56. Darcy

The curtain has well and truly been lifted tonight.

The veil I usually erect between me and the audience, for reasons to do with both technique and mystique is shot to hell, because when I emerge onto the stage for Diamond Night, the first person I lay eyes on is Dex. He's standing by himself at the front of the crowd, all in black, tumbler in hand.

He's grinning right at me, and even in the dim light I can tell his grin carries none of the circumspection from our first meeting or the anguished uncertainty from our hookup the other night.

It's a really great grin—though it might have something to do with the fact that I'm wearing a diamanté thong and what's basically a Victoria's Secret Fantasy Bra gone porno.

No bodystocking tonight.

Just barely-there, glittering underwear, heels and an enormous white feather boa made from the most lavish plumes. (Note to my sister: this is what you get when you give Cal too much creative licence with his events.)

I shoot him as big a smile as I can without ruining my carefully crafted aura of mystique for the rest of the crowd, and I let myself go to the music. It's more upbeat tonight. Diamond Night should be called Diamond Disco, if the music is anything to go by.

I let rip to an epic remix that goes from Atomic to I Feel Love to Young Hearts Run Free, and I can tell you right now, my moves put Mercutio's to shame. The audience goes crazy, and it's impossible not to get swept up in the infectious atmosphere. I play up to the adulation like the queen that I am, the strobe lights slicing my movements, my poses, into a series of fleeting tableaux and lending the room, with its pulsing, grooving audience, a trippy feel.

Even better, I get enough glimpses of Dex to know he's a seriously good dancer. Bro's got moves. Not that I didn't know that—the memory of him moving inside me with gorgeous, rolling thrusts flashes through my mind—but he looks seriously sexy down there with the top few buttons of his black shirt unbuttoned and his sleeves rolled up.

He's going for it with Cal and Aida, who've materialised next to him. But he's here for me. He's smiling at me. And I hope to God he's waiting for me to finish.

I wrap my set up to wolf whistles and cat calls and applause, treating the audience to a little wink and a shimmy of my thong-clad bottom before chucking the feather boa straight at Cal. He catches it and gleefully wraps it around himself, earning an eye roll from Aida. And when I wave goodbye to the crowd, my skin slick with sweat and my legs trembling from my exertions, Dex is already rounding the stage.

I fallon the door of my dressing room as soon as I hear the knock.

It's him, and by God he looks dishevelled and good enough to eat, that dark hair hanging over one eye and a light dusting of chest hair visible in the V of his shirt. The grin he gives me is a lot less confident than the one he shot me out in The Playroom. I suppose he's not sure how warm a reception he'll get given his ghosting stunt.

‘Hey,' I say, resisting the urge to climb him like a tree.

‘Hi,' he says. ‘Can I come in?'

‘Sure.' I stand back and close the door behind him. This room is small enough that his presence fills it, and the intimacy only increases when he looks my practically naked body up and down with a hunger that's frankly astounding, because I've had it in my head since Monday that Dex's brain would be full of Max, Max, Max and not much else.

‘You look fucking incredible,' he says, dragging his orgasm-inducing eyes up from my boobs to my face with visible effort.

I smile coyly, never one to resist a compliment. ‘Thanks.'

He takes a step closer. ‘I want to say sorry, but—do you think I can hold you while I do?'

‘Okay,' I say. I'm really sweaty, but it looks like he is, too. Besides, I'm wearing a fucking diamond-studded demi-cup with my nipples sitting prettily on top of it, so I figure he wins out, sweat or no sweat.

He hooks both arms around my waist and tugs me against him, running his fingertips up the groove in my spine. I look up at him—I've kicked my heels off so I need to crane my neck. His eyes are hooded. Haunted.

‘Leaving you hanging like that after the other night was despicable,' he whispers. ‘I'm a complete twat, and I've been beating myself up so much. I just—I was so busy getting my knickers in a twist about the whole thing that my solution was to bury my head in the sand and pretend it never happened.'

My eyes widen, because it physically hurts to hear that statement, but he backtracks.

‘Fuck—I didn't mean… Jesus. Okay, let me start again.' His hands are still moving over my damp skin. I need to put a robe on or get in the shower before I get cold, but I don't want to move. ‘Every single second with you was incredible,' he says. ‘All of it. The bed. The shower. The things you let me do to you. It's no exaggeration to say it was the most incredible night of my life by a million miles. Do you understand?'

I nod, relief coursing through me. He wraps me up tighter, dipping his head lower till it feels like he might kiss me, and I wind my arms around his neck. It feels so, so good to be this close to him. My nipples are pressing against his shirt, his heat a balm to my rapidly chilling body.

‘But the stuff with, um, Max was'—he chokes out a laugh—‘a fucking can of worms the like of which I've never had to deal with, and when I tell you it sent me into a shit-spiral all week… I was far too busy freaking out and being in denial that I didn't take care of your needs, and I'm so, so sorry. I know that night was a big deal for you, too, and you handled the whole thing so much better than I did, and I'm thoroughly ashamed of myself.'

I consider my response. ‘I know you were freaking out. It was pretty obvious from the way you left, and that's why I wanted to check in. But I needed some reassurance, too, that you didn't hate me for my part in it.'

Because no girl wants to be a part of someone's memory from hell, no matter how liberated they are, and no matter how much of a confident, sassy front they put on on stage. So when a guy comes inside your body twice and then leaves you on read for days and days, it's hard not to take it personally and it's really hard not to feel stupid and clingy.

‘I could never hate you, and I could never have asked for you to be more perfect than you are. You did nothing wrong. I'm a grown man, and my reaction to Max wasn't anything to do with you. I'm still kicking myself for walking out and not looking after your needs properly, and he quite rightly had a go at me for that.'

I twist my mouth at his reference to Monday, because all the spiralling I've done over his perceived rejection of me morphed into pretty full-on obsessing over his and Max's dynamic once I heard what had happened between them. And get this—I haven't even had major details from Max.

It's almost like what went down is too sacred for him to divulge, even with me. And while I'm pleasantly surprised that Max has that much respect for Dex, and for whatever dynamic is between them, it scares the shit out of me, too.

Because Max and I are great together.

Dex and I are great together.

But I can't compete with the kind of forbidden fruit Max may well represent to Dex or with the extreme challenge Dex clearly is to Max.

Dex is that guy. I don't have to have known him long to understand that. It's so obvious he's the one everyone would have fallen for at school. At uni. In New York. He's so staggeringly beautiful, so anguished and soulful and mysterious.

He's the guy you lose your heart to.

And while I accept his apology, and I truly believe he didn't mean to hurt me, I know exactly how capable he would be of unconsciously hurting anyone who got close to him if they let him.

Because he's quite simply devastating, even if he has no fucking clue.

Especiallybecause he has no fucking clue.

So I stand here, and I gaze at him, my heart hurting, and I wonder how someone as sweet and genuine as him can be potentially so lethal.

‘Say something,' he pleads, and I shake my head like I'm scared to let it all out.

‘Where does all this leave me?' I ask, which is the bottom line, really. I could ask him how he feels about getting seriously intimate with Max. I could ask him if he's any closer to figuring out his sexuality or admitting truths about himself. But I'm wrung out from my performance, and I'm wrung out just from seeing him, to be honest, and I don't have the energy to be anything other than self-serving right now.

‘That depends on you,' he says, releasing me so he can reach over and grab my big fluffy robe. ‘Here, you're getting cold. Put this on.' He drapes the robe around me and ties it for me, and says, ‘You being warm is more important than me getting an eyeful,' and his grin as he says it is so damn sweet.

I love that he noticed I was cold, and I like that he's put my robe on me, because it makes me feel less vulnerable.

‘What do you mean, it depends on me?'

‘I mean the ball's in your court. I know it might not be clear from my abysmal behaviour, but I am very, very into you. I didn't walk in here last week thinking I had the remotest chance with you—I thought Max well and truly had his claws into you. But I was all in as soon as he told me you were interested.' He gives a little laugh. ‘I'm honestly not sure I've ever wanted anyone as much as I wanted you the other night, or as much as I want you right now.'

I suspect that's a half-truth. I suspect he hasn't wanted any other women as much as me. There's no way I can compete with Max in this moment, but maybe it's not a competition. Maybe Dex isn't thinking about choosing right now. To be honest, I don't want to raise it. I don't want to force his hand. I just want him to kiss me.

‘I want you just as much,' I whisper, and he dips his face to mine and brushes his perfect, perfect mouth over my lips.

‘Is it okay to kiss you?' he asks. ‘Without Max here, I mean?'

Is he for fucking real? ‘I don't recall him speed-dialling me before he wrapped his mouth around your dick,' I retort a little more feistily than I mean to, and he recoils.

‘Fuck. I never thought about that. Not for one second. He was so—it was so intense, and I was so busy obsessing over how I was betraying myself that it never occurred to me we were betraying you.'

Well, that's wrong on so many levels I barely know where to start.

‘Max and I aren't like that,' I tell him. ‘We're not super formal. We're just… fucking.'

He frowns. ‘But you've spent every night with him recently, haven't you?'

Yeah. I suppose I have. I shrug. ‘What I mean is we haven't had that conversation. So it's fine. He can blow you and I can kiss you. It's all good. But it makes me sad when you say you felt you were betraying yourself. That's awful, Dex. Did you not enjoy it?'

He does that unhappy little laugh again, rubbing my back through my robe. ‘I enjoyed it so much my soul left my body.'

‘Well then,' I say softly, ‘maybe that means you were finally honouring yourself. What do you think?'

He groans. ‘I think I have so much work to do on myself it terrifies me.'

‘You know what I think? I think I should come over later on Friday. I think you and Max need some time alone together to figure stuff out when he's not blindsiding you in the shower or ambushing you in your office. Hmm?'

His face falls. ‘But I want you there. I'm scared of seeing him—I was counting on you being there.'

‘I'll be there,' I say. ‘Later. I promise. But if you're scared of seeing him then I can't be some kind of buffer. You need to spend some time together when you're not feeling vulnerable and defensive. Give him a chance. He's so amazing.'

‘If you promise you'll turn up at some point,' he says, feathering my jaw with kisses. ‘I want it to be the three of us.'

‘I promise,' I say again. I really want this talk to be done so he can kiss me, dammit. But I have one more thing I have to get out, because Dex is damaged and scared, and he's on the defensive. He's already given me ample proof that he's not thinking about how his actions might go over with us. ‘But listen to me, okay?'

‘What is it?' he murmurs against my neck.

‘Just give us both a chance,' I say. ‘Don't armour up too much. This all works both ways—you're not the only one with skin in the game, you know?'

He lifts his head so he can look me in the eye. ‘Oh, God. I know. And I'm so fucking sorry, angel. I'm still kicking myself. I won't hurt you again if you give me another chance, I promise.'

I cup his dear, beautiful face in my hands so I can make sure he's paying attention. ‘I wasn't just talking about me,' I say, and I catch the flare of shock and, I think pleasure, in his astonishing eyes when my words hit home.