2. Max

Well, well, well.

Gen Carew's little sister is a fucking visual feast, that's for sure. And my excellent dinner at Hotel Eden Roc is long forgotten, because I am fucking starving.

The Carew women are something. I should know. I had the distinct pleasure of fucking Gen last year, when she and Anton—my best mate and boss—were playing mind games with each other. My colleague David and I may have got ourselves stuck in the middle of their screwed-up dynamic.

And by stuck in the middle, I mean Anton orchestrated a full-on group sex session in his office. I ended up fucking Gen on the floor while David, our in-house counsel, fucked her mouth. Anton managed every detail like a conductor coaxing the most intoxicating symphony out of an orchestra. And all the while, he was getting sucked off by his then executive assistant.

Ah, happy days.

Gen's a knockout. She's the full package, with her platinum hair and killer curves and even more killer froideur. I have never, in all the years I've known Anton, seen any of his ex-wives or girlfriends handle him like Gen can handle him.

It's no surprise she's turned the legendary Big Bad Wolff into a fucking Labrador puppy. A puppy so intent on freeing up more playtime with his favourite human that he's recently transitioned from CEO of Wolff Holdings, his extensive global web of corporations, to the far less onerous role of Non-Executive Chairman.

And who has he appointed to take the weighty reins as CEO, you ask?

Why, none other than his faithful Chief of Staff. Yours truly.

All of which gives me more reason to enjoy these aimless, halcyon nights under a vast, gold-shot sky before work kicks up a notch or ten. The fabulous pad just outside of Cannes that plays host to the hedonistic revellers in the summer months boasts an equally fabulous view. The Med sparkles in the distance of the ample grounds, and, in the foreground, the villa's smooth, well-irrigated lawns are dotted with white tents, as discreet as they are lavish.

Because there'll be far too much fucking tonight for one villa to accommodate.

I should know. Wolff Leisure, one of our subsidiaries, licensed the Alchemy name to test out the pop-up concept last summer, at this very location. It was a resounding success, to the point that we're rolling out two more European ones this summer in Ibiza and Mykonos, with a superyacht format in Monaco and a permanent Manhattan location set to open at Christmas.

Sex sells, and no one does it better than the Alchemy guys. I can personally attest to that.

Which brings me back to the delicious little bombshell in front of me.

Surely dancing is the single most effective leading indicator for how good someone will be in bed? If I'm right, Darcy Carew's undulations promise untold carnal pleasure.

I stand at the front of the throng of people and drink in the spectacle before me with the appreciation of a true connoisseur. This is the first time I've had the distinct pleasure of feasting my eyes on Darcy. She's been staying at Anton's pad with the rest of the Alchemy clan and their kids, so I've been slumming it at the H?tel du Cap Eden Roc.

Gen told me her little sister was twenty-five—at least a decade younger than her. (She also told me to "keep my filthy paws off her", but I'm taking that with a pinch of salt.) She's young. Really fucking young, or so it seems to this forty-year-old guy.

She's also ravishing. Ravishing.

For this most carnal of celebrations, the Alchemy team has had an enormous gilded bird cage erected. One of the founders, Cal, masterminded this party. Previously, he's been the most fun of the lot of them—the others are far too loved up. He and I had an absolute blast out here last August.

But this year, he's wandering around with none other than the famous—and sexy as fuck—broadcast journalist Aida Russell on his arm, looking like he's been hit hard over the head with a love stick, so he's no fucking use to anyone.

Those Alchemy guys are dropping like flies.

Anyway. This contraption. It's fashioned like a huge, ornate Victorian bird cage, large enough for the mesmerising creature within to writhe sinuously, hypnotically. She's naked except for her high heels, an enormous pair of intricate wings, and a bodystocking dusted with tiny crystals. It's so sheer that the overall effect is one of shimmering nudity.

And let me tell you, this woman's brand of nudity is one I can get on board with.

Her sister has what I'd call a banging body. It's voluptuous and ultra feminine, with curves and dips enough to make a man weep. The kind of body that would make even the most seasoned sex maniac wish for a repeat performance, if said sex maniac wasn't so painfully aware of his boss' obsession with her.

She has the kind of body that even now brings an inner hit of triumph when I take her in and recall the delights hidden beneath her immaculate clothes.

(I will never admit that to Anton. Obviously.)

But I'll freely admit Darcy is on another fucking level. Yeah, she has tits and an arse, both of which are pretty damn important. But she's a dancer, and it fucking shows. She's strong and toned and compact, the sculpted planes of her upper arms and inner thighs as charming as the generous curves of those untethered tits.

Her hair is loose and glossily, gloriously chestnut. Her skin beneath that bodystocking is pale and creamy and flawless. Titian would have had a field day with this woman.

I'd have a field day with this woman.

The marks I could leave on that milky expanse of skin.

Teeth.

Lips.

Fingers.

The DJ we have here tonight has a hypnotic chillout tune going, with soaring vocals and a pulsing beat. The younger Ms Carew is going for it. Her movements are unhurried. Sensuous. She writhes and rolls and sways in her cage, gold-tipped wings flapping as she moves her arms, the setting sun casting her in a halcyon light so she appears to be made of gold and precious stones.

She's dancing to her own beat, seemingly oblivious to the crowd of partygoers around her. There, trapped in her gilded cage, she moves her glorious body, and I know every man watching wants to release her, if only to claim her immediately for himself.

Unfortunately for them, I suspect most of them don't have a tenth of the tenacity that I do. I adjust my trousers and sink my teeth into my lower lip as Darcy turns, and sways that impeccable arse, and spreads her legs, and bends all the way forward, wings fluttering behind her.

There's no diamanté between her legs. Nothing but the sheerest mesh to cover her. She's completely bare, and it strikes me that the sight of that glistening pussy is the most alluring jewel of all.

The roar of the crowd around me has nothing on the rush of blood in my ears.