15. Darcy

Max lives in One Hyde Park, which is a development so swanky that I'm pretty sure its closest food store is Harrods' food hall. It overlooks Hyde Park, oddly enough, and its next-door neighbour is The Mandarin Oriental. I thought you'd need to own a very large oil field to be able to afford a flat here, but apparently not.

I take the lift up to the fourth floor, feeling far more nervous than I thought I would and far more like a hooker than I thought I would, too. I'm in a long, floaty sundress, the bodystocking I took home from work last night folded carefully in my bag. It's still broad daylight, of course, a fact I overlooked and am now cursing. Maybe he'll draw the curtains? The prospect of dancing in the sunlight feels far more daring, more exposing, than being carefully lit on the stage of a dark club.

He's waiting when I get out of the lift, standing in the doorway to his flat. My Havaianas make an embarrassing flapping noise against the lobby's glossy white marble floor. By contrast, Max is still in his work clothes. Dark, perfectly fitted trousers and a white shirt, top couple of buttons undone. His light brown hair is combed casually off his forehead, and that white cotton shows off his tan far too well.

He really is ridiculously attractive. Not that he needs anyone to reassure him of that fact.

‘Thanks for coming,' he says softly. His smile as he takes me in is sincere. Appreciative. He bends to kiss me on both cheeks, and I catch a vague whiff of his cologne. It's lovely but very faint, and I kind of like the fact that he hasn't reapplied it since he got home from work.

Although, why should he? This isn't a date. He hasn't showered, or changed out of his work clothes, or preened. He's paying me to be here—he doesn't have to make an effort or prove anything.

I wonder what it would be like to come to a place like this for an actual date with a man like this. To have him sweep me up in his arms and whisper a muffled hello, darling against the pulse at the side of my neck. I wonder if guys like Max are even capable of falling for anyone, or if they're too busy to focus on anything more than their next fuck or, failing that, a little post-work titillation in the form of a private dance.

His flat, when he ushers me inside, is vast, and light-filled, and impeccably, expensively decorated, and completely devoid of any kind of personality. The designer went for a Fifty Shades of Taupe vibe, it seems. But holy fuck, that view of the park is obscene.

‘I just moved in,' he says behind me. ‘It's a corporate flat—perk of the new job.'

I turn and raise my eyebrows in surprise. ‘Wolff owns this?'

‘Yeah. Anton didn't want to live here, so they used it to put up overseas management and clients.'

My new brother-in-law lives in an orgasmic white stucco wedding-cake villa in Holland Park whose interior is a cacophony of sumptuous furniture and colourful, jaw-dropping art. I'm not surprised he turned his nose up at this show home.

‘Definitely not his vibe,' I observe.

‘Not really mine, either, but I'm too busy right now to care,' Max says. ‘Thank you for agreeing to my proposition and giving me an excellent reason to get out of the office. I would have changed, but I got back about ten minutes ago and I didn't want to run the risk of being in the shower when you turned up.'

I let my gaze roam over him, which is really no hardship. He looks a bit more dishevelled than his usually dapper state, but still positively edible.

‘You're good,' I tell him, flashing him a smile, which he returns with a wolfish grin.

‘Still. I'd like to unwind so I can enjoy this properly. I might jump in the shower while you're getting changed, but let me get you a drink to take through, eh? Champagne? Rosé? GT?'

‘Rosé would be lovely,' I tell him. I could do with something to take the edge off, but the last thing I need are champagne bubbles bloating my stomach when I need to get basically naked in front of this god.

‘What kind of music do you want?' he asks as he hands me my drink. ‘I'll get it going—it might help get you in the zone.'

I'm touched. It's a thoughtful suggestion, and he's right, of course. Hearing the music I dance to several nights a week will undoubtedly make this whole setup feel more natural.

‘Pull up the Alchemy playlists on Spotify, and I'll show you,' I tell him.

Twenty minutes later,I'm standing in my heels and bodystocking, admiring my reflection in his huge guest bathroom. The lighting in here is bloody fantastic. My sequins sparkle in a million directions, and I feel like a human disco ball. I've brushed my hair out but worn it loose—I know how much he likes my hair. My sister, God bless her, has been treating me to top-ups with Giorgio since I got back.

I let my hands sway high above my head and twirl for myself as I give myself a pep talk. This is what I do. I'm a dancer, and I'm bloody good at it. The shapes I make with my body speak of sex. My movements change my audience's brain chemistry, even when I've gone so deep inside myself I'm barely aware of who's watching.

That won't happen this evening.

When I down the rest of my rosé and exit the bathroom, the atmosphere has changed. The sexy music I instructed Max to put on is pulsing its hypnotic beats through the space. The blinds are lowered, blocking out the view of the park and almost all the sunlight. Now, the vast living area is lit mainly by floor spots in the kitchen area and a couple of table lamps.

And best of all? Max is standing in the middle of the room, hair damp and combed neatly back off his face, nursing what looks like scotch and wearing nothing but a white t-shirt and grey sweats. In true male form, he's failed to dry himself off completely, so there are some damp spots on the t-shirt, but it's soft and hugs his lean, muscular frame to perfection.

Don't even get me started on the sweatpants, because every fibre of self control I possess is now engaged in avoiding staring at his crotch area in an attempt to spot the outline of his cock. I don't doubt for a second that if I looked, I'd see it. I could try telling you I have an excellent BDR—Big Dick Radar—but the truth is, my naughty sister spilt the beans one night over too much red wine.

I have it on good authority that Max Hunter is not over-compensating for anything. And, while I've given him a hard time recently about being old and crusty, this guy is neither.

He is fucking perfection.

I'm so busy eye-fucking him without seeming like I'm eye-fucking him that it actually takes me by surprise when he gives me a once-over of his own and utters a low, quiet wow.