels gratifyingly like surrender, her arms staying loosely around my neck. One of the photographers for the event pads around us, stance crouched, seeking out the perfect shot, and I think to myself, good.

I'm glad this moment is being immortalised, and not only because having a photographic record that Darcy will undoubtedly see may help my case, but because I suspect we look pretty fucking good together. There's me in my shirt, top button open and white tie hanging loose and cuffs rolled up—because, come on, it's Antibes in July and it's still pretty fucking warm—and this sensual redhead swaying barefoot in my arms, her curves swathed in reams of the palest sea-foam silk.

I'd go so far as to wager that we look like a Gatsby still or a Vettriano painting: a fleeting moment, but a timeless image. Even if I suspect the reason she's slumped against me so willingly has more to do with the amount of Krug she's consumed and less to do with her willingness to submit to this "crusty old Brit".

Whatever her reason, I'll take it. And if the alcohol has tempered her suspicions of me slightly, I'm not above using that advantage. Although if she gets much more drunk than this, I'll obviously step away. I'm not a total monster. Even so, my fingertips are grazing the little bumps along her spinal column of their own accord.

‘I'm not having sex with you tonight,' she mutters, shifting her head slightly on my shoulder. ‘Although, why do you have to smell so fucking good?'

The unexpected compliment excites me less than her use of a qualifier. She's not having sex with me tonight.

Hmm.

Interesting.

‘Le Labo,' I tell her. ‘And, obviously, my own lethal sex hormones.'

She pokes me in the shoulder with a finger. ‘You're so arrogant. That's one of the reasons I won't have sex with you. I won't give you the satisfaction.'

‘But arrogance turns you on, yes?' I ask her, dipping my head so she can hear me above Santiago Vale's exuberant take on Mack the Knife. This is not the right song to slow-dance to, but I couldn't give a shit.

She groans into my shirt. ‘Ugh, yes, and I despise myself.'

I laugh. ‘Resistance is futile, darling. Just surrender to it.' My hand has found its way to the base of her spine, and I can't resist copping a little feel of the silk standing between me and that gloriously peachy arse of hers.

‘Fuck me, your arse is spectacular,' I murmur into her hair. It really is. I slide my hand over its sleek curves. It is the arse of champions: toned and taut, but ample, you know? Grabbable.

I am most definitely taking this arse in the not-too-distant future. I bet she'd look so fucking perfect bent over for me. And I bet she'd love it, too. An image of her draped over the back of the very expensive sofa in my new flat comes to mind, her long limbs tensed in anticipation, and her red hair tumbling everywhere, and that tight little hole on full display, just waiting for my cock to breach it.

‘You're imagining fucking it right now, aren't you?' she asks, and I bark out a shocked laugh in response, because she is a piece of fucking work.

‘That's not an answer,' she points out.

‘I am, as a matter of fact,' I tell her. Both my hands are all over her arse now, taking their fill on this dim dance floor. ‘I'm imagining how tight you'd be, and how much you'd love it, and, of course, how utterly exquisite you'd look, naked and bent over for me. But the real question is, are you imagining it?'

She moves against my body like I've made her restless, her perfect tits brushing against my front as she does. ‘I'm not not imagining it, if you catch my drift.'

‘Jesus Christ,' I groan. I'm the finest sliver of self-control away from getting a full-on boner here. ‘I have a very pleasant suite back at the hotel. Why don't we slip out of here and put each other out of our misery?' I reluctantly remove one hand from her arse and trail it up the length of her back before I burrow under all that gorgeous hair and clasp her neck. I kiss her hair, too. I'm definitely not the only one who smells indecently good this evening.

‘Don't be ridiculous,' she huffs. ‘I'm the fucking bridesmaid. I can't just disappear and then miss breakfast here tomorrow. Even if some very old but weirdly sexy guy is trying to coax me back to his insane suite to pop my anal cherry, H?tel du Cap style.'

That gets a laugh out of me, despite my frustration. I'm well aware she's staying here with her parents. I'm well aware it would look dodgy as fuck if she did a no-show. And I'm also well aware that, all this being the case, I would have been far better off making a move on someone else tonight.

But, honestly, no one else here holds a fucking candle to Darcy.

I could get a cab over to Cannes for the Alchemy pop-up, which would still be going strong at this time of night, but that's a dick move after spending the evening at my best mate's wedding. Right now, though, I have a more pressing issue to deal with.

I subtly press my fingertips to the silk-covered cleft between her cheeks.

‘No one's ever been in here?'

‘No,' she mumbles, and I sense defensiveness. ‘Anal might be, like, first base for sex obsessives like you, but it's not exactly a core offering on the menu for a lot of people.'

‘You're not a virgin, are you?' I ask, mainly to piss her off.

And piss her off it does. She uses her hands on my shoulders to push herself away from me so she can give me a glare. ‘Do I look like a fucking virgin to you? Seriously, Max.'

I smirk. ‘No. You look like every male fantasy of female sexuality, and the female form, since the fucking Renaissance. You look like a woman Titian and Rubens and Botticelli would have ached to paint.' I dip my head so our lips are mere inches apart and whisper, ‘And you look like you were created to take my cock in every single perfect hole in your spectacular body.'

She's staring at me, lips parted, her blue eyes with disbelief and, it seems, arousal. I get so close that our noses brush as I turn my head and whisper the most important words in her ear.

‘And you will take my cock. Maybe not tonight, but you will take my cock in every one of them.'