3. Darcy

Being the designated fluffer at an event like this is decidedly un-fun.

I mean, come on. I'm in one of the most beautiful places on earth, at easily the most fabulous party I've ever attended, and I'm the star attraction.

Everyone wants me.

And no one can touch me.

What the actual fuck? I've been circulating for no more than half an hour since I finished my set and swapped out my bodystocking for a long, completely backless and fairly sheer black dress, and I could've got laid a hundred times over. Not just laid, but laid by guys who are so hot it is actually insane.

First, a good half of them are French or Italian. So there's that. Much as I appreciated the buff Aussie surfers, these European playboys with their sexy accents and dark hair and great tans and chic as fuck outfits are so outrageously hot that I'm sweating like a nun in a cucumber field.

It isn't bloody fair.

I only want one. Just one nice, fat, juicy dick as a reward for dancing so beautifully and working them all up.

Or maybe two.

This is an orgy, after all.

That's it. A lovely Euro dick or two and I'd be a happy girl. After all, I've never actually had more than one guy at a time, for all that I talk a good game, and it's a source of great misery to me. And now I'm here, and my sister doesn't want me to ‘partake.'

A hot guy in all white saunters past and says something to me in French that sounds very, very dirty, and I swear my arousal starts to dribble down my inner thighs. Now that the sun has set, the real purpose of the party is becoming apparent. The rules are clear: the main outdoor space stays clothes-on. Nudity and fucking can be enjoyed inside the villa, which is fully set up for debauched kinkery, or in the white tents around the periphery of these beautiful gardens.

The night air is thick with the scent of citronella candles and the sultry bass of the music. Above the beat dance laughter and conversation in a dozen languages. Meanwhile, I feel like the sad little princess whom everyone came to see but whom no one's allowed to touch.

I amble over to the funky perspex bar to order myself a consolation cocktail. No point in going indoors—I may as well stay out here with the rest of the losers who aren't getting laid. I'm enjoying the arse of the sexy French barman as he mixes my mojito when I hear a deep voice say my name.

It's my future brother-in-law, and he's not with my sister. What a shocker. I thought they were joined at the hip. ‘Hey,' I say. I give him a bright smile. He's ridiculously old, but I can still appreciate what an attractive guy he is. That Big Dick Energy of his is undeniable. And he makes my sister deliriously happy, so I'm definitely a fan.

Besides, he's the most generous host ever. Staying at his villa this weekend is the highlight of my life—even without any sex.

‘I heard your dance was fantastic,' he says. ‘I didn't think it was appropriate to watch it. I stayed well away.'

That makes me laugh. ‘Yeah. It probably would have been creepy to watch your future sister-in-law dance in the nude. Especially as I'm young enough to be your daughter.'

He swipes me playfully on my shoulder. ‘Watch it, kiddo. I do have someone I'd like you to meet, though. Rather, he's desperate to meet you.'

‘Desperate, you say?' I ask, arching an eyebrow at him as I accept my mojito from the smiling barman and turn around.

‘Ravenous, more like,' Anton's friend says, and there's something about the way he drawls it in his posh accent that stops me in my tracks.

I take him in.

Holy fucking Christ.

There are a lot of hot, rich, confident guys here tonight, but this one takes the cake.

He stands perfectly still, one hand clutching a tumbler and the other slung casually in his pocket. But his eyes aren't still. No, sir. They're taking in every single inch of me like I'm the most sumptuous feast he's ever seen and he wants to gobble me up. The guy doesn't lie. He's starving.

As we stand there and eye fuck each other so hard I may actually get pregnant, I devote the same attention to him that he's lavishing on me. He's very, very good-looking in a way that's predictable enough to make me despise myself.

Light brown hair, slicked back. He's an inch or two shorter than Anton, who's seriously tall, and has a leaner build. I bet he's athletic, though. Great posture. His eyes are blue and piercing, even in this dim light. He's hot and patrician and looks like he was brought up with yachts and ski chalets and vintage cars. He's every British fantasy Ralph Lauren ever had. Even his jaw looks well bred.

Ugh.

He's in much the same uniform as a lot of the guys here - beige chinos and a white linen shirt.

But it's none of that stuff that gives me pause, necessarily. It's his demeanour. If his face is that combination of pretty and chiselled that only the likes of Matt Bomer can usually get away with, everything about the way he's sizing me up tells me this guy is a fucking animal.

Some people exude sex, and this guy is one of them. So everything falls into place when Anton says, ‘Darce, meet my good mate, Max.'