36. Dex

Every part of my nervous system should be screaming DANGER at me right now. Instead, it's too busy whipping up the hormonal equivalent of crack to have any regard for my survival.

I stand clear of the doorway leading from The Playroom to a wide, dimly lit corridor to allow a laughing, semi-naked couple through. She's a petite blonde in a red latex bra and leggings, and he has her by the neck. It seems we're not the only ones ready for a little privacy thanks to Darcy's inimitable charms.

I should be watching them—her arse looks incredible in those leggings—but then they turn into the second room and Max strides in front of me, and for some reason I find my gaze glued to his arse instead, admiring from a purely aesthetic perspective how perfectly the supple weave of his wool trousers skims the curvature of his glutes. How well the tucks in the back of his pristine shirt follow the tapered small of his back to his narrow waist.

His tailor is a true artist, and I almost definitely couldn't afford him.

This corridor is like that of a trendy hotel instead of a sex club, its deep grey walls and limestone floor lustrous, thanks to the myriad dancing church candles that flank us in their hurricane lanterns. It strikes me once again that the vibe is intimate and decadent, but not seedy which, given what transpires in here, is a noteworthy achievement.

Max strides ahead of me like he owns the place, which he probably does, before stopping and knocking softly at the very last door. I catch him up in time to hear Darcy's chirpy come in.

The room is dimly lit and dominated by a huge bed. The walls are lacquered in a rich petrol blue, and chunky candles with flickering flames punctuate the space. It's just as stylish, as carefully tasteful as the hallway. But my attention goes straight to her.

She's still in her bodystocking, leaning against the wall beside the bed, one arm raised and crooked so she can use the other to stretch out her tricep. Her face is flushed and her big blue eyes are glittering almost feverishly, which I take to mean she's still very much high on the adrenalin of her performance—and possibly the arousal of it, too.

She pushes off the wall, a huge smile on her face. ‘You came!' she says to me before padding over to Max, seemingly unbothered about the fact that she's pretty much naked in front of two men. ‘I can't believe you got him to come,' she tells him, throwing her arms around his neck.

‘I told you I'd get you anything you wanted,' he says, tugging her into his arms.

I watch in a tumult of emotions as he slides one hand over her bottom and one through the untidy waves of her hair. Their mouths crash together in a kiss that's urgent and open-mouthed and unselfconscious, and the sight of their lips sliding, of his hard jaw working and his hands gliding over her body and the wet-looking sliver of tongue as he tilts his head further, might be one of the most purely erotic things I've ever seen.

I'm still semi-hard from her performance, still dizzy over the potential minefield I may have just stepped foot into, but the jack-hammering of my heart is all from this.

I bet I could come just from this, without even touching them, without letting them touch me. I bet I could come just from the sheer beauty of watching as this pair of humans couple.

But I don't get to test that theory, because Max breaks free of the kiss and murmurs hoarsely to her, ‘If my superstar asks, I fetch.' And then, with a thumb dragging along her jaw, he adds, ‘Why don't you give our guest a proper welcome?'

That has me stiffening in anticipation and her smiling, and she reaches on tiptoes to peck him on the lips before coming to stand in front of me.

I look down at her, at this dazzling, radiant ball of energy before me, with awe and not a little shyness. I'm not sure where I fit in here. I'm not sure if I fit in. Apparently, there've been machinations between the two of them to get me here, but their kiss just now has me feeling like a gauche outsider.

‘You were absolutely amazing up there,' I tell her earnestly, because it's important to me that she knows. ‘You were… transcendent, really.'

Her smile intensifies, and I focus on what a wonderful, generous smile she has, and on the sweet, faint sprinkling of freckles across her nose, while actively forbidding my peripheral vision to focus on her breasts. It's easy to fixate on her mouth, which is still wet from Max's kiss.

‘Thank you,' she says. ‘I'm so, so happy you came.'

There's a moment where we both halt, and I wonder what on earth I'm supposed to do next in this sex room with this couple, when Max fractures it.

‘Kiss her, for God's sake,' he snaps. ‘Show her how amazing she is. God knows, she earned it up there.'

I widen my eyes in a silent question to Darcy, but she's still smiling at me, her lower lip still bearing a trace of Max's saliva, and my body knows what to do. I slide a hand through her auburn tresses and around the back of her neck to tug her gently to me, just like I watched Max do, and I lean down and kiss her mouth.

Softness.

Her lips, plush and willing and kiss-dampened.

Her breasts, squished against my pecs, their warmth seeping through the cotton of my shirt.

Her touch, her long fingers going to my shoulders.

And—fuck me—the inside of her mouth, her tongue wet and willing and entangling with my own.

This isn't a natural, done it before kiss like the one she and Max just shared in front of me.

This is a first kiss, dreamy and wondrous and sensual and exploratory, the shiny newness of every single step like a wake-up call to my body. Because while it's not familiar, it feels like it should be, my soul recognising the utter rightness of each discovery.

Of course that's exactly how pillowy her lower lip should feel when I suck it between mine.

Of coursethat's how she should taste, the faintest hint of sweat slicing through her honeyed sweetness.

Of course my hips should shunt forward, exactly like this, seeking to align our bodies from head to toe.

I'm vaguely aware that my hands are taking their exploratory mission deathly seriously, my palms, my fingers mapping the gentle planes of her body as they roam, cataloguing her delights from the sweet indent between her shoulder blades to the totally fucking sinful handful of her bottom. This is total immersion, and I'm powerless to resist her.

I was by no means oblivious next door to the fact that the rainmaker who famously helped Wolff build his empire had me on the receiving end of the mother of all sales pitches. But his smooth, serpentine, cajoling words had nothing on this part of the pitch: the part where they let me take lovely, lovely Darcy for a test run.

And I'm so fucking in. My rational mind has harrumphed and stepped aside, clearing the way for my chimp brain to take the wheel.

And all the latter wants is more.