83. Dex

Istare into the beautiful face of the man I love. It's my favourite version of his face—the one he makes when he wants me so badly he's scarcely capable of knowing his own name. He's vibrating with it.

I want nothing more than to be alone with him and Darcy right now—to wrench her off the stage and wrap her in a fluffy towel and march them both to a private room. I ache for it, because this will, honest to God, be the first time we've been together with the golden light of benediction shining on us.

The benediction I bestowed upon us.

The benediction I didn't know I had the authority to give, when it turns out I was, all along, the only one who could give it.

And it terrifies me to think I may never have got that memo.

But Darcy has another few minutes before her set ends, and Max is looking at me with the whole world in those big blue eyes of his, and nobody can push me out of my comfort zone like him to heights I didn't know I needed, and I'm already hardening from his kisses, and the beat of Beyoncé's sultry, sexed-up version of Back to Black is coursing through my veins, and every hedge fund manager in Mayfair is probably here tonight, and if I'm going to be out, I may as well be fucking out.

So I kiss him, and I say yes.

The expression on his handsome face morphs instantly from need to satisfaction. If he wants to take this as a win, he should go for it, because of the two of us I'm the one getting blown.

The man at the helm of Europe's biggest IPO in half a decade is about to sink to his knees and suck me off in a sex club,before the great and good of the finance industry, and fuck my life in the best possible way, because if telling Dad to essentially go fuck himself felt surreal, this is on another level.

As if he can read my mind, he puts his mouth to my ear and whispers hotly, ‘Everyone's going to know you're my absolute favourite little fuck toy now, and I want you to show them how much you fucking love it.'

He's right, of course. They will, and I will. Max holds the power here, whether he's on his knees or not.

And I fucking love it.

‘I'll show them,' I say hoarsely, and he chuckles.

‘I know you will, you little slut.'

I'm still laughing, my head thrown back, when he licks down my exposed throat and sinks to his knees with an elegance, a dignity, only Max can pull off.

I expect him to merely unzip me, but he unbuckles my belt and then unzips me, shoving my trousers and boxer briefs down with brutal efficiency until they're around my ankles and only my shirt tails preserve my modesty.

It's one way to ensure I don't do a runner, I suppose.

Then he licks the length of me, and I go from semi-hard to hard so fast the edges of my vision darken, while in the centre of it my beautiful girlfriend splashes around happily and shakes her fantastic, tassel-clad breasts at us.

If this is my new reality, I'll be the happiest sinner who ever sinned.

Alchemy:

Physical change.

A universal panacea.

Elaborate transformation.

The gold-embossed coasters in the bar next door inform us that alchemy is all this and more, an elixir of immortality, even. All I can say is that there's something in the water in this place.

The first time I came here, a woman bewitched me.

The second time, a man cast a spell on me from which I will never recover.

And now, all these times later, the timid, jumpy version of myself who first crossed this threshold is unrecognisable. I stand here, one lover blowing me, and as I cradle his head in my hands and bask in his onslaught while I watch the coquettish antics of my other lover on stage.

Just when I think my evening can't improve more from the very fucking low base of my father's reaction, Darcy spots me. Us. The two women who were blocking Max and me from her view move away, and I see the second she finds me before her gaze drops to Max's head and shoulders.

She gives me a wonderful Dita-Von-Teese-style smile, a curvature of her scarlet lips, before spotting what Max is doing and full-on breaking character for a second with an epic jaw-drop. She quickly recovers and blows us a saucy kiss before resuming a precarious crab-like pose, arched over the glass.

I drag my fingers through Max's hair in approval, because fuck is his mouth a wicked, wicked thing, and shudder with pleasure. It's only the second time he's done this to me, and I suspect the lessons he intends to impart is very different from the ones he taught me in my office.

You're mine now.

You made the right choice.

I promise it's worth it.

I've got you.

It's not romantic. It's not intended to be. He's devouring me, tongue swirling and cheeks hollowed as he caresses my balls and trails a decisive fingertip along my taint. As usual, he makes it feel like he's doing this for himself, that he's taking rather than giving, using me rather than indulging me.

It's as if, when he sees fit to milk me dry, it'll be imperiously, for his own pleasure, and I'll come on demand because he's declared it so, and that very arrogance, the entitlement with which he plays my body, knowing precisely how I'll respond, has my senses heightening and my inhibitions fading and that sublime heat in my dick building.

Darcy's torn down whatever veil she usually maintains between her and the audience, as her performance takes on a new edge. It's less playful, more hungry, as if she wants to contribute to my growing ecstasy, to feed my senses right alongside Max. As if my arousal is fuelling hers.

She faces the crowd and spreads her legs right there for us, her nipple tassels swaying, and God. I can't wait to lay her on a bed and feast on her and make those little pink nipples feel all better.

Keeping my eyes open is growing arduous, or it would be if my favourite little tease wasn't putting on one hell of a show for us. She bites down on her bottom lip and slides her hand under the front of her thong, which is taking things further than she usually does.

Everyone cheers her on.

But she doesn't take her eyes off me.

Max has ramped up his pace as if he can wait no longer for me to blow, as if my holding off any further is a personal affront. I groan aloud, the noise vibrating in my throat before being swallowed up by the music, and let him know with the dig of my fingertips into the base of his skull just how close I am.

When the intoxicating wetness and clever pulls of his perfect mouth tug me all the way under, I yield, head back, eyes squeezed shut, my body subsumed by wave after crashing wave of violent pleasure. He wrings every drop from me and I stand there, in the centre of a sex club, taking it all and wondering how an act that should apparently be a new moral low for me can be quite such a spectacular high.

I'm suddenly, horrifyingly aware of wolf-whistling and cat-calling around me and jerk my head upright and my eyes open. Surely they're not applauding me and Max?

But no. They're applauding a soaking wet and brightly smiling Darcy, who's leapt down from her kinky glass bath and is shimmying off the stage and forging a path straight to us.