82. Max

It's rare that the sight of my spectacular girlfriend dancing on stage at Alchemy doesn't raise a smile (and an erection) from me. But I've been so fucking worried for Dex that I'm barely registering her, even though the sight of her writhing in tonight's prop—a giant champagne coupe full of bubbly water—is gratifying in the extreme.

I can tell Dex he's perfect till I'm blue in the face.

I can tell him it'll all be worth it.

I can tell him that if his father's values are this warped, then his good opinion means less than nothing.

But none of it helps, because he's still the one who has to walk in there and confess to the man who raised him that he's queer and in love with two people. For all the tough love I spout at him, I'd love nothing more than to bear this cross for him. To go in there and tell Ben Scott, who is clearly a religious nut, that his son is a king among men and that loving him is the greatest honour of my life.

Thank fuck Belle's there with him.

I had a couple of drinks with Rafe earlier next door. The guy is a lost puppy when his wife's not around, and he hates the thought of her having to deal with her dad almost as much as I hate Dex having to do it, but he's opted to wait in the bar for her while I watch my girlfriend undulate in her bird bath, sending water and bubbles sloshing over the edge.

Then suddenly Dex is here, and all is good with the world, because I can take over now.

I can look after him.

He looks drained, but not as stricken as I'd feared he might. He's winding through the crowd, and I laugh when he gives a copulating couple on an ottoman a wide berth and a horrified look. My uptight little prince has come a long way, but he still has a way to go.

When he sees me, though, his entire demeanour changes. His face lifts, and he looks at me as though he's never truly seen me before. Like I'm some kind of mirage.

Perhaps, after what he's just endured, I am.

‘Well?' I demand above the music as he closes the gap between us. I don't touch him. I've never touched him in public—not the way I want to. I wouldn't do that to him.

‘It's done,' he says, and he shoots me a smile that's exhausted and seriously fucking triumphant, and then, for the first time in a public place, he tugs me into his arms and puts his mouth to mine.

Dex won't stop kissingme. He's devouring me like it's been twelve months and not twelve hours since we last saw each other. Like he needs the nerve endings of our lips and our tongues to explain viscerally to him that he has me.

‘God, I love you so fucking much,' he mumbles when we finally come up for air.

I thread my fingers through his hair and hold his head in a firm cradle. ‘I love you, too. What the hell happened with your dad? You okay?'

He laughs. ‘Not remotely. But also—maybe?'

‘Was it horrific?'

‘He didn't let himself down. He was every bit as vile and judgemental as I knew he'd be, and he told me we were all damned and that he'd never condone our relationship. Oh, and he referenced St. Paul.'

I roll my eyes. ‘Of course he did. And your mum?'

‘She'd like to meet you guys, I think. I'll give her some processing time, though.'

‘So it's done. This is it—you're going to come out now?'

He shrugs carelessly. ‘Yup. I've done the hardest part, I guess. And you're too fucking gorgeous for me to stay away from you any longer.'

I squint at him. ‘Are you drunk?'

‘Not drunk enough.' He plants his palms flat on my chest and licks his lips. ‘I'm shell-shocked, I think. That was the most brutal, surreal thing I've ever done. I feel kind of euphoric, weirdly. Like I don't care about anything anymore.'

I'm not surprised. I can't imagine the adrenalin that's flooding his veins right now. But this fevered, reeling version of Dex, with his glittering eyes and spontaneous public kissing, is a version I can very much get on board with.

‘You'll be feeling a lot more euphoric by the end of the night,' I tell him darkly, and he smirks like all his survival instincts have left the building at the threat of a good fucking.

‘Bring it.'

I jerk my head. ‘Look at our girl.'

He turns then and takes Darcy in, and his entire demeanour softens. ‘Holy fuck,' he mutters, his fingers flexing over my heart. ‘Do you think we can get one of those giant glasses for your flat?'

Darcy is balancing on the—hopefully reinforced—rim of the glass, creating pretty sprays of water across the stage with her kicks. The droplets glow pink under the lights. In keeping with tonight's retro, speakeasy theme, she's in a pale pink sequinned thong and matching nipple tassels, and she is so going to get it from us it's not funny.

‘I'll get you anything you want,' I whisper in his ear. ‘I'm so very, very proud of you.'

He turns his head sharply back to me. Our gazes hold, cutting through the music, the roomful of people dancing and fucking and fooling around, like lasers through fog. I turn us gently so he's facing Darcy.

‘Really?' he asks.

I nod, sliding my hands down his arms before putting my fingers to the top of his zip. He's here, and he's a miracle, and he's set himself free, and he is ours now, mine and Darcy's. Fully, wonderfully ours.

To love and to cherish from this day forward.

‘Will you let me show you how much?'