35. Max

The woman I'm involved with is onstage, pouring her body into shapes a more religious man would take as proof that there is a God. She has that look on her face that she gets when she dances.

Dreamy.

She's pulled a veil down between her and the crowd.

We can watch her, but we can't reach her.

She's communing with the music, letting it speak through her soul like she described at lunch. It's as awe-inspiring as it is arousing, and it elevates what should be something base to a level I find almost unbearably erotic.

Darcy Carew is the real fucking deal, and the thrill of possession courses through me, heady and strong. Because she's mine. For now, at least.

All of which makes it irksome that she's only occupying about three-quarters of my mental capacity.

The other quarter is taken up by the man standing next to me.

I shoot him a furtive sideways glance and twist my mouth in what I suppose is a mix of amusement and rue. Amusement because every instinct I had when I saw his photo has proven to be right, and rue because I have no fucking proof that he's queer, no matter what my gut tells me.

If I'm right, and he is queer, I can find a way to claim him, that's for sure. But something else is certain: he's straight as a die. And I don't mean straight in the sexual sense; I mean he's a rule follower. I saw his WhatsApp exchange with Darce. He has impeccable manners. I bet he wouldn't put a foot wrong.

Unfortunately for him, not only is he the kind of handsome up close to which no photo could do justice, but I have a particular penchant for uptight good boys who are perpetually in denial and need a firm hand and a hard dick to show them what they're missing. Those astonishing dark-lashed eyes of his are trained fixedly on Darcy, so I take the opportunity to surreptitiously devour him with my gaze.

He's clean-shaven, like me. He's got a decent tan, but I can tell his skin is the kind of olive that still holds through the winter. His lips are full, his jaw as tense as the grip on his whisky tumbler. Still, the line of it is alluring. I'd lick along it before sucking hard on his neck to remind him who he belongs to. My nostrils flare just thinking about it, and if my dick could get any harder, it would.

He hasn't taken the bait of my last comment. Perhaps the most unfortunate thing of all for poor little Dex is that he's dealing with a man who will blithely turn anyone's greatest attribute into their greatest vulnerability before you can say Achilles. And in Dex's case, those attributes are most likely his impeccable manners and his hankering after our girl Darcy.

I lean in again, admiring how pretty his tanned neck looks bracketed by the curls of his dark hair and the crisp blue cotton of his shirt.

‘You know what else Darcy said about you?' I murmur. The music's so loud that I don't need to keep my voice down. Neither do I wait for a response before delivering my killer blow. ‘She said,'—my lips are so deliciously close to his jawline and he smells like shampoo—‘she wants you to fuck her.'

That'sgot his attention.

He turns sharply, taking an immediate step back to reduce our proximity. ‘What the hell?' he snaps.

Isn't he pretty when he's angry? Or discomfited. All I know is Confronted Dex is a treat.

‘It's true,' I continue smoothly. ‘She came straight back to mine last Saturday after she met you here. You made quite the impression. Imagine my surprise when she not only asked me for a threesome but said she'd found the exact man for the job.'

I watch his face. I'd hazard a guess it's far more expressive than someone as buttoned-up as him would want. That's quite the melange of emotions he has going on so close to the surface.

‘Hang on,' he says. ‘She wants a threesome?' He screws his face up at the last word, like it's one too offensive to have ever crossed his lips before, and I almost laugh.

‘You didn't think I'd let you touch her without my being there to chaperone, did you?'

‘Chaperone,' he repeats. I think I may have broken his brain. I turn to face him properly.

‘Don't overthink this,' I tell him. I've built a career of sweet-talking and hand-holding and silkily, gently coercing people to do every single thing I want, and I have no intention of stopping now. ‘She wants you. She was incredibly taken with you. And look at her.'

We both take a moment to turn our heads to the stage, where Darcy's dancing, an angel beating her wings inside her gilded cage. As we turn back, I risk a glance south, but it's too dark in here to see if he's hard.

When I have his attention again, I press on, making my voice softer, more cajoling. ‘You know, she gets so aroused on stage, bless her. Do you blame her? Everyone's watching her. Everyone wants to fuck her. But none of them can. She's untouchable, except for me.' I pause. ‘And for you.' I raise my eyebrows meaningfully. ‘And you know what? She's never had a threesome—can you believe it? It's all she wants, and she wants her first time to be with you and me.'

I inject into my pitch all the emotion of Bob Cratchit advocating for Tiny Tim, and my acting skills are rewarded with a flicker of doubt in Dex's strange and perfect eyes as the twisted form of chivalry I'm pitching no doubt wars for dominance in his conservative little heart with what he considers to be seemly.

He's actually asking himself if he can do this.

Let's reel him in.

‘Imagine touching her. Her skin is softer than you could ever dream. She feels so fucking good.' My tone is low. Confiding. He'd be a moron not to take this recommendation from the horse's mouth, as it were. ‘Tastes amazing, too. Like nectar. I bet she wants your mouth on her cunt. I bet she'd let you fuck her with your tongue before you fuck her properly. Imagine it.

‘And she's so fucking responsive. I know she comes across as feisty as hell, but in bed she's a submissive little doll. You'd get to lay her out and feast on her.' Time to close. ‘This is the only way you get to be with her, mate.'

‘Fucking hell,' he mutters, and if I wasn't so intent on winning this round, I'd almost feel sorry for the guy. I'm here to broker the deal I promised Darcy I'd swing, and if I have my own reasons for wanting to ensnare this hot little fly in my web long enough to forge my own inroads with him, then that's an added bonus.

That's what I tell myself, anyway.

‘What are your concerns?' I ask him, sounding horribly like a salesman trying to close a buyer on a top-of-the-range mattress, but I don't think it's my selling style that has him barking out an unamused laugh.

‘My concerns? I came here to watch her dance. That's it. No offence, but this isn't my scene. I'm not comfortable being here at all, and now you're trying to strong-arm me into some kind of kinky ménage—I don't think so.'

‘Look, I get that,' I tell him. I don't, obviously. This place is Disneyland. ‘She's nearly done, and I've got a private room booked. It doesn't have to be…' I choose my words. ‘It's her first time. No DP, nothing like that. Remember, this is just about taking care of Darcy, making her feel good. If all you want to do is go in there and tell her what a great job she did and maybe give her a kiss, that's totally fine. Just come say hi. She'll be really hurt if you leave without swinging by backstage.'

And still he wavers. Honestly, if he can't handle that then the guy clearly has no fucking backbone at all, and she and I should cut him loose. He can run off with his tail between his legs and sign up for Hinge and hopefully find some nice, safe, lights-out, missionary action. Fuck's sake.

‘Get a load of this,' I tell him with a jerk of my head.

He turns his attention to the stage again, but I keep my gaze on him. I've seen this routine a few times now, so I know she's gearing up for the big reveal, the money shot that might just achieve what my smooth talking can't.

And I know when she does it, because watching Dex watch Darcy spread her legs and bend over and expose herself fully to the crowd is my new favourite show.

I watch as his brow creases and his eyes narrow and he snags that plump bottom lip, digging his teeth in so hard that I have the novel and unwelcome sensation of being jealous of someone's teeth. If he could stop being an overthinking, jumpy little bitch for a few moments, I'd show him exactly how that lip should be bitten.

But then the miraculous happens.

‘No guy-on-guy stuff, right?' he asks, inclining his head towards me but keeping his eyes fixed on Darcy's magical cunt. ‘Because that's not my bag at all.'

I swallow a smirk. Sure it's not. ‘Of course not,' I say, sounding shocked. Where is my Golden Globe? ‘It's all about Darcy. Think of it like we're servicing her. She deserves a good servicing after dancing so beautifully up there, doesn't she? She's turned everyone in this room on, and she's aching to be touched all over her beautiful body, and I know you and I can do a good job of that together. Just think of how very, very good we can make it for her.'

‘Yeah,' he says, his voice dreamy, and I know he's imagining gorging himself on her.

She's bowing, giving the audience a smile and a wave and a cheeky little shimmy of her hips, and I wedge my tumbler between my forearm and my abdomen so I can clap with the rest of them and then wolf whistle.

And as she turns to go, sauntering off stage with those arse cheeks gliding against each other invitingly, I move in for the kill with a decisive hand on what is a very toned shoulder.

‘Come on. Let's go and make a fuss of her, mate.'