UNFURL: A HOT AGE-GAP

ROMANCE

ELODIE HART
Copyright © 2023 by Elodie Hart
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means,
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For my beautiful Nerds
THANK YOU

for having my back,

shining your light,
and making me smile
every day.
xx
 CONTENTS
CONTENT ADVISORY
1. Belle
2. Rafe
3. Belle
4. Belle
5. Belle
6. Belle
7. Rafe
8. Belle
9. Belle
10. Rafe
11. Rafe
12. Belle
13. Belle
14. Belle
15. Rafe
16. Belle
17. Rafe
18. Belle
19. Belle
20. Belle
21. Belle
22. Rafe
23. Belle
24. Belle
25. Rafe
26. Rafe
27. Rafe
28. Belle
29. Belle
30. Belle
31. Belle
32. Belle
33. Belle
34. Belle
35. Rafe
36. Belle
37. Belle
38. Belle
39. Rafe
40. Belle
41. Belle
42. Rafe
43. The Very Girthy EPIC-logue: Adieu
A NOTE FROM SARA (ELODIE)
Acknowledgments
MY SARA MADDERSON BOOKS:
 CONTENT ADVISORY

This book is spicy! It’s intended for mature audiences only.

My FMC, Belle, gets taken care of by more than one guy at a time (though
she and my MMC, Rafe, do have a monogamous HEA). Rafe has sex with
other women, one on the page, before he and Belle get together. If this isn’t
your bag, feel free to skip this one.
It also contains overt criticism of the Catholic church, characters exhibiting
religious extremism, sexual role plays that are highly blasphemous, and
emotionally controlling parental behaviour.
 1

BELLE

W
hen you’ve spent your entire life being told something is wrong—
and by wrong, I mean bad, wicked, sinful—there are two obvious
ways to respond.
You can abstain from said wicked path. Avoid it, fear it, like it’s the
plague itself. Like it has the power to tear you apart. To destroy all you
know to be good and pure.
Even to kill you.
Or you can become fixated on it. For wasn’t it the apple’s forbidden
nature that tormented Eve so cruelly, rather than any inherent qualities
concealed beneath that rosy skin? In short, you can grow so fixated that the
desire to experience this evil path, to know it, consumes you until you fall
headlong into a life of sin.
I, personally, have been known to choose both responses. Not
something I’d recommend. The push-pull of temptation and terror, of
obsession and mortal fear, is exhausting. When you fear something as much
as you long to live it, it tears you apart.
It’s torn me apart.
And I’m done with the torment.
Now I just want the ecstasy.
I want a bite of the apple.
Not just a bite. I want to sink my teeth in. I want to pierce rosy skin
until it yields juicy flesh that cascades down my chin.
 I want to devour it.
I want to know all the ways I will never be the same after I’ve tasted it.
I want the apple’s sweet, sweet nectar to undo me. Transform me.
And by apple I mean sex.
Obviously.

MY HAIR IS STRAIGHT . Groomed. Glossy.

My dress, a classic white fit-and-flare laser-cut shift by Alaia, is
exquisitely tasteful.
My makeup is dewy. Radiant. Flawless.
No wonder Mummy wants to show me off like a doll. A prize.
She and Daddy love people to look. Admire.
But not to touch.
Not that I ever challenge them on that front.
There’s no point.
I run a fingertip, its perfectly oval nail painted a low-key nude, over the
immaculate surface of the dresser at my parents’ flat, although to call it a
flat is like calling da Vinci’s Last Supper a painting. Their suite of rooms
overlooking Hyde Park was a serious chunk of London real estate even
before its recent seven-figure makeover (eight-figure, if you include their
latest art purchases).
Now it’s spectacular. And that’s the only reason I’m prepared to endure
Mummy’s little soirée tonight. I can stomach being introduced to the
antiquated inhabitants of this mansion block if it means I get the whole
place to myself for three glorious months this summer. Mummy and Daddy
are going on a European tour, and I’ll be free to luxuriate in their insane
pad.
Not that my own flat isn’t stunning. It’s a beautiful maisonette in South
Ken. It’s just not… this. It doesn’t have the outrageous terrace facing Hyde
Park, nor the marble kitchen, nor the impressive ceiling height, nor the
ornate white mouldings, nor the exquisite new all-white paintings Daddy
bought Mummy for her birthday, whose extraordinary textures look like
creamy scoops of ice cream straight out of an authentic Italian gelateria.
 So yes. A couple of hours of small talk is a palatable enough price to
pay for three months of being unleashed in my parents’ home. I’m already
swooning over the dinner parties I can throw in their light-filled dining
room, with drinks on the terrace overlooking the park. Other twenty-two-
year-olds may be tempted to hold a rave. Not me. I’d rather pretend to be a
grownup, a fabulous host entertaining her close friends in her to-die-for flat.
‘Walk me through who’s coming again?’ I ask Mummy, making sure to
inject into my tone a measure of enthusiasm I don’t feel. I always give my
parents what they want to hear. To see. It’s far easier to let them think I’m
exactly who they want me to be. Raised me to be.
She gives me a wide smile, one that says that’s my baby and sends a
cold wave of guilt washing over me. Don’t get me wrong. My mother is a
total sweetie. She’s delightful. It’s just that she lives life in a bubble, with
far too much of that bubble being of my father’s creation.
And because I can’t change her, I placate her. No point upsetting the
carefully honed equilibrium of our household.
As I said before, it’s not worth it.
Besides, I can’t blame her. When you live with a person whose
emotional state dominates everything, who’s never got the memo that
opinions aren’t facts or that he doesn’t get to tell other adults (or children)
what to think, then you learn to put up and shut up.
Me, I’ve worked out, belatedly and too gradually, that I can think one
thing and say another, but I’m not sure Mummy even knows that’s her right
anymore. My brother Dex worked it out years ago—and then promptly
moved across the Atlantic to buy himself some space from Daddy.
‘Peter and Joyce from the ground floor will be here,’ Mummy says now.
‘Of course.’ I’ve met them before. Sweet couple, around my parents’
age.
‘The McPartlins. Without the kids.’ She shudders. She’s mentioned
before that the McPartlin kids are beautifully behaved in their own
immaculate home and total liabilities when they’re let loose anywhere else.
Mummy and Daddy’s flat is far too nice to turn them loose in.
She reels off the names of three or four other couples and then nudges
me, a mischievous smile on her face.
‘And Rafe Charlton. You know, the man who bought the penthouse. He
just moved in a couple of weeks ago. He’s very dishy. Far too old for you,
of course, but he’s quite charming when I see him in the lift. Went to
Loyola.’
I smile while internally rolling my eyes. Of course he did. Saint Ignatius
of Loyola College is the most exclusive and hardcore Catholic boys’ school
in the country. Come to think of it, it’s probably more hardcore than even
the schools the Irish can produce. Named for the founder of the Jesuit order,
it’s known for its conservative teachings and the staggering success of its
alumni in business and government.
Which means if this Rafe guy went there, he’s either a monk or a
deviant.
Not that I can afford to cast aspersions on either of those fronts, because
while I may outwardly be the former, I suspect the thoughts I entertain
when I’m alone in my bed make me the latter in reality.
Whatever. I’ve been to school dances with enough Loyola guys in the
past to know it’s worth giving them a seriously wide berth. And if he’s
engaging Mummy’s radar, then he’s probably dull as ditchwater. I smile to
myself as I imagine a tall, gangly, socially awkward man with Catholic
morals and zero understanding of how the female pleasure centres work.
No.
He won’t do for my purposes at all.

H ALF AN HOUR LATER , I’m in full conversation with Peter and Joyce from
the ground floor about the colour scheme of the herbaceous borders in Hyde
Park this spring (although I’m contributing little more than automatic
smiles that mask intense boredom and a few polite noises) when I sense the
weight of someone’s stare behind my back.
I ignore it, because I’m too well bred to turn away from a conversation,
but moments later, Mummy’s at my shoulder.
‘I’m terribly sorry to interrupt,’ she says to Peter and Joyce (whose
surname I fail to recollect, if indeed I’ve ever known it). ‘Do you mind if I
borrow Belle for a second? I’d like to introduce her to Rafe.’
‘Excuse me,’ I murmur smilingly, and I allow myself to swivel into
Mummy’s guiding hand.
Oh, God.
 It’s not just his physical presence.
The ease with which he fills out his beautifully cut suit.
The rich brown eyes boring into mine.
The somehow perfect texture of his dark hair, as if someone’s styled it
for him and he’s messed it right up again.
No, it’s none of those things on their own. Though don’t get me wrong;
the guy ticks every single box.
What hits me right in my lower stomach area with a shot of warmth is
the confidence he exudes. And not just general confidence, because he’s
clearly successful, judging from his clothing. His shoes. That watch
catching the evening sunlight as he holds his tumbler of whisky.
It’s a very specific type of confidence.
It’s a look that somehow telegraphs this exact thought to me:
This guy definitely knows his way around a woman’s body.
 2

RAFE

I
f there’s a market to be made in something, I will make it.
Trust me.
Stocks. Commodities. Property. Bonds, obviously. FX. Derivatives
on all the above. Exotic derivatives. Crypto. Wine. Art. NFTs on art.
Sex.
It’s not what you’re thinking.
Sex is the oldest market in the world. But I’m not talking about making
a market with sex on one side of the transaction and money on the other.
No.
Sure, money plays a part in my world. Of course it does. But it’s not the
primary currency in which I operate. Not when it comes to sex.
At its most elementary, the market that fascinates me is the coming
together of two people who both want satisfaction.
But satisfaction is a base concept.
A transactional one.
I can do better than that.
The ultimate market-making skill is bringing together two people who
each have a currency the other wants. A currency that can bring the other
not mere satisfaction.
But transcendence.
Alchemy.
 This perfect pairing of currencies is regularly on offer in my exclusive
club.
The experience of one party.
And the innocence of the other.
There’s nothing an innocent craves more than the assurance of being in
safe hands. Of being cosseted in the proficient cocoon of a veteran. A pro.
Shown the ropes, as it were.
Figuratively or literally.
Similarly, in the jaded eyes of one who has seen and done it all, there’s
nothing like having an innocent bestow upon you the greatest gift of all—
his or her trust.
The trust that you will safeguard them. Protect them. All the while
showing them what is possible. Teaching them to fly. To soar.
Giving them the gift of transcendence.
That’s why it’s one of the most symbiotic of all human dynamics. One
that’s stood the test of time.
Pupil and teacher.
Mentee and mentor.
If one was of a religious inclination, one might even call it the innocent
and the damned.
In case I’m not clear, in all scenarios at my club—which, incidentally
but certainly not accidentally, hails by the name of Alchemy—I’m the
damned. No matter where on the scale my partner—or partners, if I’m
honest—may fall.
And it doesn’t take more than a second to size up the woman in front of
me as decidedly innocent.
Well, well, well.
I wasn’t expecting this when I accepted Lauren’s invitation to drinks.
I’d love you to meet my daughter, she said.
I’ll feel better if she knows some of her neighbours when we’re away,
she said.
She didn’t mention her precious daughter was every man’s darkest
fantasies in human form.
I accepted because I’m not a total twat, and because Lauren and
Benedict seem like decent people, even if they are the types of ardent
church-goers and active Catholics I avoid like the fucking plague these
days. I’ve only met them a couple of times in the hallway since I moved in,
but they’ve already dropped God and His extended family into the
conversation more times than I can count.
But I wasn’t expecting her to present me with a visual feast that
conjures up vivid memories of the Bridget Hall posters on my bedroom
wall in the Nineties.
Holy fuck.
I size her up even as I’m lowering my tumbler and transferring it to my
left hand so I can extend my right.
This girl is fucking gorgeous.
A sleek, athletic figure showcased in classic Azzedine Alaïa. I’ve dated
enough high-maintenance women to know Alaïa’s Bond Street flagship like
the back of my hand. The dress says this girl’s comfortable in her own skin
and has style but isn’t a crazed follower of fashion. Alaïa’s pieces are
timeless.
Legs for days.
Limbs all honey-coloured and glossy. Just like her hair.
Wide-set hazel eyes and a little snub nose, with the perfect smattering of
freckles over the bridge. She’s probably done a couple of mini-breaks in the
Med already this summer. My brain immediately shuts down a visual of her
stretched out in a skimpy bikini on a sun lounger in Cap d’Antibes or
Positano before it can properly form.
A full bottom lip I’d kill to press my thumb against before I got her on
her knees.
A mouth that’s made to take dick.
And yet, I’d put money on the fact that no guy has been that fucking
lucky yet.
As my hand wraps around her cool, slim fingers and I utter my own
name in a tone that sounds remarkably calm to my ears, I assess her likely
sexual history in the way I do automatically with every woman I meet.
Yes, I’m a dick.
No, I can’t help myself.
She’s slept with one guy, I decide. One long-term boyfriend at uni. He
was probably called Luke, or Carl. Something clean. Wholesome. He was
most likely captain of the swim squad or the hockey team. An over-achiever
who always gave his all.
Except in bed, where he was fucking useless. A massive under-achiever
where showing this beautiful creature the capabilities of her own body was
not a priority compared to having her on his arm at black tie events.
I bet he only fucked her missionary.
Come to think of it, I bet she’s never had an orgasm with another person
in the room.
What a fucking waste. If I was with this woman, I’d fuck her every
which way. I’d have her comatose from orgasms. Those eyes glazed. Those
golden limbs draped over mine, spent from pleasure.
What?
I’m just stating facts here.
My throat tightens.
‘Please do excuse me, Rafe.’ Lauren’s voice snaps me out of my mental
fuck-fest. Jesus Christ, I went from nought to sixty in no time at all there.
‘The McPartlins have arrived. I just need to make them feel welcome.’
‘Of course,’ I say smoothly. Thank you, universe. I can’t be all bad if the
powers that be still deem it acceptable to work in my favour, can I?
‘I’m Belle.’ The beautiful honey-blonde creature shakes my hand with a
surprisingly decent grip, although those incredible tiger eyes of hers are
impossibly wide.
‘Belle.’ My mouth curves up into a smirk. ‘Appropriate.’
‘It’s short for Belina, actually,’ she says, flustered, as she extricates her
hand from mine.
I frown. ‘Belina? I’ve never heard of that name. What is it—Italian?’
‘It’s French. I’m named after a twelfth-century French saint.’
‘Let me guess.’ I arch an eyebrow. ‘Virgin martyr.’
An angry red stains her jaw and her bare neck.
Fascinating.
I bet that crimson hue rips across her flesh when she comes.
‘Unfortunately for her, yes.’ She takes a hasty sip of her wine.
‘That’s a tough act to follow,’ I muse. Jesus. The shit women had to
suffer hundreds of years ago. Although too many women of my
acquaintance are still in a prison of society’s making and totally fucking
oblivious to it. Like this one here, if my instincts are right.
‘It’s just a name. And I happen to think it’s pretty.’ There’s a droplet of
white wine on her lower lip. It takes all my limited reserves of decency not
to reach up and swipe at it. Her small pink tongue darts out to lick it, and I
groan inwardly.
Jesus Christ.
 On second thoughts, I retract that bet with myself.
There’s no way Luke, or whoever he was, didn’t push his dick past those
lips. There’s no way anyone could resist that pink plushness around their
cock.
‘It’s very pretty, Belina,’ I say with a coolness I don’t feel. And she’s
right. It is. Screw the poor girl a millennium ago who died to preserve her
virtue. It’s a great name.
And I really like the way it sounds on my tongue.
‘So when did you move in, Rafe?’ she asks, the politely bland tone she’s
likely been bred to adopt at parties at odds with her face, which still looks
discomfited.
I really like that I’m making her twitchy.
And I like my name on her lips even more.
Even if the emphasis she gives it suggests she’s taking the piss out of
me for doing the same with her name.
‘Around Easter. Same time your parents moved back into this place.’ I
look around admiringly. They’ve done a stunning job here. ‘Between us, I
think we pissed all the neighbours off pretty royally with our renovations.’
That earns me a genuine giggle, and it’s fucking adorable.
‘I hope you’re ready to grovel this evening, then,’ she says. ‘Sounds like
someone needs to get back in the good books. Otherwise the McPartlins
might set their kids on you as punishment.’
She leans in as she whispers this last bit, and the intimacy of it gives me
a jolt of pleasure.
‘I have no idea who the McPartlins are, or their kids,’ I tell her. ‘Should
I be scared?’
She grins at me. Her eyes are shining with delight at whatever
conspiracy she thinks we’re undertaking, when, really, I’m just watching
that pink fuck-me mouth.
‘Let’s say there’s a reason why Mummy didn’t invite them here this
evening. The flat’s no longer considered an appropriate place for them to,
uh, play post renovation. They’re holy terrors.’ She mouths the last words,
and I’m torn between watching her lips and marvelling at the fact that she
still calls her mum Mummy. It serves as an uncomfortably hot reminder of
just how young she is.
‘Jesus,’ I say. ‘Sounds like I need to earn some brownie points tonight,
then.’
 ‘Definitely.’ Her eyes dance. ‘But you’re settling in well? Where were
you before?’
‘I had a place in Chelsea, but my offices are in Mayfair, and I like being
a bit further north—means I can walk through the park to work. And yes,
I’m settling in fine, thanks.’
Especially now I know you’ll be spending the summer here. Right
underneath me, as it were.
‘Is your flat similar to this?’ she asks, and I can tell she means it
innocently. Her expression is guileless. Unfortunately, she’s not trying to
get into my flat. Or my boxers.
I cast my eyes around the space. ‘The layout looks similar. My terrace is
bigger, just because it’s the penthouse. My colour scheme’s far darker.’
‘Like, evil lair darker?’
I mock-frown. ‘I’m pretty sure the brief I gave the designer was
opulently masculine. Intimate. But you’re welcome to come and look
around sometime if you’re curious.’
I throw the invitation out lightly, but her brow creases.
‘Oh God—I wasn’t angling for an invitation. Sorry.’
‘I know you weren’t.’ I shrug easily and raise my tumbler to my mouth.
‘But the door’s open anytime, whether you need something or you want to
drool over my art. That’s what tonight’s about, correct? So you have some
friendly faces in the building while you’re staying here?’
‘I suppose so. But I wouldn’t want to impose.’
‘Never an imposition.’ You have no idea, sweetheart, how much I’d love
to get you into my evil lair.
Her face brightens. ‘Tell me about your art.’
‘You like art?’
‘I’m in art.’
‘Really?’ My eyebrow raises again. ‘What area?’
‘Well…’ She looks prepared to backtrack. ‘I feel a bit pompous saying
I’m in art when I’ve just started. I got a job at Liebermann’s.’
I purse my lips, impressed. ‘They’re the real deal.’
‘Thanks. I’m super junior, but it’s a dream come true.’
‘What are you doing for them?’
‘I’m a junior sales associate. I just started last month—I finished my
Master’s early.’
 Liebermann’s is one of the most prestigious contemporary art galleries
in the world, with offices in London and New York. I’ve bought a couple of
pieces from them, but clearly I need to frequent them more often.
‘Do they have you on commission yet?’
‘Yeah.’ She nods proudly. She’s adorable.
‘Hmm. I buy most of my stuff from Gagosian or White Cube,’ I tell her.
‘But maybe I should broaden my horizons.’ My dealer at Gagosian is also a
member of Alchemy, and let’s say we’ve enjoyed each other’s company
outside the walls of the gallery.
‘You could come in one day,’ she says shyly. ‘See what we’ve got to
offer. I’d be happy to show you around.’
Again, she says it guilelessly. She’s not angling for commission or
flirting with me. But my stupid cock can’t help but twitch. Clever bastards,
snapping her up. I get a crystal-clear vision of her sashaying through the
gallery in that white dress. She exudes class. What an asset she’ll be to
them, especially if she knows her stuff.
A few questions from me tell me she really does know her stuff. This
woman’s surprising me. I’d have her down for an Impressionist bore, or an
Old Masters whore, but she really does know her Twombly from her
Gormley. It’s a reminder to myself not to be such a patronising shit. Not to
underestimate her.
‘I’ve been on a spree recently for the flat,’ I say now. ‘But I’ve got a
couple of spaces left that need some special pieces. Maybe you can come
and take a look once you’ve moved in. Let me know what you think would
work.’
‘I’d love to,’ she says brightly, and I smile at her as I grip my tumbler
more tightly.
You cannot fuck Lauren’s sweet little daughter.
You cannot fuck Lauren’s sweet little daughter.
You cannot fuck Lauren’s sweet little daughter.
 3

BELLE

D
addy slams his fork down, his face almost purple.
‘Harry Potter has clear undercurrents of Satanism. I don’t care if
the Vatican has relaxed its stance over the years. And it’s very
dangerous reading material for the minds of young, impressionable
children.’
Here’s what I want to say to that particular outburst:
One. You mean in my opinion.
Two. You’re fucking delusional.
Three. Shut the fuck up and stop being so fucking defensive for once.
The entire world is not a giant axis of evil employed on a single-minded
mission to attack the crumbling walls of the Catholic Church.
Four. In fact, the Church does a pretty good job of ruining its defences
all by itself.
Five: Dangerous? Seriously? Or is the Church the only institution
allowed to prey upon the impressionable minds of kids? What was the most
famous saying of St Ignatius of Loyola, founder of the Jesuit order, again?
Oh, yeah. Give me a boy before the age of seven, and I’ll make him a man.
If that doesn’t scream creepy brainwashing of kids, I really don’t know what
does.
Here’s what I actually say:
Not a word.
 Instead, my body does that all-too-familiar thing where it freezes, my
food immediately churning in my stomach, my neck burning, and blind
panic closing darkly in on my peripheral vision. I sit there and will myself
to ride it out all the while desperately racking my brain for the most
placatory thing I can say right now to change the subject, improve Daddy’s
mood, and restore equilibrium at the dinner table on my parents’ last night
before they fly to Italy to embark on their Mediterranean tour.
Because that’s what I do. I fawn.
You’re probably familiar with the three main stress responses: fight,
flight and freeze.
There’s a fourth.
Fawn.
And I’m a major fawner.
Apparently, it’s a proven response among people who’ve grown up in a
household with an emotionally unstable person in it, particularly an adult. I
placate. I smooth over. I bend over backwards to keep the peace, because
the cold dread that washes over me when someone loses their rag is as
irrational as it is real, whether that person’s my own father or some guy
kicking off at the next table in a restaurant.
I say it’s irrational, because my father has never been physically violent.
But that doesn’t stop the cold dread. The desperate itch of the desire to
make things right.
Mummy and I glance at each other while Daddy’s huffing at his
unfinished sea bass as if it is responsible for the perceived darkness of the
world he lives in. She twists her mouth in a way that’s half sympathetic and
half you should know better. And I should. Because every interaction with
my father is a minefield, and usually I weigh every word. Before it was
even out of my mouth, I was mentally retracting my off-hand, well-meant
anecdote about my colleague having taken today off to take her kids to
Harry Potter World.
I want to say it again. Daddy’s not violent. He’s not even… he doesn’t
do this stuff to be a nasty git. What he is is strong-minded, and intellectually
superior, and conservative in his religious views to an extent that’s frankly
terrifying to me. I say conservative, but extreme may be a more accurate
qualifier.
And I should know better.
 ‘The weather’s looking stunning on the Amalfi Coast,’ Mummy says in
the bright, slightly coquettish voice she saves for rescuing us from Daddy’s
mood swings. Because if I’m a pro at fawning, this woman is by necessity a
master.
I immediately pick up the baton. ‘Oh, how gorgeous. What’s the
temperature?’
‘It’s looking like high twenties already.’
‘Heaven,’ I say brightly, as if we’re not both ignoring the elephant in the
room. ‘The boat ride to Positano should be idyllic.’
‘Exactly,’ Mummy says. She addresses Daddy directly with a smile. ‘I
can’t wait till we’re sitting out on our terrace at Le Sirenuse with a large
G&T in hand, Ben.’
And just like that, she pulls Daddy slowly out of his glowering fixation
with the weight of the forces of evil approaching from all sides.
It’s exhausting being in our family.
But, sometimes, I think it must be even more exhausting being inside
Daddy’s head.
Yes, I’m excusing him. I’m excusing his behaviour because he’s not a
bad man, just a fiercely intelligent one who has the courage of his
convictions and whose massive brain has, over the years, preoccupied itself
more and more with, in my view, the wrong priorities.
And, critically, he’s also a man who’s never been told no. He grew up in
a patrician household, he runs a patrician household, and no one’s ever
slapped to his forehead the memo that his opinion isn’t fact. That he doesn’t
have the right to dictate what other people believe with their own minds.
How they shape their own worldview. Despite his staggering intellect, it
seems he’s failed to work this out for himself.
All I know is that, when I’m a parent, I will never, ever dress up an
opinion as a fact in front of my children. Encouraging them to think for
themselves, to treat every perception as something about which they have
the right to form their own opinions, will be the greatest gift I’ll ever give
them.
 4

BELLE

o they’re gone?’ Maddy asks.

‘S ‘Yeah.’ I lift my glass of champagne. ‘Thank God.’
‘Good riddance,’ she echoes, and I smirk guiltily. Because, yep.
That pretty much sums it up.
I’m in the Jean-Georges restaurant at The Connaught Hotel in Mayfair
with my oldest friends, Maddy and Alice, toasting my parents’ departure
and my incredible, if temporary, new pad. And boy, is the decadence of this
place the perfect way to draw a line under my tense and dysfunctional
relationship with my folks, even if just for a few blissful months.
There were two kinds of girls at St Cecilia’s, an exclusive, conservative
and exceedingly strict convent boarding school run by the Dominican order
of nuns. The first were like Alice and me. Outwardly compliant. Inwardly
compliant, for the most part.
The victims of that particular form of persistent Stockholm Syndrome
Catholicism cultivates so well.
The ones who didn’t get the memo that they could actually think for
themselves, because questioning things was not a life skill honed at St
Cecilia’s. No thank you.
Happily for us, the school boasted a generous measure of the other kind
of girl. Girls who, for some murky reason, seemed to have an innate ability
to judge the teachings of the school, and of the Church, and to decide for
themselves whether they were sensible or bullshit. Helpful or unhelpful.
Healthy or unhealthy.
Girls who worked out for themselves that everything we were taught
there about spirituality and life and sex was, at best, questionable and at
worst harmful. Who decided to own their bodies and their decisions about
their bodies.
Girls like Maddy.
She’s my idol. I mean that. For the past ten years, I’ve lived vicariously
through her, watching her girlhood misdemeanours and her adult mistakes
and triumphs and wishing that, just once, I had a tenth of the balls she had.
The balls to flash her bra to our ancient English teacher, Sister Agnes,
when we were studying the poetry of Seamus Heaney and she said, ‘Right,
girls. Seamus.’ Which, of course, sounded like an invitation to shame us.
Yeah.
Or the balls to sneak down to the pub on multiple occasions and kiss the
local boys. She got suspended once and got away with it a million other
times. Maddy would call that an outright victory.
Or the balls to harness the, I don’t know, courage and desire and
initiative to go down on boys long before we left school.
In fact, Maddy lost her virginity long before we left school, too. And the
unbelievable thing, from my and Alice’s perspective, was that the sky did
not fall. She did not get immediately dragged down to hell by Lucifer
himself or explode in a cloud of black smoke.
The most unbelievable thing, to be honest, was that, for Maddy, having
sex was normal. Not forbidden. Not sinful. Not a sign of wicked weakness.
No.
It was an expression of a perfectly natural physical urge between two
consenting adults.
And that’s what still gets me, to this day: that Maddy has the strength
and innate wisdom and inner compass and self-belief to be able to burrow
out from under the weight of the tonnes and tonnes of bullshit we were fed
day in, day out, for most of our adolescence. She has the wherewithal to
think for herself.
I’ve judged her for it, of course, something I’ve tearily admitted to her
several times in recent years. Because it’s hard to emerge from a formative
experience like fourteen years of convent education without being a
judgemental little bitch who’s terrified of crossing the line and
contemptuous of anyone who dares. And the reason for that, in turn, is the
holy terror those nuns instilled in us of erring from what is right. From what
is God’s will.
I might have got better academic scores than Maddy the whole way
through school, but I wish to God I’d paid more attention to her when she
tried to show me, through words and actions, that I was allowed to think for
myself. That all the nuns and priests and parents in the world could not
demand jurisdiction over my brain or my body.
I didn’t work that out till I got to uni, and I’m still unravelling years and
years of crap. Sometimes I think I’m the slowest person there ever was.
But enough of my miserable whining about missed opportunities and
still-lingering moral hangovers. My parents have cleared out for the
summer, I’ve bagged their beautiful pad for three delightful months, and
I’m sitting here, on a powder-blue velvet banquette in one of my favourite
places in London, with my favourite girls.
The soft jazz music is pretty much completely drowned out by the buzz
of beautiful people talking excitedly in every language from Italian to
Mandarin. That we’re eating truffled pizza and being hit on left, right and
centre by businessmen with plenty of swagger and the looks to back it up is
the icing on the cake.
Maddy is regaling us with far too much detail about some guy she
‘fucked’ in the empty private room of a bar last weekend (her word; I don’t
swear except in my head, and I definitely wouldn’t use that word as a verb).
The dynamic is the same as usual.
Alice and I sit there, shocked and tickled pink by her antics, because, as
usual, we have nothing at all to contribute to any conversation about sex.
Alice actually has a serious boyfriend. They got together in her final year of
uni and he’s the only person she’s slept with, but once the dastardly deed
was completed for the first time, she stopped giving us any details. Which I
totally get. Talking about it too much would be disrespectful to George, her
boyfriend.
Not so Maddy.
‘And then,’ she says, leaning forward, ‘he actually got down on his
knees, and pushed up my skirt, and pulled my thong aside, and ate me right
there, up against the wall. It was so fucking amazing, I can’t tell you.’ She
takes a gleeful sip of her Pisco Sour and shimmies on the banquette.
 My neck stains, as usual, and a heat flashes between my carefully
crossed legs. There’s a clench, a pull, that’s welcome and unwelcome in
equal measure, and I mentally add that image to my spank bank.
Not Maddy.
Ugh.
But the idea of a man, a living, red-blooded man, so overcome with
desire for me that he would push me up against the wall and drop to his
knees and pull aside my panties and put his face there?
I swallow.
I can’t even imagine what that might feel like.
Except I can, kind of.
And I want to know for sure how it feels to have the arousal I manage
by myself with the shower head treated to the rough friction of a man’s
actual tongue on my most intimate parts.
Maybe even one particular man’s tongue.
‘God, Mads,’ I mutter faintly, willing my flush under control.
‘Belle.’
A male voice has me jerking my head up. And I swear to God, I’ve
conjured up the very guy whose tongue just infiltrated my fantasies. The
guy whose looks and masculinity and striking confidence I’ve been shyly,
slyly, thinking about when I touch myself at night in the past few days since
my parents’ party.
The guy I was just about to mention to Maddy and Alice, actually.
Except that it’s hard to top Maddy’s story about, you know, that with a story
where I spoke to a guy and nothing else happened.
Now here he is.
And he’s as beautiful as I remember. So beautiful. That seems like a
ridiculous word to use for a man, but I know Michelangelo would have
agreed with me. Would have insisted on immortalising the planes of his
face and the lines of his body in marble, if he’d been around today.
I stand to greet him. His brown eyes are crinkled, his mouth pursed with
amusement, because I’m sure he and everyone else in this bar can see how
flustered I am.
‘Rafe! Hi!’ I say in the gauchest manner ever and tuck a strand of hair
behind my ear as I lean in to kiss him hello. I wouldn’t have the nerve to do
it if he hadn’t kissed me goodbye the other night, an act I’ve replayed ad
nauseam in my head. He smells the same this evening. Expensive and
herbal and male. Delicious. I’m conscious of the slightest brush of his
stubble against mine as we graze cheeks.
‘I thought that was you,’ he says as I pull back. His hands go lightly to
my forearms and his gaze rakes down my body in a way that’s too open to
be polite.
I’m suddenly thrilled I wore my favourite new Valentino dress to work
today. It’s baby pink and perfectly tasteful, but its fit-and-flare silhouette—
my favourite—is definitely flattering. Maddy instantly pronounced it my
come to Daddy dress and predicted it would make me the target of a
devastatingly handsome and bedroom-confident silver fox who’d play my
unprofaned body like a fucking Stradivarius (her words. Obviously).
For the record, I would like to state that Maddy has zero clairvoyant
abilities and Rafe has zero grey hairs.
Just so we’re clear.
He releases me from that warm, strong, confident grip (seriously, is this
man confident in absolutely everything?), and I duck to grab my
champagne flute. Dutch-courage-slash-social lubrication is desperately
needed in his presence.
‘Um, Rafe. Meet my friends, Maddy and Alice. Girls, this is Rafe.’
Maddy and Alice, for what it’s worth, have already leaned so far
forward towards him that they may as well be human sunflowers and he the
fiery orb itself. Honestly. Maddy’s grinning at him like the cat who got the
cream, and a sudden flash of nauseous dread twists in my stomach.
Because of course these two would be well suited. Maddy is gorgeous,
glossy, and accomplished, and above all, she’s experienced. I bet these two
could speak a language I’ve never even heard. But I couldn’t bear it. I really
couldn’t.
Anyone but him, Maddy. Anyone.
I realise he’s not my property. I’ve met him once, for Pete’s sake, and
his being my parents’ neighbour, and my own very temporary neighbour,
does not give me any rights to him.
But still.
I want his eyes on me.
I want the light of admiration to spark in them when he looks down my
fully-clothed body.
I want those hands on me and no one else.
Oh, golly.
 ‘Ladies,’ Rafe says, turning to them with a debonair grin. He shakes
their hands, and they simper in a way that would be pathetic if it wasn’t so
close to how I suspect I acted just then, when he kissed me.
Ugh.
I hate my life.
‘Rafe is my parents’ neighbour,’ I tell the girls. ‘He lives above their
flat.’
Maddy smirks. ‘Penthouse, eh? Very nice.’ And while I’m cringing, she
adds, ‘I hope that means you’ll be looking out for our girl while Ben and
Lauren are away?’
He smiles directly at me, like, properly smiles, and it’s a truly beautiful
thing. ‘From where I’m standing, you look like you’re doing just fine by
yourself. But you know where I am if you need me.’
I do a nerdy little nod, flustered as heck.
What is it about this guy and my complete inability to act remotely cool
around him?
And with that, he wishes us a good evening and takes his leave.
He’s barely out of earshot when Maddy lurches forward, her fingers
fastening around my knee like claws. ‘He’s the one,’ she hisses.
‘The one what?’ I ask. I genuinely have no idea what she means, but
I’m also intent on deflecting whatever crazy ideas she’s about to unleash. I
know Maddy, and I’ve learnt not to encourage her when she gets something
into her head.
‘The one. You know.’ She gestures indelicately at my crotch area. ‘The
one who’ll take care of your little problem for you.’
No matter how great an inconvenience I find my virginity, Maddy finds
it even more affronting. She’s been on a mission for some time to procure a
willing male to relieve me of it, so I shouldn’t be surprised that she’s honed
in on poor, unsuspecting Rafe.
‘No.’ No. Oh my God. I’ve blown the entire loss of my virginity up so
much in my mind that not only have I put the fear of God into myself—
which is obviously the Catholic Church’s main objective—but no one will
ever live up to the standards I’ve set in my head.
Rafe would, obviously, smash those standards into oblivion, because,
come on, the guy is smoking hot. But the merest suggestion from Maddy
that I should consider him in that context is enough to make my neck flush
and my thighs press together and my body shudder, because he’s so
intimidating.
I’ve grown up around wealthy people. Influential. Powerful. I’m not
easily intimidated. With Rafe, it’s not his social or professional stature that
has me baulking.
It’s him.
His obscene good looks. His confidence in his own skin. The fact that
he’s clearly a man who’d expect a lot from his girlfriends or… sexual
partners. I bet he goes for women who are just as confident as him. Just as
experienced. Women who know their way around his body as well as he,
I’m convinced, would know his way around theirs.
All I’m saying is that he’s obviously a total catch, probably one of the
most eligible bachelors in London, if indeed he is actually single, and
there’s no way he’d even contemplate taking pity on a pathetic little virgin
like me.
And there’s no way I’d ever have the courage to let him.
‘Belle. You beautiful, frustrating creature. If I didn’t love you so much,
I’d strangle you. Actually, if I didn’t love you so much, I’d be dragging that
delicious man straight into the disabled loos, because he is hot. As. Fuck.
‘But, instead, I’m sitting here, cockblocking myself because he was
looking at you like you were supper, and you’ve been complaining for
months now that you can’t find the right guy to show you how it’s done. So,
for the love of God, please tell me what the fuck kind of excuse you’re
making up in that tiny pea brain right now?’
She sits back, frustration written all over her face. And I know how she
feels, because I’ve been pathetic these past few months. I made it my New
Year’s resolution to have sex once and for all this year, and I’ve turned
down every single man who’s crossed my path.
‘He hasn’t exactly offered,’ I say, crossing my legs defensively.
‘You’ve only just met him, right? And he came up to you just now. He’s
interested.’
‘Mads,’ Alice protests. ‘Give her a break.’
I huff out a breath. ‘He’s too scary, okay?’
Maddy arches a perfect eyebrow. She’s not giving me an inch. ‘How
so?’
‘Because…’ I pick at an imaginary speck of fluff on my dress. ‘Because
he looks like that, okay? And he’s older. Like, a lot older. Can you imagine
how many women he’s been with? It would be so intimidating. I wouldn’t
be able to relax.’
It’s true. I wouldn’t. Being with a guy like Rafe would be absolutely
terrifying. Except that doesn’t explain why the fantasy of him backing me
up against a wall and burying his face in my neck while I run my fingers
through that tousled hair sends goosebumps trailing all over my body.
I need someone I find seriously attractive. Obviously.
Rafe ticks that box. Obviously.
But I also want someone who’ll keep things straightforward. Who’ll be
caring and considerate and gentle and patient. Who won’t mind that I’ll be
totally crap in bed the first time. That I might be in pain. That I might bleed.
There is no way on earth Rafe is that guy.
I know he’d want things on his terms. He’s the kind of man who
devours. Consumes.
Or so I imagine, anyway.
 5

BELLE

W
hen I check my phone at work, I have seven WhatsApp messages
from Maddy. That girl is like a dog with a bone, so I can only
suppose she’s continuing last night’s campaign in the name of
getting me laid. She should have been a lobbyist. I roll my eyes and click.
Do I have news for you?

Our friend Rafe IS the man for you! Told you

I am BURSTING

Did some digging and OMGGGGGGGG

Can’t tell you over the phone. It’s too naughty

Meet for lunch in the park?

Hello? Pick up bitch

Dear Lord. To stop the onslaught, I message her back.

Fine. Lunch. Twelve-thirty at the entrance to the park. Bring
Pret. Doesn’t mean I’m in a listening mood.

I hit send and flounce back to the gallery’s reception desk. I’m not
interested in what Maddy’s found.
Not remotely.
 She’s probably discovered his net worth or something equally
ridiculous. I’m as high-maintenance as her, but my healthy respect for
money doesn’t extend to accommodating the penis attached to that money.
Twenty minutes later, I await Maddy at the entrance to Green Park. It’s
no coincidence that the hedge fund she’s been temping at since she
graduated is only a couple of streets away from our Dover Street gallery.
The galleries locate themselves where the money is, and Mayfair is hedge
fund heaven (or hell, depending on your perspective).
Let’s just say that Ventrix, where Maddy’s working, has provided rich
male pickings for her. She’s working her way through the guys in the office
and their mates and loving every second. Probably explains her reluctance
to decide what she actually wants to do with her life, which is a shame.
She’s super smart and could definitely get on a good graduate programme if
she committed to finance.
She appears in a red sheath that looks incredible on her. How any of the
straight men in her office can focus on their trades with her around, I do not
know. She beams at me and hands me a chicken and avocado wrap.
‘Thanks,’ I mumble. ‘This had better be good.’
‘It’s more than good.’ She hugs herself with delight as we begin to
stroll. ‘Seriously, babes, it’s fucking awesome. It’s like fate has taken our
favourite little virgin under its wing.’
I stiffen as I unpeel the cellophane from my wrap. ‘Dear God,’ I groan. I
start walking away from her, but she’s by my side a second later.
‘So guess what?’
‘What.’ I can’t even be bothered to make it a question.
‘Do you know what your friend Rafe does for a living?’
I consider the question, ignoring the coquettish way she says your friend
Rafe. ‘Finance? Investments, I think? He and Daddy were talking about
foreign exchange the other night.’ I’d tuned out and admired the view of his
face instead.
‘Yep. And he also owns a club.’ Her face is glowing with the delight
that comes from imparting delicious tidbits of gossip.
‘Right,’ I say cautiously. I can’t escape the feeling that I’m about to
regret humouring her with this conversation.
‘Do you know what kind of club the lovely Mr Charlton owns?’
I raise my wrap to my mouth. ‘Probably not.’
She leans in. ‘A sex club.’
 That has my attention. I stop and turn to stare at her, my wrap frozen
comically between my teeth.
Maddy, unsurprisingly, takes advantage of my enforced silence to press
on. ‘It’s a very discreet, very exclusive members’ club called Alchemy, just
off Grosvenor Square. But it’s definitely an adults’ club, and it looks pretty
kinky, from what I can find out.’
I swallow and recover sufficiently to ask, ‘And you know this how?’
‘Started with LinkedIn and fell down a rabbit hole,’ she admits
cheerfully. ‘He doesn’t make a song and dance about it, but he’s one of the
founders. Told you he’d be a good person to take that pesky virginity off
your hands.’
That makes me laugh. I start walking again. ‘You’ve just confirmed
exactly what I suspected—that he’s the last person I’d trust with such a…
delicate problem. He owns a sex club, for God’s sake. He’s probably with a
different woman every night. Ew.’
‘Don’t go slut-shaming him, you judgy little horror,’ Maddy huffs. ‘Just
because you’re too scared to dip your toe in the water doesn’t mean
everyone else has to abstain.’
‘You’re right,’ I say, chastened. This is the problem with an upbringing
and an education where you’re constantly told all the fun stuff is wrong and
wicked. You do indeed end up becoming a judgy little horror.
It’s just that—I don’t know. I feel disappointed, somehow. Like Rafe
was my own personal little fantasy in the safety of my bedroom. He’s my
neighbour. For now, at least. Last night I was scared he’d hit on Maddy.
And now she’s telling me that he’s not only the total playboy I suspected he
was, but he owns a bloody sex club, for Pete’s sake.
It just seems so… blatant.
And it makes him even more intimidating, somehow, if I consider that
he indulges so casually in the very act that terrifies and tantalises me more
than anything else. Ugh. He probably went straight there after our
pedestrian little soiree and banged a beautiful model-like woman.
Or maybe even several beautiful women.
All while I slunk home to my flat, and lay alone in my bed, and touched
myself, and imagined it was him touching me.
Double ugh.
‘It’s okay,’ she says. ‘I know you’re not really judgy. You’re just fucked
up. I am too—I just have other ways of dealing with it. Like fucking
everything that moves.’
I shrug. That seems a fair summary of both of us.
‘But I haven’t got to my point yet,’ she continues.
I sigh. ‘Then please get to it.’
‘The club has a full suite of services. Very extensive.’ She smirks and
lowers her voice. ‘And one of them is a programme for virgins.’
My eyes widen, and she seizes her advantage.
‘Yeah, missy. They actually have this thing for, as they put it, people
who have little experience and wish to awaken their sexuality in style, or
something like that. It sounds hot as fuck.’
I’m still staring at her. I swallow my bite of wrap with difficulty,
because my nervous system has gone into straight fight-or-flight mode, and
my stomach feels like it’s about to evacuate whatever way it can.
‘Seriously?’ I manage.
‘Deadly. Honestly, Belle, you should take a look at it. Or have a chat
with your sexy new neighbour about it. I’m telling you, babes. You always
moan about how it needs to be special, but hot, and you don’t want to throw
it away on some shitty fumble that’s awkward as hell. This is your chance
to make the whole thing exactly what you want it to be.’
I swallow. I don’t want to give Maddy an inch right now, but I already
can’t wait to finish work today and lock myself in my parents’ flat and pore
over this Alchemy website. I don’t know why, because entrusting my
‘issue’ to strangers is insane, and paying for sex is morally repugnant to me.
Even so.
If sex in general is the forbidden fruit, this is presumably the meth-laced
fruit.
And, predictably, my brain immediately shuts down the merest thought
of such debauchery while my heart rate picks up and all sorts of unwelcome
sensations course beneath my skin.
She nods confidently. ‘Seriously. Check it out. The programme’s called
Unfurl.’
 6

BELLE

I
’m going to hell.
I’m going to hell.
I’m going to hell.
Catholic guilt brings with it its own particular brand of irrational
paranoia. It’s deeply messed up, if I think about it too deeply. I suppose it
comes from a lifetime of having been indoctrinated into the belief that
someone up there is watching your every sin.
That God knows everything.
That you can’t hide.
My belief in the divine has morphed from a blind faith in the over-
engineered structure we were taught at school and in church—the Holy
Trinity flanked by eternal beings from the Virgin Mary to St Peter to our
archangels and angels—into something more ephemeral. Even so, I’ve
retained my bloody paranoia.
I’m not sure if I’m more scared of someone Up There or Down Here
watching (what if Daddy’s rigged up some security cameras I’m not aware
of?), but whoever my own Catholic version of Big Brother is, I always feel
like he’s watching.
Which is why I only touch myself in the dark, under the covers.
I know. It’s messed up.
Or why I pause my audiobooks if they get to a spicy scene when I’m
listening on the tube. I cannot sit there and listen to anyone having any level
of sexy time when there are people pressed up right next to me.
My instinct now is to get under my duvet before I check out the dratted
website that’s pervaded my thoughts all afternoon, but the part of me that’s
been a legal adult for four years talks me down from that particular act of
childishness.
Instead, I open an incognito browser on my laptop, take an enormous
slug of wine, and type in alchemy club london.
Okay.
The homepage doesn’t look too bad. There are no pictures of sex
swings, or rooms of pain, or whatever else I imagine sex clubs to feature.
All I see here is a photo of a white marble lobby that would put most
London day spas to shame and the letter A in an elegant, statement-making
font.
It makes sense. From the little I know of him, Rafe is the kind of guy
I’d imagine running a classy operation. Even if its currency is sex.
I rub my hands together. My palms are clammy. God, I am so pathetic. I
really hope this isn’t the kind of site that’s too cool to have any actual
information on it, or that puts said information behind a members’ firewall.
But Maddy seems to have found out plenty.
There’s a Services option on the header. I hover and scan, trying and
failing to read any word on the menu that’s not Unfurl. Private Sessions,
Soirees, Kink Questionnaire… Oh, God. Unfurl: Men. Unfurl: Women.
I click on Women. Blow out a breath. And I read.
If you’re reading this at the very start of your real-world journey to
uncover your sexuality, then we applaud you. Not for you the forgettable
first time, the drunken fumble, or the discomfort of taking this important
step with an inexperienced partner.
For many, losing their virginity can be an awkward, painful or even
traumatic experience that fails to meet their physical, emotional or sexual
needs.
The Unfurl programme at Alchemy has been meticulously created to
change that.
Unfurl encompasses a series of sessions that are fully tailored to your
own personal circumstances, taking into account your age, sexuality,
preferences, fantasies, and triggers. After you undergo a detailed online
questionnaire and in-person interview, our experienced team will match you
with an individual member, or group of members, who are seasoned in the
art of giving and teaching pleasure.
Oh my God. Members? Like, plural? This isn’t for me—I’m way, way
out of my comfort zone here. I should definitely just drink the rest of this
bottle and send Harry, my old boyfriend from uni, a booty text. Is that what
you call them? He always wanted to pop my cherry. He could come over
this weekend and we could just get it done. In, out, Bob’s your uncle.
Done.
But, already, the text on the screen is calling its siren’s song to me.
Either these people are very good at what they do, or I’m more of a cliché
than I realise, because I agree with everything they’ve said so far (apart
from the members bit). I’ve waited this long. I don’t want some rubbish,
awkward, underwhelming first experience of sex at this age.
Right?
I keep reading, my lower lip wedged against my glass so I can sip at my
liquid courage as necessary.
At Alchemy, we don’t view the act of vaginal penetration itself as being
the delineation between virginity and its lack thereof. (Oh, God. They had
to go and say the P-word, didn’t they? Ugh.) That is to say, virginity in itself
is a troubling construct. There are many individuals who enjoy a flourishing
sex life that does not include vaginal penetration by a penis.
Instead, our starting point is to offer women who have little to no real-
world experience with sexual partners the opportunity to explore, voice,
and act on their sexual desires in a safe, liberated, and intoxicating
environment. Penetrative sex can be the culmination of this experience, but
it need not be.
Our objective is that any individual identifying as female who
participates in the Unfurl programme will emerge from it with a clear
understanding of her desires, a framework within which to act these desires
out, and, possibly, a group of like-minded individuals with whom she may
keep in touch for the purposes of mutual pleasure.
The programme lasts between three and five sessions, depending on the
requirements of the individual. The potential content of these sessions is
discussed in more detail in the interviews. However, all sessions are
practical in nature and involve the participant being touched or stimulated
in a manner they have deemed arousing.
 We pride ourselves on meeting our members’ deepest sexual needs, and
we see no reason why a lack of experience to date should preclude any
participant from aiming to fulfil their most audacious fantasies within the
framework of the programme.
I put my glass down and close my eyes.
Whew.
That’s a lot to take in.
It’s short on details, on the mechanics of how the whole thing would
work, but I can’t deny their approach resonates. And by resonates, I mean I
feel it in those exact parts of my body I’ve neglected too long. My nipples
are hard. There’s a prickle of sensitivity trailing over my skin, a flush rising
up my neck. A heat that’s been licking that space between my legs since the
moment my eyes alighted on some of those words.
Stimulated.
Arousing.
Audacious.
I swallow. This isn’t some convenient bridge that will take me elegantly,
effortlessly across the void I perceive between my current sexual status and
the one I want.
It’s a space rocket.
The sky’s the limit.
And the only things preventing that moment of lift right now are me,
and my fears, and my mental blocks, and the religious doctrine and social
niceties implanted so deep into my soul that I don’t know if I can ever dig
them out.
I don’t know if I dare.
I don’t know if it’s even possible.

I F ACE T IME M ADDY . I have my generation’s characteristic horror of

actually speaking to people on the phone, so, like my peers, I trade voice
messages and emoji-and-acronym-filled WhatsApps with my friends.
But Maddy and I are different together. We call each other like it’s not
even a phone call, like the other person is there while we do the most
mundane stuff like cook and cleanse our faces and even wee. We’ve always
done it. We’re basically virtual flatmates.
But right now, I don’t even know why I’m calling her. Because calling
her feels like the next step on a journey I have no business contemplating,
let alone undertaking.
I’m a well-bred girl from a religiously conservative family who’s been
brought up to fear the Lord, respect my body, and mistrust anyone who
wants to take liberties with me.
Yes, that sounds Victorian.
And yes, I feel guilty that I’m so… unenlightened. I’m permanently
caught in no-man's-land. I feel guilty for betraying the beliefs I’ve had
drilled into me, and I feel guilty for betraying the privilege of being a
modern woman by holding onto what I know are outdated beliefs.
I’m lost, and I have no idea how to navigate this minefield. All I know
is that, obscene and profane and downright ridiculous as those words on
that website were, they felt like more of a way forward—a way forward on
my terms—than any other options I’ve had.
‘Did you read it?’ Maddy asks. She’s lying on her bed with her LED
mask on, so her voice is muffled and creepy. But I don’t care, because it
means she can’t see my face.
‘Yeah.’ I pour another inch of wine into my glass. I know whose skin is
coming out of this evening in a better state.
‘Well?’
I sigh. ‘I don’t know what to say. I mean—’
‘Uh-uh.’ She holds up a hand. ‘Don’t get shitty with me. Just do me a
favour, and answer one question, and do yourself a favour and be honest.
Okay?’
I stay silent.
‘Did you get turned on, even a little? Because I know I did. I read that
intro and thought holy fuck, I would actually stitch my hymen back up for a
shot at that. Because that, my darling, is hot as fuck, and you’re the lucky
one who can take advantage of it.’
‘Yeah,’ I mumble. ‘I get it. It was hot.’
She sits up and tugs off her mask, her glossy dark hair tumbling around
her face as she does. She picks up the screen and gapes at me.
‘You just admitted that was a turn-on. Right?’
‘Yes.’ I’m beginning to regret my honesty.
 ‘Woo-hoo!’ She throws herself dramatically backwards and tilts her
phone so I can see she’s kicking her legs in the manner of Julia Roberts
closing her three-thousand-dollar deal with Richard Gere. ‘OMG. This is
the most exciting thing ever. My little Belle is going to go to a sex club and
get played with by all these hotties, and she’s going to have orgasms
coming out of her pretty little ears.’
‘That’s just—no. Don’t say things like that.’
God.
The idea of being a plaything is so… hot. The fantasy of turning myself
over to a guy who knows what he’s doing is enticing enough. But guys?
Me, who has no clue what I’m doing, with multiple men? Lying back on a
bed, and putting myself in their hands, and letting them loose on my body?
Letting them worship me? Show me what I’m capable of?
Playing me like that metaphorical Stradivarius Maddy mentioned?
I can’t tell you why that’s such a turn-on. I can’t tell you how many
times I’ve had that fantasy when I’m alone in my bed. And I can’t tell you
why the sheer horror of it, the shame of considering something so dark and
morally depraved and so far beyond what God invented sex for, makes it
even more enticing.
All I can tell you is it does.
The fear and the shame and the certain knowledge of how messed up it
is have got all tangled up with the fixation. The fascination.
The need.
You know the saying, right?
May as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.
 7

RAFE

I
’m towel-drying my hair when there’s a knock at the door. It’s probably
Callum, my business partner. He’s the only person who can get through
security downstairs without them calling up to me first.
‘Give me a sec,’ I shout, tugging a t-shirt on. That PT session in my
home gym really took it out of me this morning.
But I needed it.
This week, my mind has been going places it has no business venturing.
Places that have my fingertips skating over honeyed hair and limbs. My
dick coaxing soft, pillowy lips apart, smearing them with pre-cum, until I
can’t take the teasing from her soft mouth, her wet tongue, anymore and I
bend her over that massive fucking dining room table in her parents’
apartment.
I can’t imagine how tight she’d feel.
I can, actually.
Like a velvet fucking vice.
So, yeah. My combat HIIT session with Darren was more necessary this
morning than most Saturdays. I needed the release badly, and that was
despite fucking a couple of women at the club last night.
God help me.
I rake my hand through my still-damp hair and wrench the door open,
before standing stock-still.
Oh, Jesus fuck.
 It’s her.
She’s a vision, backlit in the sunlight streaming through the lobby’s
huge windows. Her long hair is smoothed into a ponytail, but the baby hairs
framing her face are lit up in gold, and the golden outline around her body
makes her look almost celestial.
More alarmingly, she has far too much skin exposed. She’s in yoga
pants and what looks like little more than a sports bra, both in a pale blue
that offsets the smooth, tanned skin of her arms and chest and stomach.
Holy fucking crap.
She’s even more fuckable like this than she is in her pretty, prick-teasing
dresses. The workout gear leaves nothing of her perfect body to the
imagination. Her face is bare of makeup, her skin glowing with health. But
the look on her face is even more deer-caught-in-the-headlights than usual.
As soon as I throw the door open (admittedly more violently than I
would have done if I’d known the identity of my visitor), she takes a step
back from me, twisting what looks like a little sweater in both her hands.
‘Belle,’ I say. ‘Hi.’
‘Hi. I’m so sorry for disturbing you on a Saturday.’ The words come out
in a rush, and she glances towards the building’s main staircase as if
planning an escape.
‘No problem. I just finished a workout, so…’
‘Me too.’ She gestures awkwardly towards her sexy-as-fuck excuse for
an outfit. ‘I mean, I just came from yoga class.’
Yoga? Jesus. Now I have visions of her folded into a pretzel shape, all
long legged and loose limbed. I bet she’s limber as fuck. She looks like she
would be.
I recover my manners. ‘Come in, come in.’
‘No, I—’ She pauses. ‘I have something I’d like to ask you, actually.
Kind of like a favour. Or a—I wondered if you’d like to go for a walk? It’s
a bit of an awkward conversation to have, so I thought it might be better to
have it while walking. Only if you’re not busy, of course.’ Her hand returns
to the sweater, and she wrings it again.
I press my lips together to stop myself from smirking. I’m not sure why
seeing her this nervous is so gratifying. Maybe because her current
gaucheness makes her even more adorable. Even more girlish.
Besides, she’s piqued my interest. A favour, eh?
Hmm.
 ‘Not busy,’ I tell her. ‘And I need a coffee. Let me get my shoes.’

W E GRAB coffee from a kiosk at the edge of Hyde Park. On the short walk
over here, we’ve kept things light. Small talk about our week, and how the
rest of her evening went at Jean Georges, and how she’s settling into our
building.
All the while, I’m calculating what she’s going to ask me. It’s about art,
I decide. She’s come to follow up on her throwaway comment at her
parents’ drinks party that I should stop by Liebermann’s. She could
probably use some commission to impress the powers that be, and she
wants to sound me out. Only she’s mortified by the prospect of having to do
something as inelegant in her eyes as touting for business.
Little does she know I’d buy up the entire fucking gallery to put a smile
on those rosy lips of hers. And also—yes, this makes me a total monster—
to have her feel just the slightest bit beholden to me.
As we walk through the rose gardens in all their fresh-faced, early
summer glory, I decide we’ve made quite enough small talk, and I’ve had
quite enough of trying to keep my mind from going to that dark place in my
head where I grab her glossy ponytail and wrap it around my hand as I push
her to her knees.
I’m thirty-six.
That makes her fourteen years younger than me.
If she was four years younger, she’d be half my age.
Jesus.
‘You were very mysterious when I answered the door,’ I tell her,
shooting her a smile that I hope telegraphs you can trust me rather than I
want to fuck your twenty-two-year-old cunt. ‘Spit it out, why don’t you?
What’s this favour, and how can I help?’
She shoots me a look of pure terror.
Maybe I misjudged the predatory level of my smile.
‘This is the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever done in my whole life,’
she confesses, and I can’t help but grin, because she sounds like a teenager.
‘I doubt that.’ I throw her a bone. ‘Is it about the gallery?’
‘The—what? Oh. No.’
 Okay. I purse my lips in bewilderment and wait for her to spit it out.
She nudges her bottom lip against the takeaway cup, and I tense. Jesus
Christ. She’s so beautiful. Her profile in the sunlight is sheer perfection.
The gentle upturn of her pretty little nose. The delicate sweep of freckles.
That fucking mouth.
‘You have a club,’ she mutters against her cup, and her mouth is
preoccupying me so much that I almost miss her statement.
‘Yeah—Alchemy,’ I manage. This was not where I saw the conversation
going. Presumably she hasn’t asked me out to lecture me on morality?
‘Exactly.’ She clears her throat. ‘I wanted to ask you more about a, uh,
programme there. Unfurl?’
Well, knock me down with a feather.
I stop, my brain whirring, and gape at her. ‘Unfurl?’ I ask more sharply
than I’ve intended. ‘What about it?’
She marches on ahead, and I take a few strides to catch her up.
‘I thought it might be… suitable,’ she mumbles. ‘Like, for me. But I
need more details.’
I’m hallucinating. I knew Darren had pushed me too hard this morning.
There’s no way I’m strolling through Hyde Park with my too-young, too-
gorgeous neighbour, the one I’ve been fantasising about while fucking my
fist (and other people) this week, as she brings up my sex club, and one of
its most pioneering programmes, and her interest in said programme.
No bloody way.
I cannot tell you how many people I’ve fucked, how cavalier I am about
sex, but my voice is undoubtedly strangled as I force myself to say
something in response.
‘Are you saying you’re… you haven’t had sex?’
I sneak a peek at her, and she nods into her coffee cup. That telltale
flush has rampaged up her neck and marked her cheek. I tense my jaw,
attempt to pull myself the fuck together.
‘Well, thank you for confiding in me,’ I say evenly.
Because this isn’t about me, or the perverted responses of my inner
neanderthal to her innocence and her beauty.
It’s about her.
Even if that innocence just got a million times more alluring, because
Jesus Christ.
 She’s telling me she’s never been fucked. Luke or Carl or whatever
godawful university boyfriend of hers I conjured up does not exist.
She’s intact. Ignorant of how transcendent certain parts of the human
experience can be.
And, as motherfucking serendipity and celestial intervention would
have it, she’s coming to me for help.
Someone up there has a sense of humour.
Or a sadistic streak.
‘Believe me, I’m mortified,’ she says now. ‘I can’t believe I’m even
contemplating having this conversation.’
‘I promise I won’t abuse your trust,’ I say. ‘I may be a dodgy fucker, but
Unfurl is probably the achievement I’m most proud of.’
It’s true. It is. My own first time may have been forgettable—and
seriously brief, given how quickly I shot my load—but I’m well aware,
based on the amount of women I’ve polled in my personal and professional
life, that for girls, it’s usually pleasureless and uncomfortable at best and
traumatic at worst.
Unfurl takes all that away and puts these women in the driving seat. It
shows them just how much currency they actually have and how gloriously
liberating it can be to spend it.
Belle wraps her spare arm around her waist. ‘Tell me a bit about it?’
‘You’ve read the blurb on our website?’
‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘It was… enlightening, but it didn’t actually say much,
if you know what I mean.’
I laugh. We’re walking at a fair clip now. She’s upped our pace, and I
can see why it might be easier for her to speak frankly like this on what is
rapidly becoming a power walk than face to face. I consider how best to
frame this pet project of ours in a way she’ll get. In a way that won’t have
her running a mile.
‘The first thing to say,’ I begin, ‘is that Unfurl is meant to empower
people who don’t feel empowered for whatever reason, usually because
they’ve had few or no sexual partners. That can mean that they don’t know
exactly what they like, or they don’t have the experience or the language to
communicate their desires. Maybe they do know what they like, but there
isn’t a person in their life they can trust to deliver it. Sex is so intimate, and
yet, for a lot of people, the communication around it is diabolical. That
make sense?’
 I glance over at her long enough to see her nod her assent.
‘We also don’t want to patronise anyone who comes through the
programme,’ I continue. ‘They may not have had much real life experience,
but that doesn’t mean they don’t have a vibrant inner life of sexual fantasy.
It’s kind of like saying the intern at a company is the stupidest person in the
room. They may be the most ignorant right now, but they may have more
future potential than the CEO.
‘We take a similar approach. We want to help people find their
potential, unlock their latent desires, rather than focusing on what they
haven’t done to date.’
‘Makes sense,’ she whispers. A glance tells me she’s staring fixedly at
the path.
‘Good.’
‘But what does it… entail? I mean, who does the stuff to—with—the
participant, or whatever you call her? Is it professionals?’
I pause to select my words carefully. ‘They aren’t professionals, no, but
they’re long-standing members who have a lot of experience, and our team
handpicks the members who’ll assist each participant in the programme.
That said, everyone on our team gets automatic membership to the club,
and let’s say most of them play that dual role enthusiastically.’
She hums nervously and keeps walking, and I allow myself to trail a
step or two behind her, just to have the unearthly pleasure of checking out
that glorious figure in its second skin. That peachy arse. The slick ponytail
that sways with each step.
I wish I knew what she was thinking right now.
‘So, I’m right in thinking it’s… hands on?’ she says. ‘Like, these
sessions are about actual sex. They’re not just theory.’
Our eyes meet. She looks away first.
‘They’re definitely not just theory,’ I affirm. They’re pretty much the
farthest thing from theory I can imagine. They’re intense. Carnal. Sweaty.
And sweat isn’t the only bodily fluid spilt. Not by a long shot.
‘So… people come out of the programme having had sex.’
‘Yes,’ I say carefully, ‘if that’s their end objective. We also have
participants who’ve had penetrative sex before but want to grow in
confidence, or broaden their horizons, without jumping head first into the
orgy that is Friday night at Alchemy. The best way to think about it is that
the programme is completely tailored to you.’
 I wonder what she’d go for.
The thought crystallises before I’m fully conscious of it. I get a vivid
image of Belle curled up on a sofa in her parents’ flat with our
questionnaire on an iPad, her tiger eyes widening in disbelief or arousal,
that plump lower lip cushioning the stylus as she reads the option upon
option of pure filth that awaits her. It’s less a menu than a dirty, decadent
smorgasbord for her to feast on.
This was not what Ben and Lauren intended when they asked me to
keep an eye on their precious princess during their absence.
‘Could you… give me a run-down of, you know? The basic structure?’
she asks me, and it’s a real effort not to make my smile wolfish.
‘I could,’ I tell her, ‘but it really is different for everyone, and I’m so
desensitised to talking about sex that I’m not sure I’ll be… euphemistic
enough for you. I don’t want to scare you off.’
I don’t want you clutching that pearl necklace Daddy probably gave you
for your sixteenth birthday and crying into your pillow because the bad
man got too graphic and told you about how much more fun you’d have if
you agreed to a blindfold. To silk ties against that soft skin. To upping your
instructors from one to two. Four. Six, even.
Fuck. Shouldn’t have thought about Belle with a pearl necklace. Jesus.
Shouldn’t have thought about her spread out on a bed, men lapping at her
most sensitive parts.
‘Oh,’ she says quietly.
‘Look. If you’d feel more comfortable, I can set you up a chat with my
co-founder, Genevieve. She can answer the questions I suspect you don’t
feel right asking me. And if you want to proceed, the questionnaire she’ll
give you is very comprehensive, and it’s confidential.’
I don’t mention that I’ll get to read it. I can’t imagine how many times
I’ll have to get myself off, or have someone else get me off, when I read the
innermost fantasies of sweet, golden Belina, named after a virgin martyr,
for fuck’s sake.
‘That sounds good.’
‘Great.’ I nod.
That’s all sorted, then, and I can take myself home and let rip. Too bad
the club doesn’t open for another—ooh—ten hours.
‘I have one question, though.’
I look up from my coffee. ‘Shoot.’
 ‘On the website it suggested…’ she hesitates. ‘Multiple people? With
me? That sounds—I dunno—a bit full-on, considering why I’m interested
in the programme in the first place. And a bit… immoral, I suppose.’
I stop walking and, putting a hand on the bare skin of her arm to halt
her, I turn to face her. This is important.
‘Answer me one question,’ I say. ‘Two, actually.’
She chews her lip, but she doesn’t drop her gaze.
‘First. Do you think part of the reason you’ve held off this long on being
sexually active is because of some guilt? I know your parents are pretty
religious.’
She nods. ‘Definitely.’
‘And do you think that’s something you can get over, or at least work
around enough to get out of your own way, going forward?’
She nods again. ‘I think so. I’m hoping so. I’ve over-thought this way
too much, but—ugh. It’s hard. I don’t believe that the things they taught me
at school were right, but I still—it’s difficult to let go of all that shame
around sex, you know?’
She’s looking at me, clear-eyed and trusting, and it hits me in the gut. I
nod softly. ‘Yeah. Believe me, I know. I went to Loyola, which I think your
mum mentioned to you, so I know how powerful that brainwashing can be.
I went the other way—became a total deviant.’ I grin to show her I’m kind
of joking, even though I’m not, really.
‘Look,’ I continue. ‘I can’t tell you what’s right or wrong. You have to
do that for yourself. But the fact that you’re here talking to me about this
stuff tells me you have the courage to claim your own sexuality. Right?
You’re an adult, Belle. The nuns and the priests and your parents can’t tell
you what to think anymore.
‘I also know that former Catholics are some of the kinkiest people I
know. Just an observation. There’s something about all that shame and guilt
they teach us, all that repression they practice, that has us enjoying the
pleasure of letting go more than most other people.’
She’s nodding like I’m onto something, so I push on with my final
point.
‘And if you’re serious about this, then I have a suggestion. Take it or
leave it. If you take away any preconceptions about romance, or morals, or
societal expectations, and you just make it about you and your body and
seeing what it’s capable of, then the maths is pretty clear. Four mouths on
your body are better than one. Eight hands are better than two.’
I shrug as she gapes at me. There’s mortification on her face, but
something else is there, too. ‘It’s just basic arithmetic. So the more you
open your mind up to less vanilla ways of maximising your pleasure, the
more fun you’ll have. And by fun, I mean the more you’ll lose your fucking
mind in ecstasy.’
I have no idea how I just delivered that statement without getting a
boner.
Zero.
What I don’t say, because apparently I have herculean amounts of self-
control, is that she should forget the programme and just come home with
me.
Because I swear to God, I could teach her more than she’s ever dreamed
about the capabilities of her body with just my hands and my mouth and my
cock.
We walk back home in relative silence.
I think I’ve broken her brain.
I bid her a calm farewell, promise to hook her up with Gen, and bolt my
door behind me. The second I’m alone, I tug my t-shirt off over my head,
shove down my jogging bottoms and fist my cock, hard as I can.
And as I proceed to empty myself violently into the soft cotton of my t-
shirt, pretending it’s Belina Scott’s fine-boned hand around my cock and
not my own, I repeat these words to myself.
She’s a virgin.
She’s a virgin.
She’s a goddamn fucking wholesome, intact, sweet-as-sin virgin.
Leave her alone.
I let my head fall back against the door. The words in my head are so
engrained they come easily.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.
I have already sinned against this girl in so many ways I can’t even
begin to list them.
 8

BELLE

I
f this space is glossy, Rafe’s colleague Genevieve is glossier. We’re in a
beautiful white room in a historic Mayfair building full of feature
windows and sculptural staircases. These guys have gone for an
approach not unlike what Mummy went for at home: keep it simple and let
the spectacular original features sing.
Like the highly polished wood floor. Or the marble fireplace that’s
surely a Robert Adam job. Or the luscious mouldings that line the ceilings
and pick out the wall panels.
The furniture is bolder than at home, though. Smoke-grey velvet sofas
on a huge monochrome rug. A multi-faceted chocolate sideboard lacquered
to a high gloss. And, the only sign that I’m at a sex club and not some
expensive cosmetic surgeon’s rooms, a sculpture of what I’m pretty sure is
a vulva, crafted from pink onyx and perfectly up-lit.
Genevieve, who must be a similar age to Rafe, is blonde and expensive-
looking. She’s in a black shift of complicated but stunning cut that I
recognise as Roksanda, and she may have the best legs I’ve ever seen,
showcased to perfection in sky-high heels.
She’s immaculate, but her smile is warm and reaches her eyes. As she
sets the oat-milk latte I requested down in front of me and comes to sit with
me on the sofa, I exhale.
And then I inhale a little more forcefully than I need to, because she
smells amazing.
 I definitely feel more comfortable with her than with Rafe.
It helps that I don’t know her, am not attracted to her, and haven’t had
any inappropriate fantasies about her while touching inappropriate parts of
my body.
Even so, I’m glad I’m wearing armour of my own. Today’s number is a
navy Victoria Beckham sleeveless sheath. It says I’m a grownup, not some
gauche virgin. I know my power, and I choose my outcomes.
Or something like that, anyway.
I hope.
Genevieve slides an unlocked iPad over to me and pats it. ‘I’ll leave this
with you when we’ve finished our chat. The questionnaire’s a long one, I’m
afraid. But I’d urge you to be as frank as you can bear to be when you
answer it. Your responses will go a long way to inform the programme and
make sure you get the most out of it.’
I nod and give the device a wary side-eye. ‘Okay.’
‘So.’ She reaches forward to stir some milk into her coffee, and I find
I’m grateful for the break in eye contact. ‘Why don’t you start by telling me
a bit about your upbringing and sexual history, or any personal information
you think might be relevant, and we’ll go from there?’
I take a deep breath. The poor woman has no idea what she’s asking.
My sexual history will be embarrassingly brief, but I could drone on for
hours about the amount of baggage I have. Far longer than my lunch hour
will afford me, anyway.
‘I was brought up Catholic,’ I say. ‘As in, not only did I go to a convent
school, but I went to a convent boarding school from eleven. And my
parents are really Catholic. They don’t just go to Mass on Sundays—my
father goes every day. And he won’t let us donate money to any charities
that supply contraceptives, even in the Third World.’ I exhale in frustration
and flick a microscopic speck of white fluff off the skirt of my shift.
‘They’re completely hardcore.’
‘Does your mother feel as strongly as your father?’ Genevieve asks in a
kind voice.
I shrug. ‘I’m not sure. I don’t think so, but she goes along with it all
because he’s such a force of nature. It’s not worth speaking up.’
‘I don’t want to put words in your mouth, but it sounds like a pretty
patriarchal household.’
 I laugh without humour and look over at her. ‘You have no idea.
Patriarchal religion, patriarchal household… the main thing you need to
know about my upbringing is that I’ve been taught what to believe, taught
what’s right and wrong, from a very young age. And no one has ever said,
or even suggested, that it’s okay for me to have my own views about
everything. Quite the opposite.
‘Catholicism is so defensive. It’s comply or die, seriously. The church
demands absolute conformity, and it feels like any kind of attempt to think
for oneself is blasphemy. Or an outright attack, basically. So the only
options are wholesale surrender or wholesale rejection. That’s how it feels,
anyway.’
She hums thoughtfully before speaking. ‘You know, you sound just like
Rafe.’
My eyebrows wing up in surprise. ‘I thought he had a very different
take on it all?’ He owns a sex club, for crying out loud.
She laughs. ‘He does these days. Obviously.’ She gestures around the
room. ‘It’s no betrayal of his confidence to say he went for wholesale
rejection, as you put it. But it took him a while to get there. And if he was
here, I suspect he’d agree with everything you’ve just said, even if he’s put
all that behind him now.’
I take a sip of my latte to buy a little time while I process what she’s just
told me. It would be easy to dismiss Rafe as a playboy. He’s gorgeous, he’s
successful, and I shudder to think how much action he gets at this place.
Being honest with him on that walk over the weekend was the most
terrifying thing I’ve ever done. That he might understand where I’m coming
from on a profound level is pretty comforting, actually.
‘I didn’t realise,’ I mutter. ‘I mean, I know he went to Loyola, but…’
‘Rafe curses his upbringing most of the time, but he credits it with most
of his kinks,’ she says fondly, and oh my God.
Rafe.
Kinks.
I can’t even allow myself to think of what they might be. What desires
may churn under that gorgeous, and not particularly forthcoming, exterior
of his.
But even if my brain is determined not to go there, it seems the rest of
my body’s way ahead of it, because a million pin-pricks of sweat wash over
my skin.
 I blow out a breath. ‘I…’
‘I didn’t mean to embarrass you,’ she says. ‘Let’s leave my colleague—
and your neighbour—out of this. I want to know about you. So what did all
this Catholicism from every angle mean for your approach to your
sexuality?’
Oh God. Where to start? Against the odds, I trust this woman. I like her,
and my instincts tell me she’s not just here to sign me up and get me laid.
She wants to understand me fully. Understand what brings someone who’s
abstained from sex for so long to the door of an actual sex club. ‘Right. Um.
Well, it’s why I’m here, for starters.’ I throw my hands out wide.
She nods encouragingly. ‘Which is an incredibly brave move on your
part, I hope you know.’
‘Thanks.’ I pause to really consider her question. ‘Obviously, I’ve had
very little experience of… physical intimacy.
She nods again. ‘Ever been kissed?’
‘Oh, God, yes. Obviously. I’ve had a couple of relationships. But…’
She waits.
I inhale. ‘They were brief, because I wasn’t willing to… put out.’
Genevieve shifts slightly beside me. ‘May I ask—was that because you
weren’t attracted to them? Or because you were scared, or you thought it
was wrong?’
‘Probably a bit of all three. One of the guys was Catholic, so he got it,
but he wasn’t going to wait around forever. I was worried it was wrong, that
it was a sin, so that made me more tense. And, unfortunately, when you’ve
bigged anything sexual up in your head as much as I have, you’re going to
be more intimidated by it. It’s been this huge thing hanging over me for so
long.’
‘How far did you get with these guys?’ she asks.
A flash of heat crawls up the side of my neck. ‘Um. Not very. They
touched me a bit… through my bra and my pants, though.’
‘And that didn’t do it for you?’ she asks gently.
This is one of the things I’m concerned about. That it felt nice, but not
amazing. That maybe they thought I was frigid. Maybe I am frigid, with
other people, at least.
‘It felt good, but not good enough that I lost control and threw caution
to the wind, if that makes sense,’ I explain. ‘I didn’t get carried away.’
‘Have you ever had an orgasm, to your knowledge, Belle?’ she asks.
 I nod quickly. ‘Yeah. When I’m—you know—alone. There are no
problems there.’
‘Excellent.’ She re-crosses her legs and says conversationally, ‘You
know, I was sexually active for six years before I had an orgasm at the
hands of another person.’
My eyes widen. ‘Seriously?’ It’s hard to believe. This woman, sitting in
front of me, so confident and beautiful and with a job like this, looks as
though she’d have orgasms coming out of her ears. She looks like she
knows exactly what her needs are, and woe betide anyone who doesn’t meet
them.
‘Yep. It’s very, very common, especially in our younger years, when
guys don’t have a fucking clue what they’re doing.’
I giggle. I really needed to hear that. But it feels unfair to my exes. ‘I’d
like to think you’re right, but I’m sure my hangups didn’t help.’
‘I’m sure you’re right. For us women, most of the arousal happens in
here.’ She taps her temple. ‘So if you’re worrying, or feeling guilty, you’re
not going to be able to get out of your head and relax enough to come. How
do you feel about sex these days, morally speaking?’
‘Well, that’s a loaded question.’ I aim for a nervous laugh and look
down at my coffee cup. ‘I’ve rejected a lot of what I learnt at school, and at
Mass, and from my parents. I think a lot of the Church’s teaching on sex is
out of date and frankly ridiculous. I don’t think I should feel guilty about
enjoying my body.’
I look up at her for approval, and she smiles encouragingly.
‘But… so much of it is still there. It’s like my conscious brain wants to
know what all the fuss is about, feels angry about having missed out on so
much, even. But my subconscious is still carrying around all that weight
and guilt, and I catch myself making assumptions sometimes without even
having been aware of making them. Like, sex should be an act of love. Or it
should be with a faithful partner. Or that wanting anything outside of that is
dirty. Wrong. Or… I’m diminishing myself slightly by even considering
something like this place.’
I suppose one of the nice things about speaking to someone who runs a
sex club is that they’ve presumably seen it all. Just as Genevieve
presumably doesn’t judge people who want to sleep with anything that
moves, she doesn’t seem to be judging my own judgemental, prudish
baggage. She just nods and wrinkles up her nose like she gets it, and she
knows it’s rough.
‘I’m not a psychotherapist,’ she says, ‘but I can imagine that when
you’ve had such a clear message reinforced by every adult in your life, for
the entirety of your childhood and adolescence, it’s incredibly difficult to
throw off those shackles. But I can also see that you’re a smart, thoughtful
young woman.’
She takes a sip of her coffee before continuing. ‘Belle, the only person
whose viewpoint matters here is yours. Not your parents, not your former
teachers, not the Church. Not anyone you might meet here. You have your
own moral compass, and you are allowed to consider all the opinions
around you and treat them as only that. Opinions. You get to decide for
yourself what to do with your body.’
I laugh. ‘I’m pretty sure that last line is the antithesis of everything the
Catholic church teaches.’
‘Well, that makes me angry,’ she says quietly, before visibly collecting
herself. ‘But let’s look forwards, not backwards. What brings you here?
What do you hope to get out of the Unfurl programme? Use whatever
language you feel comfortable with. If speaking more broadly is easier for
you, go for it.’
I squirm on the sofa. Because some of the issues at hand, some of my
hopes and dreams, are concepts I feel uneasy articulating in my head, let
alone out loud with crude, sexual language.
When I’m in my rational state, at least.
When I’m under my covers with my fingers between my legs, the
language the faceless strangers whisper to me is as crude, as graphic, as it is
terrifying.
And I love it.
But I’m not about to admit any of that to Genevieve here, in the middle
of the day, over a civilised oat milk latte.
So broad brush-strokes it is.
‘I’m sick of not knowing what all the fuss is about,’ I tell her. ‘I made a
New Year’s resolution this January to lose my virginity, but I haven’t found
anyone I’m attracted enough to, and who I trust enough to help me with it.’
Except for your sex-god colleague, who I can’t stop fantasising about, but
he terrifies me far too much, and I know he’d never go for someone as
clueless as me. ‘Also, I don’t want it to be really crap.’
 Genevieve laughs. ‘Yep. That’s a valid fear.’
‘Exactly. I know it’ll be painful, but I don’t want it to be awkward and
horrifying. I want to be… in the moment, you know? There are things
that… do it for me, and I want to find someone who can turn me on.’ I sigh
in frustration at both my situation and my inability to articulate what I need
in this context.
I wave my hand dismissively. ‘I just want someone to blow my mind
and make me feel desirable instead of totally useless. Now I’ve waited this
long, I think I owe it to myself to make it good.’
She’s smiling and nodding at me like she wholeheartedly approves of
my answer. ‘Exactly. Exactly. Yeah, you can find someone in a bar, and date
them, and allow them to take your virginity off your hands, and it might be
nice, it might be meh, or it might be excruciating. Here, in the Unfurl
programme, it’s all about you. You’re in the driving seat. You don’t have to
worry about impressing anyone. It’s just about what you want and need.
Does that sound good?’
I bite my lip. ‘Yeah.’
Her grin broadens. ‘Excellent. Now, you mentioned a second ago that
you’re already aware of some of the things that turn you on. You don’t have
to share what those are right now, unless you want to?’
I shake my head vigorously. No bloody way.
‘Got it. But I want you to think about what those things are, because
those are the very fantasies we can make a reality for you.’
My face must be betraying my apprehension, because she hesitates and
licks her lips. ‘Look, Belle. You’re female. It’s highly unlikely you’re going
to walk into a room, take off your clothes for a complete stranger you have
no connection with, and have spontaneous orgasms left, right and centre.
Am I right?’
I let out a laugh of relief. ‘Yeah. Exactly.’
‘Especially since you may still have some legacy hang-ups that have
you feeling a little—guilty about all of this, maybe? Or apprehensive, at
least?’
‘Yes.’ The word comes out more forcefully than I intend.
‘Totally normal. Totally. Listen carefully. This is where your fantasies
and your own particular kinks, no matter how mild or extreme they are, will
come into play, because if we know what you’re into, that will help to get
you out of your head. It will transcend what’s actually happening. Does that
make sense?’
‘Yeah—I suppose so.’ Truthfully, it makes total sense. Because the
vague pleasure I felt at the hands of my two main exes was nothing
compared to the feverish, sweaty desperation I feel at my own hands when I
give my imagination permission to override everything I’ve been taught and
go along with the X-rated movies in my mind.
‘That will be an important tool for you,’ she says. She pats the iPad
between us. ‘I have an idea. There are a few more fields I’d like to include
in your questionnaire, now that I’ve chatted with you. How do you feel
about me emailing it over to you later? I’d encourage you to carve out some
time to do it, maybe have a glass of wine, or put on some nice underwear.
Do whatever it takes for you to feel aroused and sexy and in control. And
then listen to your body and take its responses to the questions into account.
Does that make sense?’
I nod meekly and hum an affirmative.
She smiles mischievously. ‘Touch yourself before you get started, if that
helps. But don’t allow yourself to come before you finish it. You’ll be truer
to your desires if you answer those questions from a place of arousal.’
I nod again and press my lips together.
I cannot believe I’m having this conversation with a woman I’ve only
just met.
I cannot believe I’m considering putting any of this stuff into practice.
Maddy is going to absolutely die when I fill her in.
As I pick up my bag, and Genevieve walks me to the door, I have a
thought. ‘Can I ask about cost? Rafe didn’t mention it.’
‘Of course,’ she says. ‘I should have brought it up. My apologies.’ She
names a sum so cursory I blink.
‘How is that possible?’ I ask. I have no idea about these things, but I’m
sure somewhere like this must cost five or six figures a year for a full
membership. What she’s quoting me would buy me a couple of spa days,
max.
Genevieve stops and turns to face me. She’s smiling. ‘Firstly, consider it
a kind of trial run. We’d love to see you as a full-time member after you’ve
been through the programme. And secondly—I’m not sure how to put this
delicately. You may have some misguided theory that we’re doing you a
favour here. But a young woman like you, as stunning and desirable as you
are, who’s never been properly touched? Do you have any idea how much
of a turn-on that is for our members?’
I stare at her. The flash of red streaks up my neck and heats both cheeks.
It’s instantaneous. We haven’t discussed the actual machinations of how the
course might proceed. Apparently, that all comes after they’ve processed
my interview and questionnaire. Obviously, I’ve wondered about who these
men might be. The ones who help me. Who put their hands and mouths on
me, as Rafe suggested.
But not once has it occurred to me that I’m a draw. That having some
willing virgin lay herself out like fresh meat and submit to their desires
might be something these unknown, carnal men may appreciate.
May pay through the nose for.
‘Oh,’ I say dumbly.
‘Don’t worry.’ She puts a hand on my arm. ‘We handpick everyone who
interacts with you in this programme with the utmost care. Your wellbeing
and satisfaction are our priority. Make no mistake about it. But if you do
this, you’ll be every fantasy come to life for whomever is lucky enough to
get chosen to take you on this journey.’ She winks. ‘Believe me, they’ll get
just as much out of it as you will. Participation in the Unfurl programme is
one of the greatest thrills we can possibly give our members.’
 9

BELLE

I
treat the answering of Genevieve’s questionnaire as some kind of sacred
ritual.
I eat light. No room for food coma tonight. I shower, and under the
hot spray, I touch myself gently.
Nothing too exciting, just a few teasing swirls of my nipples between
my fingertips and a couple of light, lazy swipes between my legs to get me
in the mood.
God, that already feels good.
More than good.
My conversation with Genevieve has had me feeling more aware of my
body than usual the entire afternoon. It’s less what we discussed, and more
the anticipation of focusing on my darkest desires this evening, that’s had
me conscious of a light throbbing between my legs.
And now, when I touch myself, it’s obvious I’m already warmed up. My
folds are slick and wet; my clit’s already swollen. It won’t take much to
send me over the edge tonight.
I turn on the handheld part of the shower as I stand under the main spray
and angle it between my legs. The sharp flick of hot, pressurised water is
like a slap to my flesh, and my legs practically buckle. God, that’s
incredible. I close my mind for a second and allow myself to wander into
one of my fantasies.
 I’m in a spacious shower, naked and soaking, with two, or maybe even
three, guys. They have me sandwiched up between their slick bodies, flesh
sliding against flesh, before they back me up into the corner. I’m pressed
against the tile as one of them gets to his knees in front of me. He’s working
me with his tongue as someone else plays with my breasts, just the way I
like it in my fantasies, and yet another person sluices my sensitised skin
with sprays of water.
But I’m the one who ends up on her knees, being shamelessly used for
my body as they empty themselves into my mouth and shudder their climax
over my flesh.
In my messed up, confused mind, the guys all look exactly like Rafe.
And, while I have no idea what a naked man stroking himself to climax
looks like in real life, I’ve read enough graphic romance novels to connect
the dots in my mind.
His voice rings in my head, but as I replay his words, I imbue them with
a deeper, more overtly sexual tone than he gave them at the time.
Four mouths on your body are better than one. Eight hands are better
than two.
Holy hell.
I crank the shower off, simultaneously desperate to orgasm, convinced
I’m going straight to hell, and conscious that this frame of mind is exactly
what Genevieve wants from me.
She wants me so aroused when I’m answering that questionnaire that
I’m hungry for everything.
Open to everything.
After all, I suppose signing up for a programme like Unfurl and
selecting the most risk-averse, safe, vanilla sex possible would be like
visiting the world’s greatest buffet and avoiding everything except the green
salad.
I dry myself in a brisk, non-sensual way, avoiding brushing too hard
against my nipples or my clit in case I inadvertently tip my body over the
edge, and wonder for the millionth time where the disconnect is.
When I was with Harry, the guy I dated during my second year of uni, I
was besotted. I thought he was so gorgeous. I adored kissing him. But when
he attempted to go further, I was ambivalent. As in, I was morally hesitant,
but sexually disengaged. He must have thought I had no sex drive
whatsoever.
 And yet, here I am, alone and fantasising about being plundered over
and over by three hot strangers.
It’s probably because the latter’s not real. It’s arousing precisely because
it’s a fantasy.
It’s not reality.
But it could be, the little voice in my head reminds me. It’s the same
voice that propelled me to have that mortifying conversation with Rafe and
to proceed to Genevieve’s office.
Sometimes, the massive chasm between the movies that play in my
mind and my total lack of experience in real life makes me feel like the
worst kind of imposter. Like I don’t even have permission to think these
things, because a good girl like me has no business being a filthy whore,
even in her head.
Unfurl is my response to those judgemental voices.
My body is aching, my skin sensitive as I pull on some silky panties and
a matching camisole. I look down and laugh—my nipples are bullets.
They’re practically ripping two holes in the thin silk. I should have put on a
bra—the camisole rubs against them in an infuriating way every time I
move.
But I like the idea of being close to the brink the whole way through this
process. I like the idea of how bold it will make me.
After all, it’s easier to put my deepest, darkest wishes down on paper
than it is to voice them.

T HE QUESTIONNAIRE IS EPIC — A twenty-three-page PDF. I settle down

against my pillows, my knees drawn up on the bed, my laptop balanced on
my thighs. I’ve topped up my glass of Sancerre, dimmed the lights, lit
candles around my room, and even stuck the Fifty Shades of Grey movie
soundtrack on Spotify. I feel stupid, but I didn’t know what other sultry
music to put on, and the sensual sound of The Weeknd is definitely helping
my already aroused mood.
The first couple of pages are pretty perfunctory. I complete details about
my sexual history, my sexuality and even my clothing and bra size. I
decline the option to have women participating in the programme with me.
While I’ve had many an ardent girl-crush (especially at my convent school),
other women just don’t feature in my fantasies.
It’s men all the way.
And they’re always completely in charge. I’m always their plaything.
Deliciously at their mercy.
I suppose I’m not remotely original in having that fantasy. It’s a
dynamic as old as time.
Anyway.
The rest of the questionnaire concerns itself with how I’d like Unfurl to,
well, unfurl, and what I’m into. It seems the length and, um, intensity of the
programme is up to me. The spiel explains that some people may wish or
need to take things very slowly. To build up their confidence at a careful
pace.
Not me.
I’m so overly ready for this. I’m ready to be rid of this dratted burden
that hangs around my shoulders. I’m ready to feel like my body is actually
good for something. And most of all, I’m ready to go over to the dark side.
I’m so sick of being told not to taste the apple. Not to allow myself to
fall prey to its wicked temptation.
I’m right there. And what Rafe and his team are dangling in front of me
is so juicy, so addictive, that I can’t wait to sink my teeth in.
After a slug of wine and a leisurely stroke of my clit through the thin,
damp fabric of my panties, I choose a structure, clicking on it with what by
my standards is reckless abandon.
My first session will kick off with a visit to the club’s bar, to enjoy a
drink, ‘take the edge off’, and acclimatise myself to my surroundings.
(Apparently, the more timid participants can skip this step and go straight to
the room where the dirty deeds will happen.) I know Maddy will come with
me if she’s allowed, ostensibly for moral support, but really because she’s
dying to check this place out.
I’ll then enjoy the private room where a man, or men, will provide my
first, ahem, session. According to the document, this session involves
touching only through underwear and is designed to leave me ‘wanting
more’ (their quotes) unless I should wish him / them to take me to climax.
God.
I allow a finger to trail through the damp silk between my legs while my
other hand circles a taut nipple, my entire body tensing in delight as I
imagine it. The thrill of a stranger’s hands grazing my most sensitive parts
through the inadequate protection of my underwear.
I love the idea of being left wanting more. It’s clever. It reminds me that
I’m in control, that these guys are only there to serve my every whim.
Most of all, if I have my usual problem and this kind of touching
doesn’t do it for me, there’s zero pressure for me to come up with the
goods.
I tick the men box.
I tick yes to being kissed.
A tentative yes to being brought to climax if it seems my body’s headed
that way.
And big yes to dirty talk, because I suspect I’m going to need it to get
into the zone. Besides, I can’t turn down the chance to hear those whispered
abominations of my fantasies in real life, can I?
I even tick yes to being blindfolded. A polite addendum suggests that
not being able to see my teachers, or co-conspirators, or corruptors, or
whatever the hell I should call them, can help me to stay in that fantasy
land. To limit the inevitable self-consciousness. To distance myself from the
stark reality that I’m in this intensely vulnerable, scary position with total
strangers.
It seems like my reaction to this session will decide the pace and
structure of the rest of the programme. There’s enough flexibility for a
rethink, if one is needed.
If it’s a success—if I’m happy with the outcome, basically—we move
onto session two.
Oral sex.
Holy crap. My nervous giggle breaks the silence in the room, and I put a
hand over my mouth. A man’s lips and tongue on me there. A stranger’s
lips and tongue. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, and yet the knowledge that it
could be a reality in the next couple of weeks sears right through me,
heating my skin. Whatever I’ve imagined, however good my fingers can
feel sliding through my folds, I know it’s nothing compared to the wet heat
of a male mouth on my most sensitive flesh.
There’s another polite suggestion—they really are most polite, for a sex
club—that I may want to consider a role-play scenario here to help me get
my head in the game. I can think of millions of scenarios I’d like to play
out, but whether I have the nerve to take any of them from the safety of my
dirty little brain to real life remains to be seen.
The next session is the sex part itself. I blink. I wasn’t expecting it to
come about so quickly, to be honest. Genevieve—I assume it’s Genevieve’s
doing, anyway—has inserted a note suggesting we keep this session one-
on-one, although other members will most definitely be at my disposal for
the ‘warm-up’ part of the evening.
You think? I roll my eyes. Like I’m going to opt for a gang-bang for my
first time.
There are multiple-choice questions about what I think I may like.
Preferred positions. That kind of thing.
I scroll down quickly. While it’s fun considering all the options
Alchemy is laying out for me here, I can’t quite compute doing the deed
itself just yet.
A man’s weight on me. Bearing down on me.
Pushing his penis inside my body.
A man I don’t know.
It just sounds… confronting.
Intimidating.
And really, really intense. Physically and emotionally.
Denial is probably the best policy. I’ll start the process and trust I’ll be
ready for the sex bit when I get to it.
There are a couple of sessions after that which are, again, utterly
bespoke and can be decided upon once I’ve popped my cherry.
Recommended uses for these sessions include exploring more about either
techniques—like other positions or fellatio—or pushing my boundaries and
exploring totally new kinks. It mentions bondage and anal. Hard pass on the
latter.
Yikes.
My gaze alights on the last part of the section outlining the Unfurl
structure. The final session is called Adieu, which is a nice touch. The
subheading describes it as often the highlight of the course. For your Adieu,
anything goes, the blurb explains. You may choose to spend it in your usual
room with any number of members of your choosing, or out in the club.
Adieu is a special opportunity to explore your deepest fantasies in a safe
place. The sky is the limit. This is your swan song. Be brave and be
beautiful!
 It seems unlikely that after only a few—four—sessions, I’ll be this
entirely other version of myself. The Belle who kisses strange men and lets
them put their mouths on me and their penises inside various parts of my
body. Who enjoys orgies and has no problem taking any fantasy from the
safety of my head to a public place with other people.
But there’s something about the way that Adieu blurb has been written
that sparks my imagination. Because, right now, the only things separating
this version of me from that version are my hangups and my Catholic guilt.
They’re all false obstacles. They don’t really exist. And maybe, just
maybe, the best gift this entire crazy journey will provide me with will be
the gift of shrugging off my inhibitions.

T HE DEPRESSING THING about the Erogenous Zones part of the questionnaire

is for how many questions I need to tick the Unknown box.
Are my shoulders erogenous? Unknown.
My calves? Absolutely no idea.
My feet? Ew. No.
But I have a handy rule of thumb for checking. When I slide my fingers
down my neck and imagine it’s Rafe’s hot mouth, that body part erupts in a
trail of goosebumps. Same when they brush over my stomach. And when I
allow them to dip briefly between my thighs again, conjuring up the
forbidden and totally improbable image of his long, tanned fingers
disappearing inside me, I practically come.
Some boxes I can tick with a resounding yes.
There follows a long list of what I suppose are kinks. The questionnaire
discreetly refers to them as sexual preferences. There’s a sliding scale of
boxes ranked from one to ten, one being a hard pass and ten an indication
that something is my ultimate fantasy. Under each question is a box to write
extra comments.
I allow my left hand to trail over my nipple, teasing it through the silk
of my camisole till it grows harder and harder under my fingers. I feel the
sensations that some of the preferences elicit deep inside my body.
This is hardcore.
 The list goes through multiple types of bondage, from being restrained
with silk ties (yes) to full-on Shibari, which is a term I have to google.
Um, no. Not at this point, anyway.
I’m asked how aroused I get by the prospect of everything from butt
plugs (I clench squeamishly), to being ejaculated over on various body
parts, to a million scenarios. The scenarios are what get me, and before I
know it, my fingers are dipping between my legs again. There’s a vividly
crafted paragraph on each scenario that makes this PDF seem less like a
questionnaire and more like the best sales pitch I’ve ever read.
Some of the scenarios are ones I’ve read about in romance books or
conjured up in my head.
Some of them are of zero interest, like having a guy submit to me. That
does nothing for me. I want to be the one doing the submitting. (I was
brought up to say yes to everything and be a good girl. Go figure.)
Some of them are new, in that I haven’t thought much about them or
fantasised about them before. God, are they hot. God, do they get the blood
flowing to my clit, which is so swollen now that I’d probably come even if I
took my hand away.
And there’s one whose setup and allure hits me so precisely, so
powerfully, that sickening shame and white-hot desire course over my
entire body in equal measure, my fingers rubbing harder and harder before
I’m fully conscious of it.
You’re a young postulant in a convent. One night, as you lie in bed after
saying your prayers, two handsome priests from the seminary next door
come into your room. They tell you your Mother Superior has doubts about
your ability to maintain a life of celibacy, and she has asked them to test
your virtue.
You’re uneasy, because you feel committed to the convent. Because no
man has ever tested your virtue in any way. But you want to please Mother
Superior, and there’s a sensation uncoiling inside you at the prospect of
these men uncovering you. Touching you in ways you can’t imagine.
Worshipping and defiling your body in a manner you’ve been taught is
profane, but that you already know will feel sacred.
And so you say yes.
You allow them to pull down your bedcovers, and drag your modest
nightgown up over your body, and tie your wrists to the bedstead so you
don’t interrupt their sinful acts with your attempts at modesty, and you
submit to them. To their carnal desires, and to their power over you.
And when they touch you, it’s as transcendent as you knew it would be.
As if this was the destiny you were born for.
Oh God. Oh God. I’m shuddering just reading it, my entire body
prickling with goosebumps so severe it feels as though nails are being
dragged over my skin.
This is too much. This is everything. There’s no time to question why
I’m reacting so strongly. No time to allow the shame of how messed up this
is to take over. I type four words into the box below, hit Ten on the scale of
the questionnaire, and snap my laptop shut, my fingers moving desperately
over my flesh as I shudder out a climax so violent that my body practically
lifts off the bed as I come.
 10

RAFE

G
en is saying something.
I liked her a lot, I think.
I zone her out, because my entire consciousness right now is
fixated on four words towards the bottom of Belle Scott’s questionnaire.
Yes. Exactly this. Please.
Holy shit.
Holy fucking Christ.
I drag my hand down over my face and rub my jaw as I stare at her
response to the postulant-slash-priest role play. I’m instantly hard. I’m so
fucking hard I could drill a hole through the wall.
It’s the urgency in her words. The hunger. And the fucking please. The
please that tells me she’d be as desperate for everything I’d give her in this
scenario as I would be.
That she gets off on the exact same fucking stuff as I do.
Motherfucker.
It makes me want to drag her in here right now and put us both out of
our misery. Forget the first session, the careful, respectful over-underwear
exploration.
Let’s just get down to the good stuff, for fuck’s sake. My mind’s eye
plays a crystal-clear vision of her lying on a bed, clear-skinned and glossy-
haired, in some virginal, nun-like fucking shift that I’d shove up or tear off
her in my hunger to get to the glorious body I know lies underneath.
 To defile every fucking inch of her with my hands. My mouth.
My cock.
‘Jesus Christ, Rafe, put it away,’ Genevieve groans from afar.
I blink, and, looking up, see her gesturing at my boner. ‘What? Oh. Shut
up. You’ve seen it before.’
Gen has done a lot more than see my dick, but I’m not concerned with
that now, because my senses are drugged with thoughts of Belle in exactly
the sorts of filthy scenarios I’ve been trying not to imagine. Until she
showed up at my front door and pretty much begged to sign on the dotted
line for Unfurl, at least.
‘If you can tamp the beast down for just a second, I’d like to chat to you
about her,’ Genevieve is saying now. ‘I’m trying to tell you I liked her.
She’s impressive.’
‘What? Yeah, she’s a lovely girl.’ A lovely girl who’s never been
fucked, or even properly touched, if this questionnaire is correct, and yet
appears to have an appetite for filth that I can one hundred percent get on
board with.
Christ.
She was hot before. A knockout, even.
But now I’ve seen her reaction to the pleasures we’ve proposed to make
available to her.
Yes. Exactly this. Please.
I mean, Jesus. I can never un-see that.
And I don’t want to.
I wonder what she was doing when she wrote that. I bet she was
touching that sweet, virginal pussy. Rubbing it. Or using a vibrator?
No. Bet she’s too scaredy-cat to have one. Or if she has one, there’s no
way she’s brought it to her parents’ flat.
I bet she was wet as fuck.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Callum snorts. ‘Lovely girl, my arse. For fuck’s sake, come over and
talk to us if you have any blood flow left outside of your cock.’ His tone is
smug and taunting. He’s one of my best and oldest friends, but he can be a
total dick.
‘She’s delightful,’ Gen tells Callum, her voice steely. ‘May I remind
you she’s allowed to be a thoroughly lovely young woman and still embrace
her right to bring her every desire to life without shame? And may I also
remind you that this is precisely why we founded this place? And Unfurl, in
particular?’
‘Hey.’ He holds his hands up as I walk painfully over to the sofa and sit,
throwing the iPad down next to me. ‘I get it. All I meant was that nothing
about Rafe’s wood tells me he’s thinking she’s a “lovely girl”.’
‘All right.’ Gen glares at us both like we’re wayward school kids and
she’s warning us to stay in line. ‘I, for one, am pleasantly surprised that
she’s answered so honestly. From what you told me about her, Rafe, and
from how skittish she was in our interview, I wasn’t sure she’d be able to
put aside her inhibitions enough to get out of her own way. But there’s good
stuff to work with here.’
‘Especially her priest kink,’ Callum says, a smirk playing over his
obnoxiously good-looking features.
‘She was raised Catholic,’ I snap. ‘Of course she has a priest kink.’
‘Just like you,’ he observes.
Yeah.
Just like me.
For better or for worse, one of the legacy issues I was stuck with long
after leaving Loyola was a fascination with priests. With the idea of being
one in a sexual fantasy, obviously. Not of fucking one. They didn’t mess me
up that badly.
The priest and nun thing is my favourite scenario to play. Well, one of
them. It’s the lure of the forbidden. We’ve been taught that kink since the
Book of Genesis, for fuck’s sake. It’s no great mystery. It’s also the
attraction of imagining I’m a man brought to the brink by endless restraint.
Repression. Denial of the pleasures of the flesh.
Stick all that in the unlikely scenario where I’m someone who actually
practices celibacy, being faced with a young, innocent, untouched nun
who’s nervous and aroused in equal measure? Who submits to me? And
who is actually Belle under that nightgown?
Now that is a fucking tinderbox.
I turn to Gen before Callum can utter any other bullshit. ‘I’m her
sponsor. I want in on the programme.’
She sighs and averts her eyes to the iPad on her lap, where she has a
copy of Belle’s answers drawn up. We started Alchemy together, the three
of us alongside our mate and Finance Director, Zach, but Genevieve is our
moral north star, basically because she doesn’t have the liability of a dick
affecting all her judgement calls.
‘Rafe.’
I know that tone. Gentle. Cautionary.
I shake my head. ‘Nope.’
‘You seem… taken with her.’
‘Gen. I’m not taken with her. I’m attracted to her, yeah. She’s gorgeous,
and I’m not blind.’
If she’s thinking something crazy, like that I might get attached, she has
no reason to think that. None at all. I never get attached.
Quite the opposite.
But there’s no fucking way I’m letting Belle go through this without
my… stewardship. Without my being involved, so I can make sure she’s
taken care of. In every way.
Callum looks from me to Gen. ‘Is she hot?’
‘Stunning,’ Gen tells him. She’s straight, but she can appreciate the
female form as well as anyone.
‘Young?’
‘Twenty-two,’ I say through gritted teeth. Callum is extremely popular
with Alchemy’s female members, but I feel a vibe for Belle that I’d rather
think of as protective than territorial.
After all, this is about her, not me.
This is about making her brief journey through this programme as
perfect for her as it can possibly be.
And that means paying as much attention to the security of the safety
net as to the ability of her trapeze to let her soar as high as she’s willing to
go.
‘Nice. I’ve got her covered.’
Callum actually rubs his hands on his thighs, and I glare at him in
disgust.
‘You did not just do that.’
‘I’d like to point out that I’m not the one who’s got a boner over this
girl.’
Gen raises a perfectly arched brow. ‘He’s right.’
‘It’s not her.’ I backtrack. ‘Look. Her responses took me by surprise, all
right? It’s hot reading about what she likes. I won’t lie. But I’m the one who
told her about the programme.’ I have no intention of mentioning that she
found out about it all by herself. ‘And I have a similar background to her. I
get where she’s coming from. She may have had the confidence to fill out
the form properly, but you said it yourself, Gen. She’s skittish. She’s in a
whole world of conflict, given all the bullshit she’s been fed since she was
fuck knows how young. I think I can help her.’
Gen looks at me, as if by studying my face she’ll be able to judge
whether my evolved or reptilian parts are driving me right now. Finally she
nods.
‘Okay then. But Callum leads on the first session.’
I open my mouth to interrupt, but she puts a hand up. ‘No. You don’t
want to scare her off, Rafe. She knows you—it could be intimidating for
her. If she’s open to having more than one of you in there, I don’t see why
you can’t help out.’ She glances down at the questionnaire results. ‘It seems
she’s open to having a blindfold on, so it should be fine.
‘But let Callum take the lead, okay? We all know what a filthy mouth he
has on him. Let him have Belle’s ear, and he’ll have her relaxed and eating
out of the palm of his hand in no time. You can be a bit… intense. Save it
for the dirty priest talk. That’s more up your street.’
My hands curl uselessly into fists. I’m not happy about her proposal,
though I know she’s right.
Make no mistake about it.
I’ll be right there, and I’ll be watching Callum every step of the way.
‘Fine.’ I spit the word out and drag a hand down my face. ‘Anyone seen
Zach today?’
There’s nothing like contemplating the death of your friend’s wife to
magic away a boner. We laid Claire to rest a year ago, but Zach’s still in a
state of shock, and I don’t blame him. One month from the pancreatic
cancer diagnosis to death.
One fucking month.
It was like being hit by a freight train. For all of them. There was so
little time for them to come to terms with her prognosis. For her to enjoy
her final days. To get things in order for the kids. Except, having had a
front-row seat to the nightmare that was Zach trying to juggle the parenting
of terrified, shell-shocked kids to spending as much time with Claire in the
hospice as possible makes me think maybe it was a good thing she went
quickly.
 I’m not sure he could have survived much more of that nightmarish
twilight zone.
Since then, though, things have been brutal. Claire’s mum has spent a
tonne of her time at Zach’s place, because it’s clear that the processing of
kids, especially grieving kids, is a full-time job. After they were born,
Claire worked from home as a bookkeeper, but she always prioritised the
kids before any deadline. Her absence is a void that my poor mate and his
kids’ grandparents can’t even begin to fill.
I still can’t believe it happened to him.
To them.
Yeah, Callum and I used to rip the piss out of Zach and Claire for being
loved-up and boring as fuck. He’s the only FD of a sex club I know who’d
never, ever partake of its perks. He hardly ever comes here at night. He’s
always said he’s a big fan of the concept and not remotely interested in the
reality.
But, in truth, they had it sorted. They were as madly in love when she
got sick as they were when they got together on the graduate trainee
programme at KPMG, straight out of uni.
They were the Happy Ever After, for fuck’s sake.
Supposed to be, anyway.
‘He’s coming in a bit later,’ Gen says. ‘It’s Stella’s class assembly this
morning.’
I meet her eyes briefly. They reflect my exact thoughts.
It’s not fucking fair.
‘Got it,’ I say brusquely. I pull myself up off the sofa, all thoughts of
gorgeous virgins and tempting postulants banished from my mind, all my
blood flow restored to my head.
Jesus.
‘Don’t fuck it up with Belle when she comes in,’ I tell Callum, but my
tone has lost its heat.
 11

RAFE

I
t’s a short and pleasant walk from the club to Dover Street, where
Belle’s gallery is situated. I looked up the closing time before I left. Six
o’clock, and it’s five-fifty now. Hopefully she’ll be able to get away.
I tell myself it’s an easy way to convey the message that she’s been
accepted onto the Unfurl programme. That Gen’s reviewed her
questionnaire and given her the green light.
I tell myself that, as her sponsor on the programme, I’m responsible for
her pastoral care and that checking in to see how she feels before it, er,
unfurls, is the right thing to do.
But really, I want to see her. Need to see her. Need to soak her up in the
flesh, remind myself that the woman whose hungry words are replaying in
my mind on a constant fucking loop is in fact a real person and not some
figment of my filthy imagination.
I push the brass handle on huge glass doors. Liebermann’s is etched on
both doors in tasteful serifs. The massive space is painted palest green in
honour of the current exhibition, which is how Monet would probably have
painted on acid. It’s a whirl of pastels and textures and appears, at first
glance, to be an exploration of the effect of light on water.
It’s ultra-feminine but stunning, and I can instantly see why Belle would
be at home here.
A woman whose level of subcutaneous body fat I’d estimate at zero
greets me with obvious interest. I’m not sure if it’s my face or the
unmistakable price tag of my Savile Row suit that’s got her looking so
cheery.
I’d guess the latter.
‘Good evening,’ she purrs. ‘Please. Take a look around.’ She gestures
with a limp hand.
‘Evening,’ I say. ‘I’m looking for Belle Scott. Is she here?’
She visibly deflates. ‘One moment, please.’
Off she click-clacks to the rear of the space, and a moment later, I get
my wish.
Because there she is, in a pale pink dress with a short, flared skirt that
complements the hues of her surroundings in a way my not-so-creative
brain can’t dissect but can most certainly appreciate. She emerges from
behind a wall dedicated to one massive piece, and I watch with a sense of
satisfaction as her confident stride falters once she clocks it’s me waiting
for her.
I stick my hands in my pockets and smile, enjoying the view. She’s all
honeyed limbs and golden hair. She’s polished and sleek and feminine. She
screams good breeding. I can’t imagine how many fuckers who come in
here to throw their money around attempt to hit on her.
Exactly as I’m in danger of doing.
She closes the gap between us. ‘Rafe,’ she says breathlessly with a
backwards look at the colleague who’s followed her out. ‘What are you
doing here?’
‘Thought I’d take a look at the exhibit,’ I lie smoothly. ‘I still need a
few pieces for the flat.’ I lean down and kiss her on both cheeks. ‘And I
have an update for you on Unfurl,’ I whisper against her ear. The telltale
flush is spreading up her neck even as I draw back.
She squirms.
I smirk.
‘Oh.’ She stares at me, flustered. ‘Right.’
Jesus Christ. She’s so innocent. So easily ruffled. And yet…
Yes. Exactly this. Please.
I love that these two sides coexist within her.
I fucking love it.
I jerk my head at the paintings behind us. ‘You want to show me
around? Maybe we can do a drink afterwards, if you’re closing up shortly?’
 ‘Okay.’ She blinks, taken aback by my suggestion. ‘You’re just in time,
actually. We close at six.’
Well, fancy that.
***
I’m genuinely impressed by the thoughtfulness and intelligence with
which Belle talks me through the exhibition. The painter is a Belgian
woman, and while the pieces are at first glance too feminine for my tastes,
they grow on me as we circle the room. Belle knows her stuff, but she
responds to art the same way I do, with her heart. Her consciousness.
It’s not about how we’re supposed to feel. It’s about how art really does
make us feel, and for a brief moment I consider painting my flat this exact
shade and covering its walls in paintings like this that are trippy and
luminescent and make me feel like anything’s possible.
God knows, they’re not to my usual taste, but my ten minutes in the
gallery has me feeling almost giddy.
Or maybe it’s sliding Belle’s gauzy white cardigan over her shoulders as
we exit the building that has me feeling giddy.
By silent agreement, we take a right on Piccadilly and begin to walk
west, crossing over into Green Park, which is certainly living up to its name
at this time of year in all its verdant glory. It’s another warm evening, and
office workers are losing their socks and shoes and pouring rosé into plastic
cups on the grassy verges around us.
‘How are you finding the job?’ I ask her as we stroll. She’s changed into
flats and seems to be navigating the path well, but I’m more than ready to
give her my arm if she needs it.
‘I’m enjoying it.’ She shrugs. ‘I love being surrounded by art all day.
The paintings feel like friends. I’m getting to know them, getting to know
how they look in different light. How I respond to them depending on my
mood. How they respond to me. They may look like static images, but I
assure you, they’re not. Especially not Renée’s paintings. They’re as
mercurial as we are.’
I like this considered articulation of something I’ve always felt to be
true but have never voiced.
I like it more than I can say.
‘Glad the paintings are keeping you company,’ I tell her in lieu of
divulging anything more heartfelt. ’Because it didn’t look like your
colleague would be much fun.’
 Belle laughs. ‘Marie’s okay. She’s the manager. She takes it all very
seriously, but it’s a serious business. She’s fair, in her own way.’
‘Just not a barrel of laughs.’
‘Nope,’ she admits, and covers her mouth like she’s let an indiscretion
slip.
I wink at her. ‘Your secret is safe with me. Not sure anyone goes into
the art world for its sense of humour.’
‘The art is better company than the humans are,’ she agrees.
***
I take her to the Library Bar at the Lanesborough on Hyde Park Corner.
It’s not the most obvious venue for an evening this warm, but it’s elegant
and discreet. The staff here are friendly, and they make an excellent Old
Fashioned. That’s good enough for me.
I order a bottle of champagne after establishing that she does indeed
want bubbles. I’ll let her enjoy a glass before I bring up the topic I know
will raise a flush to the surface of that slim, golden neck.
But she beats me to it, in a roundabout way, when she asks me what I
actually do for a living.
‘I know about one bit, obviously.’ She looks down at her glass. ‘But I’m
sure Mummy told me you were in finance.’
‘Yeah. I definitely didn’t tell your mum I owned a sex club,’ I deadpan,
and she giggles.
‘So what else do you do?’
‘I started out in M&A. Worked my arse off. Learnt how to model a
company from scratch. Then I went to a hedge fund for a while. Ran some
long-short funds.’ I take a sip of champagne. ‘A few years ago, I left with
some mates and we struck out on our own. Now we run our own money and
we provide leverage for other people who want to do the same.’
She scrunches up her nose. ‘You mean you lend them money?’
‘Exactly. So they can take riskier positions. We also provide their
infrastructure. Trading systems. Compliance. That sort of thing.’
‘And what do you trade?’
‘A bit of everything. The way my mates and I have organised things,
everyone has their own expertise. Mine’s equity and corporate debt. That’s
what I learnt in M&A. Some of the others are better on macro stuff—
interest rates, commodities. FX. We worked out a while ago that it was
easier to pool our money than all try to trade stuff we didn’t have a clue
about. But we all take an interest in everyone’s positions. Keeps things
more interesting, and keeps everyone on their toes. We’re getting into more
and more markets. NFTs especially.’
She’s smiling at me, and it’s a smile more unguarded than I’ve come to
expect from her. That face of hers is alight. I can’t help but grin back.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ She shakes her head and takes a sip of her drink. ‘You sound
passionate about it, that’s all. It’s a world away from… you know. Your
club.’
I shrug. ‘Not really. I just make markets. Sex is the oldest market in the
world.’
‘You mean prostitution.’
‘Nope. I mean two people wanting what each other has. One offers, the
other bids. That’s a market. Doesn’t matter what commodity you’re trading
—bonds. Bananas. Sex.’ I lean in slightly, lowering my voice. ‘Take you
and the Unfurl programme. You want something from our members. And
believe me, they want something from you, too. There’s your market, right
there.’
She blinks. I sit back.
‘How did you… I mean, what’s the story behind Alchemy?’
A server arrives to top up our glasses. I wait till he’s poured, returned
the bottle to its bucket, and laid the white napkin over the top.
‘A group of us had the idea three or four years ago. You met Gen—I
was at uni with her, Callum, and Zach, our other co-founders. I went to
school with Cal and Zach too. There were so many flash members’ clubs
opening up around Mayfair. We joined a few, and they were fun.
Predictable. Total meat markets, obviously. They got formulaic pretty
quickly. Just posh people looking to get fucked and fuck. We felt that, for
the amount of money they were charging, we should get more bang for our
buck. Stupid pun intended.’
She rewards my lame joke with a little smile.
‘Anyway, there were some pop-up sex clubs around that were killing it.
We thought it would be fun to try something more permanent. Somewhere
with rules and vetting that meant you were far safer than in any of those
other places, but where you could also try out things that maybe you’d just
fantasised about.’
 She nods. ‘Makes sense. Maddy never goes home alone from
Annabel’s. I worry sometimes, because a lot of these guys are super-
entitled, and God knows what they might think they’re entitled to. It freaks
me out.’
‘Exactly. The safety and the freedom go hand in hand. You can’t let go
if you don’t feel safe. That’s at the heart of everything we do.’
‘So why the name Alchemy?’
I grin. ‘Gen came up with it. But we all agreed. We wanted something
discreet. Classy. Kinky fuck club wasn’t going to cut it.’
She giggles again, and my grin widens.
‘The more research we did, the more it seemed the perfect name. It has
gravitas. It suggests all manner of possibilities, and we loved that. We
wanted our members to feel like they could arrive as one person and leave
as another, that they’d been through something transformational.
‘What did the original alchemists do? They tried to turn one material
into another. They looked at matter, and they didn’t buy into the idea that its
fate was necessarily to remain that way for evermore. I’d like to think we
take that approach to humans. Alchemists tried to create an elixir of
immortality. Why should we not attempt to uncover a greater meaning in
life than the one we have served up to us by polite society?’
I have her full attention. Those huge tiger eyes are on me, her lips
slightly parted. One hand holds her champagne flute. The other clutches a
bare knee that I am categorically not allowed to look at.
She exhales. ‘When you put it like that, it actually sounds quite
romantic.’
That has me huffing out an amused laugh. ‘I don’t think anyone would
describe what goes down at Alchemy as romantic. But what it is… is
transcendent.’ I hold her gaze. ‘Because I know you don’t know this for
yourself yet, Belle, but trust me when I tell you there’s nothing more
transcendent than really great sex.’
That look in her eyes. That one right there. It’s desire warring with
embarrassment, and right now, desire is winning. I’d hazard a guess that it’s
winning to such an extent that she’s almost forgetting she should feel
bashful.
Nope. I’m wrong. Dammit. She jerks her head downwards, away from
me.
‘Belle.’
 She glances up.
‘You don’t need to be embarrassed around me. I’ve seen it all,
sweetheart. And it takes serious balls to do what you’re doing. Honestly,
I’m impressed.’
‘I’m not embarrassed that you’re talking about sex.’ She picks at
something on her skirt. ‘I’m embarrassed that I’m sitting here, aged twenty-
two, and I have nothing to contribute to the conversation. It’s mortifying.’
‘Hey. It’s not mortifying. You’re dealing with it, remember? And there
is nothing wrong with being your age and being inexperienced. The
important thing is you’re taking it at your own pace. And you have the rest
of your life to make up for lost time, if you want to.’
Even saying that to her creates a weird buzzing in my ears. There’s a
shameful, patriarchal part of me that doesn’t want her liberated. A part of
me that goes against everything we stand for with Alchemy and yet a part I
can’t deny.
What would it be like if she wasn’t choosing to open herself up to the
world of possibilities she’s been missing out on, in the most liberated
environment we could possibly have created?
What would it be like if she took a different route? Dated a guy like me?
Chose me to show her how transformative things could be between us?
How two people can become bona fide alchemists with nothing at all
but their flesh?
I swallow.
Thank fuck Genevieve is on the case. Because she saw right through
me. And this isn’t about me, or my desire to consume Belle. It’s about
Belle, and awakening her desires in a way that goes far beyond me.
The last thing she needs is to get out of her fucked-up father’s clutches
and straight into the controlling hands of another man who wants her all for
himself.
A man like me.
‘How did you come up with the name Unfurl, then?’ she asks in a low
voice.
I shake off my instinct to go full caveman levels of territorial around
this woman and consider her question.
‘Callum wanted Deflower,’ I remember with a grin.
‘Oh no!’ She recoils. ‘That’s horrific.’
 ‘Seriously.’ I take a decent slug of champagne. ‘He’s such a twisted
fucker.’
‘It’s so… Dangerous Liaisons. I can’t bear it.’
‘Exactly. It felt patronising, too, and not a little creepy.’
She laughs. ‘Definitely creepy.’
‘But, you know, he also suggested Fresh Meat.’
She shudders. ‘Bloody hell. I hope he was joking.’
‘I’m pretty sure he was. He likes to spout shit, but he’s a good guy
underneath it all. And Zach’s suggestion was Explore, or something equally
lame. That’s why we keep him to strictly spreadsheets only. My suggestion
was Defile.’ I smile wolfishly, and she practically spits out her drink.
‘Oh my God,’ she splutters through her fingers.
‘A bit aggressive?’
She cocks her head, considering. ‘It’s hot.’
‘Hot?’ Now it’s my turn to practically choke. What the actual fuck?
‘Yeah. That’s what every virgin wants, really. Right? To be defiled. It’s
the ultimate fantasy. Especially for those of us who are Catholic and messed
up.’
Good grief.
I thought this girl was done surprising me.
Clearly not.
‘But it’s a bit on the nose,’ she continues blithely. ‘And yeah, it might
scare off some potential participants, I suppose.’
I recover myself, but I’m reeling. ‘Yeah. So our branding company
came up with Unfurl, and we all liked it. Again, it’s classy. Discreet. And
the act of unfurling feels noble. Positive. And also natural. For a flower to
unfurl its petals and showcase its full beauty is an inevitable act of nature
and a wonderful thing. That’s its destiny, and it’s something we should be
celebrating. Not curtailing.’
She smiles dreamily. ‘I love it. It’s a gorgeous word. I’ve never really
thought about it.’
Conversely, the prospect of having a front-row seat to the miracle that is
seeing Belina Scott unfurled, seeing her mind and body opened up to the
sheer force of the full power they possess, is something I cannot stop
thinking about.
Not for one second.
 12

BELLE

top fidgeting. You look gorgeous.’ Maddy slaps me lightly on the

‘S arm.
I exhale. ‘Did you just quote Richard Gere talking to Julia Roberts
when she was in that red dress?’
‘I dunno. Maybe I paraphrased him. Pretty Woman is never far from the
surface of my consciousness. Anyway, you’re the opposite of a ho. Right
now, anyway.’ She checks an imaginary watch. ‘But in a couple of hours?
Well, that’ll be another story.’
‘Shut up.’
‘See? You can’t even tell me to fuck off like a normal person would.
You’re the purest being I know, Belle Scott.’
‘Not for long,’ I mutter as we hand heavy, gilt-edged invitations
embossed with the now-familiar A to an expressionless doorman.
Stepping over the shiny brass threshold of Alchemy feels symbolic.
Prophetic, even.
God help me.
Tonight is The Night, and I’m so nervous I can barely keep my chicken
salad down. Alchemy apparently has a two-drink maximum for anyone
planning on moving beyond the bar area, so I’ve already had a glass of wine
at home. Maddy’s my appointed moral support for the night. Genevieve
suggested I bring a plus-one, and I’m beyond grateful for that, because I’m
not sure I could do this alone.
 Despite Maddy’s nagging, I smooth my palms over my dress again as
we traverse the wide lobby. It smells decadently of Diptyque Baies. The
iconic candles burn in huge black pots encased in massive hurricane
lanterns that flank us as we walk, the black-and-white floor reflecting
chrome and flame.
What the heck do you wear when you’re about to be deflowered? I can’t
get that dreadful word out of my head since Rafe uttered it last week. And
then I recall the expression on his face as his tongue flicked over the term
defiled, and my skin warms.
I’ll stick with unfurled. Far more euphemistic. It sounds positively
chaste.
Anyway, it turns out that if you’re me, you wear a pale gold silk Ralph
Lauren slip dress and some strappy Gianvito Rossi sandals. The dress skims
my body to perfection and doesn’t allow for a bra, but come on.
I’m at a sex club.
I don’t think anyone will be clutching their pearls.
Genevieve explained on our Zoom call earlier this week that for the,
ahem, session itself, I’ll change into a silk robe and some underwear that
they’ll provide, so it doesn’t particularly matter what I wear for this initial
part of the evening. I’m just here to get my bearings, have some (more)
Dutch courage with Maddy in the bar area, and soak up the atmosphere.
A sleek, beautiful brunette ushers us through the double doors at the end
of the lobby, and we find ourselves in a stunning room. There’s an aesthetic
overlap with Genevieve’s office and no suggestion of the den-of-sin vibe I
was expecting. No black walls, or red leather banquettes, or sex swings.
Maybe they’re all next door.
No, the room here is all white, with luscious mouldings and spectacular
deco chandeliers dimmed to their lowest setting. The massive picture
windows facing the back of the building have their shutters closed, and it’s
pretty dark, but nowhere near dingy.
The focal point of the entire space is a huge bar, crafted entirely from
backlit pink onyx, a line of sleek kelly green bar stools dotted in front of it.
It’s utterly gorgeous.
And the people? I glance around quickly. First impression is that I’m at
the bar of Nobu or Sexy Fish. It’s a Mayfair crowd. Well-heeled.
International. Accomplished-looking.
 Phew. Despite Genevieve’s reassurances to the contrary, I did wonder if
this place was going to be this young virgin and a load of leering old men.
On the contrary, there are women in their twenties, thirties and forties
here, and the guys look well-groomed. Hot, even.
Maddy squeezes my hand. ‘You okay? This doesn’t look too scary.’
I nod. It really doesn’t. I know the bar is supposed to be a safe place for
patrons to acclimatise before they go next door to the playroom and do God
knows what, but it’s even more elegant and tasteful than I was expecting.
She leads me towards the bar, and that’s when I spot Genevieve and
Rafe perched on two of the stools. They stand up, and my stomach does a
little somersault.
This man. What is it about him? God, he’s so… Impressive.
Dominating. Forceful.
I don’t know—there’s simply this presence about him I can’t ignore.
Gravitas.
That’s what it is, I suppose. He’s so substantial. So masculine. I think
about the inane crap guys my age spout. They’re so full of swagger and hot
air.
Not Rafe. He doesn’t have any of that. I could sense the first time I set
eyes on him that he has no need to prove himself. His self-confidence is of
the quiet variety. But I’d guess it’s unwavering. And I’d bet the reason it’s
unwavering is that he’s never had any reason to doubt it.
I bet he gets what he wants.
Especially when it comes to women.
I have to admit, I adored having him to myself the other evening. I
loved the thrill of seeing him in the gallery. Realising he was there for me
and me alone. Walking through Green Park with him, my bare arm brushing
against the crisp cotton of his shirt from time to time. Having his eyes on
me as we talked about things in the bar that were far outside my comfort
zone.
And when he walked me back to the door of my parents’ flat later that
night, his cheek brushed mine and he said gruffly in my ear, ‘I know
Unfurl’s going to be great for you, Belle. Okay? I’ll make sure of it.’
I admit I’ve obsessed over that declaration almost as much as I’ve
obsessed over the imminent reality of having strangers touch me and
possibly bring me to orgasm.
Because what exactly did he mean?
 Did he mean that as my sponsor on the programme, he’d do everything
he could to make sure the people, um, helping me, made it a great
experience for me?
Or did he mean he would make sure it was great for me? Like with his
own body?
As he kisses me at the bar, that familiar swirl of desire and nerves coils
in my stomach. He is a difficult man to look away from. His allure is
impossible to ignore. Those dark eyes that give little away while somehow
implying a depth of need behind them. The thickness of his upper lashes,
the starriness of the lower ones. The stubble on his jaw that rasps against
my cheek as our faces brush. The smell of him. Herbal with a generous
dose of pheromones.
God.
‘How are you doing?’ he asks softly, and I nod.
‘Okay. Good. Yes.’
He grins, and those dark eyes crinkle. ‘Good for you. Would you like a
sharpener?’
‘Absolutely. One hundred percent. White wine, please.’
‘Coming up.’
He seems amused by my nerves, but he puts a hand lightly on the small
of my back and guides me between the stools to the bar. I’m vaguely aware
of Maddy and Gen introducing themselves—I have a feeling those two will
hit it off and Maddy will probably be a fully paid-up member by the end of
the night—but, honestly, I’m far more aware of the heat of Rafe’s palm
through the thin silk of my dress.
I wish it was just me and him tonight.
I wish that so badly.
I shouldn’t have signed up for this. I should have just got hammered and
shown up at the door to his flat and begged him to have sex with me.
What the hell am I doing here?
And then his mouth is against my ear again, and, miracle of miracles,
his hand is still on my lower back. ‘You look beautiful tonight, by the way.
Even more beautiful than usual, I mean.’
I risk a glance at him. His face is so close to mine. ‘Really?’
His gaze rakes down my body and back up again. Deliberate.
Unhurried. ‘Really.’ He holds eye contact, as if he wants to be sure I get
what he’s saying. ‘I’m glad you’re doing the Unfurl programme. They’d eat
you alive next door.’
A pulse jumps between my legs at the concept. Fear and desire twist in
my gut in equal measure. I don’t know what to say, so I put my evening bag
on the bar and touch the sparkly buckle with my fingertip.
I’m not ready to be eaten alive.
Yet.
But the almost primal look in his eyes and the rough grate of his voice
have me suddenly far more ready for the next step.
The first step.
 13

BELLE

T
he dressing room resembles a high-end spa more than a sex club, only
with more sultry music. Hazel, a pretty red-head who’s likely been
hired for this role because of her friendly face and wide smile, shows
me where I can leave my clothes and my valuables when I’ve undressed.
‘Choose a set of underwear,’ she tells me, pointing at some lingerie on
top of the low lacquered cabinet, ‘and pop that robe on. When you’re done,
you can go through. Take a seat in the chair. There are two buttons, both
marked. One will pop you through to me if you have questions, and the
other green one’s for when you’re ready to get started. Pop your eye mask
on before you hit the green button, okay?’
Her frequent use of the word pop hits me, and I’m reminded, randomly,
of the language a pre-school teacher might use to convince a recalcitrant
toddler.
‘Got it,’ I say, though I haven’t really got it at all, and watch as she
leaves.
I’m all alone.
Shit.
God, this is scary. I put my phone on the cabinet. The ‘session’ is due to
start in ten minutes. There are two sets of lingerie next to my phone, both
plain black bra-and-pants sets. Neither bra is padded, and one set is sheer.
Okay then.
 I take off my sandals, tug my dress off over my head and step out of my
pants, grabbing the sheer lingerie set.
I’ve agreed to the following parameters for today’s session with
Genevieve.
More than one guy.
Gulp.
I’m going to wear a blindfold for self-preservation rather than kinky
reasons. Hopefully, it makes things less excruciatingly awkward.
They won’t restrain me. Not tonight, anyway.
They’re allowed to kiss me. I’m not one hundred percent sure I made
the right call on that front, but I’m worried if they go straight for groping
me without a kiss, it’ll feel too clinical.
And finally, they will only touch me through my underwear. They can
use their hands or mouths, but this flimsy barrier stays on.
I pick up the sheer bra and thread my arms through the straps, studying
myself in the mirror. It’s no surprise that the bra fits perfectly—Genevieve
asked for my measurements. Then come the pants—gauzy black briefs.
The entire set is almost austere in its simplicity, except you can see my
nipples and the strip of my Brazilian wax through the sheer fabric.
You can see everything, basically.
I showered before I left the house. Shaved my legs. Moisturised
everywhere. One of my biggest hangups about tonight is that I don’t want to
be a charity case. I want these guys, whoever they are, to want it.
To want me.
They’ll hold all the power in there, from where I’m standing, at least.
This is where my power comes in. If they’re going to make me lose
control, I want to make them feel that same loss.
I want them to stumble out of that room, desperate for whatever release
men need when they’ve been teased.
I’m not body-conscious. I’m healthy. I work out. I look after my body,
and I’ve had it objectified by enough men in enough clubs to know that the
male species reacts well to it.
So I’m not nervous about strange guys seeing me practically naked this
evening. I have bikinis that cover little more than this.
What I’m nervous about, and insecure about, is that I don’t have a clue
what I’m doing in bed. How to act. What noises to make, or not to make.
How to touch a guy so he likes it.
 At least, this evening, I don’t need to worry about that last part. My
touching them is off the table.
I drain the last of my wine, grateful for the warm buzz it sends coursing
through my bloodstream as it slips down my throat, and turn the door
handle to the connecting room.

I SHUT the door behind me and look around. It’s a smallish room, square,
with a huge leather armchair on a dais in the middle. Kind of like the
armchairs they use when you go for a pedicure. This room is… sexier than
the changing room, but it’s still tasteful. Lit Baies candles line one wall,
throwing off their heady, glorious scent. The lights are lower, the walls are
painted a deep taupe, and the same sultry music is playing, albeit a little
more loudly.
That’s good. I definitely don’t need sexual ASMR to add to my nerves.
Hopefully, the music takes the edge off whatever dodgy noises we make.
I eye the chair suspiciously before picking up the navy silk sleep mask
on the seat. So far, so good. It looks innocuous enough. I settle down into
the chair. It’s massive and comfortable, and my body’s in a semi-reclined
position. When I wriggle, the silk of my gown slides against the leather and
off my thighs. I rearrange the fabric over my legs before slipping the sleep
mask onto my forehead.
On one arm of the chair is a small black box with two buttons. There’s a
white one marked HELP and a green one marked ORGASMS. That gets a
nervous giggle out of me.
Oh my god. Help or orgasms. Which one do I want more right now?
Help, undoubtedly.
But I’m here for the orgasms.
So I take a deep breath, settle back in the chair, press the green button,
and slide the mask the rest of the way over my eyes.
A few seconds later, there’s the sound of the door handle in front of me
opening with that heavy, electronic clicking sound that hotel room doors
have. I sense the door being pushed open and there’s movement. Shuffling.
A warm breeze before the door shuts decisively.
 My body’s on full alert, I realise, and not being able to see is only
heightening my other senses. I’m frozen in the big armchair, white-
knuckling the arms, when I sense someone next to me.
‘Evening, Belle,’ a man’s voice says. It’s rich, and sexy, and flirtatious,
and it’s not Rafe. I let out a huge breath I didn’t know I was holding.
‘Evening,’ I murmur.
There’s a gush of air and a brushing sound suggesting he’s squatted
down beside me.
‘Don’t be nervous,’ he says. ‘I’m Callum. I’ve got a couple of friends
here, and we’d like to stay and hang out with you for a while. That okay
with you?’
Callum. Good name. I nod and murmur my assent, and a finger grazes
my arm through the satin of my robe.
‘Good girl,’ he whispers in my ear. He smells great. Not Rafe-level
great, but pretty damn good all the same.
There’s a little more noise, more air being moved. The others drawing
closer, probably.
Oh my God. What am I doing? There are three of them. Why did I not
think a drunken fumble with just one guy was a better option than this? This
seems crazy overkill for my first time.
But I remember Rafe’s words about it being just maths, about four
mouths being better than one. I have three mouths and six hands, all at my
disposal, and I bet not many of those girls at uni who were so scornful and
rude about my lack of experience have done something like this. Have had
a sexual encounter so beautifully set up, so perfectly tailored to what they
want.
The thought gives me a jolt of determination to enjoy this experience.
To own it. It feels a bit like that second when a rollercoaster starts moving,
and you’re powerless to stop it, but you know it’s going to turn you inside
out.
And you’re game for whatever it can throw at you.
Callum’s hand brushes down my sleeve until it reaches my hand. He
gives it a squeeze. ‘You need a safe word. You say it, and everything stops.
Immediately. Got one you’d like to use?’
I’ve discussed this with Genevieve. ‘Alchemy,’ I whisper.
‘Alchemy,’ he repeats. ‘You got it. You say that word whenever you
need to.’ He lets go of my hand and his fingers trail upwards, over my wrist
and up the delicate skin on the inside of my forearm, disappearing under my
wide sleeve.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he mutters in my ear, his breath warm on my face. ‘You
are so fucking beautiful it’s ridiculous. You know that, right? The other
guys out there would go crazy if they knew what they were missing. We
can’t wait to get that robe of yours open and see what’s on display beneath
it.’ His lips brush my jaw. ‘I’m half fucking hard already, just seeing you
here, waiting for us to touch you.’
I sigh. So far, from what I can tell, there’s only one person touching me.
Only Callum has spoken. But he sounds genuinely turned on, and his voice
is very sexy, and his mention of us has already sent a tiny shiver through
my body.
‘I have to say,’ he says in a conversational tone as his hand goes to the
bow of my robe and halts there, ‘it’s criminal that no man has touched you
before.’
Two hands wrap around my ankles, two strong thumbs kneading my
insteps as they tug my legs further apart. At the same time, Callum pulls on
the bow and the silk slithers away from my body, pooling at my sides. His
fingers brush the skin of my stomach as he pulls it further open. I hear a
hard swallow from my other side as Callum jolts out what sounds like a
shocked laugh.
‘Jesus fucking Christ, Belle,’ he says. ‘Look at you. I can see
everything, baby, you know that? I can see those pink, untouched nipples
that’ll be begging for our mouths in a minute. I bet I can see your pussy if
you open those legs a little wider for us like a good girl.’
The guy at my feet tugs my legs a little further apart, and I hear a low,
rough sound at the back of his throat. Callum laughs again.
‘None of us can believe our eyes, Belle. Look at that sight. We’re going
to tease that little virgin pussy so well that you’ll be soaking through those
sheer little panties. Got it?’
My heart rate is ratcheting up at his words. At the idea that I have my
legs open and my most intimate parts exposed to these men. That there are
three male gazes on my body right now, and I’m in the hands of strangers.
It’s so hot. God, it’s arousing. I’m already responding. I can already feel
myself getting wet, feel my nipples growing taut. I nod to show Callum his
words are hitting home.
 ‘I know they gave you two sets of underwear, Belle.’ His voice is in my
ear again. ‘I know you chose the sheer pair. You know what that tells me?’
When I shake my head, his jaw rubs against my cheek.
‘It tells me you’re up for it. Fucking desperate. Been ready for this for a
while, have you?’
I nod. God, yes. So ready. As Callum speaks, I’m conscious of two
other males breathing near me. It seems to me their breathing is growing
more ragged. Just like mine.
‘Too fucking right. Such a fucking waste. You should be enjoying this
beautiful body of yours with whichever lucky bastards you take pity on.
Can’t believe you’ve been keeping this pretty pussy hidden this whole time,
Belle. It’s a fucking travesty.’
A hand releases one of my feet and travels up my leg, knuckles
brushing my skin. It gets to the top of my thigh and I shiver. And fleetingly,
those same knuckles brush over the length of my flesh between my legs,
from my opening to my clit, before they’re gone. At the same time, a hand
swipes over my left nipple and I gasp at the sharp shock of arousal that
flashes through my body.
‘Told you,’ Callum says in a caressing voice. ‘Told you you’d be
desperate. That’s why you wore the sheer stuff—you want to feel as much
of our hands and mouths as we can give you. Don’t you?’
I nod, my self-consciousness yielding to plain desire. ‘Uh-huh.’
‘Wish we could all give you our cocks too,’ Callum tells me. ‘Wish we
could flip you over and bend you over this chair and fuck the hell out of
you, but we don’t want to scare the pretty little virgin. We want you wet and
screaming for more. We want you banging the door down next week
because you haven’t been able to think about anything except how to get as
many of us as you can tending to that pretty pussy and those delicious little
tits of yours. Am I right?’
‘Yes.’ It comes out breathy, because I’m already losing half my mind.
The darkness, and Callum’s words, and those fleeting swipes at parts of me
that have never been touched, all underline how ready I am for this.
How desperate.
How deserving.
The next word out of my mouth is completely involuntary.
‘Please.’
 14

BELLE

C
allum sucks in a breath. ‘It’s very good when you beg, baby. Very,
very good. I don’t know what the fuck you’ve been playing at,
keeping this locked away for so long, but we know what a dirty girl
you are under that pristine, virginal exterior of yours. We know what you
need, and we’re going to give it to you.’
A hand lands on my stomach, palm pressed against my skin, fingers
splaying over me. A thumb toys with the elastic waistband of my panties.
‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Belle. You should be proud of yourself
for taking what you need.’
Callum’s voice caresses me roughly.
Another hand grips my thigh. It must be the guy at my feet—he’s still
holding onto one ankle. Still massaging my instep, while the hand on my
thigh drags up and down. Up. And down.
And then yet more hands palm both of my breasts, the skin rubbing over
my nipples with enough pressure to tease but not enough to satisfy. The
little nubs pebble, their flesh instantly stiffening, and as I let out a hum of
pleasure, another sense assaults me.
It’s Rafe.
Oh my God.
I can smell him.
It’s him. I’m sure it’s him. These must be his hands on my breasts,
because I sure as hell couldn’t smell him before, but that herbal scent mixed
with him?
It’s unmistakable.
I’m frozen and insanely turned on all at once, because if I’m right, and I
know I am, then Rafe is right here, touching me, and seeing my body, and
even worse, or maybe better, seeing my reaction to him.
The imbalance of power has me stunned, but it also spurs me on to
enjoy every second of this.
To milk it for all it’s worth.
To put on a performance. Because I know this is my gig, this is about
my pleasure. But I’d die, I’d truly die, if I thought Rafe would walk out of
here unaffected. I don’t know exactly what I want from this man, or at least
I’ve been pretty careful not to analyse what I want from him too deeply up
until now, but I know this.
I want him to want me.
I want him to stumble out of here with the most painful erection he’s
ever had.
I want him to see me come, to see what he does to me, and to feel the
same desperation to come that he’s going to arouse in me before this little
game is over.
Because it is a game. No doubt about it. There’s a reason Callum, if
that’s his real name, introduced himself and not the others.
Rafe is incognito for his own reasons.
But he’s here.
I feel like the girl who’s just watched the boy she likes arrive at the
party. Who feels like everything is instantly brighter. Better. More real, now
that he’s here.
The hands on my breasts palm me harder. I don’t know for certain that
they belong to Rafe, but I’d put money on them being his hands, because it
seems to be Callum’s hands on my stomach and around my wrist.
And the guy at my feet? He’s stopped kneading my instep and instead is
sliding his second hand up to join his first one so that they both land on my
thighs, fingers pressing into my flesh as they drag along my skin, thumbs
massaging and getting dangerously close to my panties.
Callum keeps talking, his voice rich and seductive.
‘You like this game, Belle? You like having three men touching you all
at once? You like knowing that all these big hands are dying to touch your
pussy? That we all want to put our mouths on you?’
 ‘Yes,’ I gasp, arching in the chair, pressing into Rafe’s hands.
‘You like how we’re touching those pretty pink nipples? Are they hard?’
I think he’s addressing me, but the hands lift off me, and I almost
whimper at the loss. Because right now, my entire consciousness is focused
on the hypnotic circular movements of Rafe’s hands on my nipples.
‘Fuck, yes,’ Callum breathes. ‘That’s my girl. Look at those nipples.
They’re so fucking tight. I bet we can get them tighter. I bet your pussy is
clenching too, isn’t it? Wait till you see what’s in store for you.’
Rafe pinches my nipples hard, so hard, and two thumbs swipe equally
hard over the flesh between my legs, staying just out of reach of the
sensitive line from my clit to my entrance. I buck.
‘We’re going to make it great for you tonight,’ Callum says, ‘because
you’re such a quick little learner, and you’re so fucking responsive. But it’s
your loss, because we’re not allowed to go inside those ridiculous little
panties of yours, which means we can’t stick any of our long, thick fingers
inside that tight pussy.’
‘It’s okay—you can,’ I gasp out, because I’m so turned on that I’d rather
say something stupid than forgo the maximum amount of pleasure these
men are capable of giving me.
Callum laughs, pleased, before tutting. ‘Nope. House rules. But we’re
going to have some fun now, okay?’
I nod.
We’re going to have some fun.
Rafe is right here, and we’re going to have some fun.
Oh, God.
Suddenly, all the hands disappear and I lie back in my seat, internally
groaning with anticipation.
I’m not frozen now.
Far from it.
I’m white hot. Primed for their next touch. And they’re just getting
started.
They move about the small room. I hear shuffling and then the
unmistakable clinking of ice cubes. What the hell?
Then I can hear and sense them move back around me. Circling me. A
pregnant pause, and then a synchronised assault as ice cubes hit my nipples
and my clit through the ineffectual gauze of my bra and panties. They swirl,
and they’re gone.
 I let out a low moan as my body bucks in the chair. My fingers dig into
the arm-rests. God, that feels amazing. Extraordinary. The ice-cold wet
patches tease my skin. I need a lot more where that came from.
Callum’s back in his previous position, his breath hot against my ear.
Teasing. ‘How did that feel, Belle?’
‘Incredible,’ I mouth on a gasp.
‘Hmm. Not sure you’re ready for all that pleasure, a shy little virgin like
you. What do you think? Should we go gently on you? Take it easy, like we
were doing before?’
A finger swipes over my sex, and I buck again at the contact. The not
knowing when it’s coming, where they’ll touch me, and how much they’ll
give me is the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced.
Not that I have much to compare it to, but still. This isn’t your average
first-time third-party orgasm.
‘No,’ I tell Callum, horrified by how needy my voice sounds. ‘I’m
ready.’
He chuckles, amused. ‘Ready for what?’
‘Ready for everything.’
‘Do you want to come tonight, Belle?’
‘Yes.’ My head thrashes from side to side.
‘Yes what?’
‘Yes please,’ I say, and there’s a harsh intake of breath that I could
swear comes from Rafe. Holy crap.
No one is touching me right now, and I feel bereft. There are three guys
standing around me, their eyes on me, their hands ready to do God knows
what to me, and they’re wasting time. It’s frustrating.
And it’s not fair.
‘I want you all to touch me,’ I say with a firmness that belies my
mortification at voicing such thoughts. Because I can’t tell if they’re just
teasing me, or if they really do need my permission to proceed, but I’m not
taking any chances.
I won’t let them leave me hanging.
I recall the suggestion in the schedule Genevieve sent me that, if I liked,
this session could be just about teasing me. Getting me used to being
touched without laying on the pressure, the vulnerability, of orgasming.
To think I considered starting slow. Starting with a tease.
I’d be even more of a mess than I am right now.
 ‘You heard the lady,’ Callum says in a voice that’s less cajoling, more
authoritative, and it’s as if a switch has been flipped. The charge in the
room ratchets up a notch. ‘She wants us to go to town on her.’
I don’t know why hearing him refer to me in the third person is so
instantly arousing, but it is. It’s as if I’m their plaything. I’m not some
needy virgin they should treat with kid gloves.
I’m fair game.
Three against one.
I don’t stand a chance.
I let something between a sigh and a moan escape my throat, and it
unleashes them. The guy in front of me pushes my knees apart. My thighs
slide across the seat, slick with sweat, before several things happen at once.
He nudges his body between them, keeping them apart with his
shoulders, as an ice cube is run up and down my seam, from my entrance to
my clit. I can feel the slight pressure of fingers around it, probing just hard
enough through the soaking fabric to alight all my nerve-endings.
Cold hits both my nipples, and it takes me a second to establish that
there’s a mouth on each breast, tongues rolling ice cubes over nipples that
are now so hard and achy they may snap right off.
A full body shudder courses through me as I throw my head back and
give myself over to the ache. The sensation. Oh my God. Rafe’s mouth is
presumably on my nipple right now.
For a moment, there’s just the music and, over it, the sounds of my
ragged breathing and my involuntary moans as well as the rasp of fabric
and noises from the busy mouths on me that are so appreciative and hungry
and male they add a whole other layer to the sensory overwhelm.
Next thing I know, one of the mouths comes off my nipple with a pop
and is replaced with cold, ice-cube-wielding fingers. A hand slides around
my neck, gripping my hair and tugging my head back. And then there’s a
mouth crashing angrily onto mine and oh my God oh my God oh my God
it’s Rafe.
I swear it’s Rafe.
It smells like him and I swear it tastes just how I knew he would taste.
There’s scotch on his ice-cold tongue, the scotch I watched him drink at the
bar, and said tongue is forcing my mouth open and ramming home like I’m
Christmas dinner.
 I want to raise my hand, and slide it around his neck, and rake my
fingers through that gorgeous, silky dark hair of his. I want to claw at his
skull and pull his mouth even closer to mine. But my arms are kind of
trapped by the two male bodies leaning across me, so I dig my nails into the
leather instead.
It’s Rafe’s hand on the nipple his mouth just vacated. I know it is,
because it’s moving feverishly, far more in sync with his mouth than with
Callum’s mouth on my other nipple. He’s pinching and squeezing and
rolling it as his gorgeous mouth plunders mine.
I knew he’d be an amazing kisser, but Lord, I never imagined his kisses
to be this hungry. This consuming. Like his tongue is trying to have sex
with my mouth. The wet slides of his lips and the taut invasion of his
tongue have that sensory overwhelm soaring.
There are so many things going on I can’t quite separate them, because
Rafe’s in my face, and I have two different men working their magic on my
straining nipples, and suddenly the guy between my legs removes the ice
cube and puts his mouth between my legs, and his warm tongue is on my
cold clit, rubbing it through my panties, the gauzy barrier providing extra
friction.
He adds a fingertip that probes my entrance right through the fabric,
pressing just deep enough to make me wish with every fibre of my being
that he’d tug my panties aside, or rip them off completely, and breach me.
Because I may not have had sex before, but I’ve had my own fingers
and a few toys inside me, and I know how fantastic that feels.
The rhythmical assault of his tongue on my clit has me wound tighter
and tighter as these three men hit my pleasure centres again and again and
Rafe continues to kiss me. I’m moaning into his mouth almost continuously
now, a low, pitiful hum that’s my only outlet for the wave of sensation that’s
building in every nerve ending in my body.
In return, or reward, he amps up the delicious grunts he’s making while
he kisses me. Everyone’s panting now, everyone’s desire is becoming more
audible, and the drag of Callum’s hand over my stomach grows rougher
before he slides it under my bum and his finger joins the other guy’s at my
entrance.
He unseals his mouth from my wet, hard nipple long enough to mutter,
‘Fuck me. She comes in here this sweet little virgin, and look at her letting
three of us get her off.’ Suck. ‘Not letting us, begging us, isn’t that right?’
 In answer, I moan into Rafe’s mouth. He winds his tongue more
forcefully against mine.
‘She’s taking it so well. Fuck, I wish I could finger fuck her right now. I
bet she needs it so badly.’ Callum’s finger pushes harder, and I open my
legs as wide as I can.
‘Just wait till we get her back next week,’ he tells the others, and with
that ominous threat he’s back down, devouring my nipple with his tongue,
grazing it with his teeth.
I’m vaguely aware of my moans into Rafe’s delicious mouth growing
louder. I’m vaguely aware of my body bucking in its chair and of Callum
removing his finger from under me so he can splay a hand across my pelvis
and hold me down. Of him telling my breast what a dirty little girl I really
am. How I need to come for them as hard as I can. How I need to let go.
And I’m spectacularly aware that every erogenous part of me is under
the most intense assault they could ever have hoped for.
God, I get it now.
The maths thing.
Rafe was so right.
The ministrations of these men will spoil me for life.
This is the best thing ever. Ever, ever, ever.
With that hazy realisation, I’m pole-vaulting right through the edges of
my consciousness to a place that’s exploding colours and golden lights and
jagged, perfect pleasure. I shudder and shudder. I cry out as Rafe bites
down on my bottom lip and tightens his grip on the back of my neck, and I
free-fall through an orgasm that feels less like a rollercoaster ride and more
like para-gliding, or skydiving.
Slowly, slowly, I descend to earth. Mouths leave my body. Rafe pulls
back and presses a soft kiss to my lips. A hand goes to my hair, stroking it
off my temple. The guy who ate me through my underwear gently presses
my knees together and smooths his hands down my thighs in the way a
masseur does through the towel at the end of a massage.
I lie slumped in the chair, the orgasm haze slowly leaving my brain. My
robe is tugged over me, draped across my stomach. Someone ties it. And all
the while, Callum’s soft voice is in my ear.
‘We’re so proud of you, Belle. You little fucking beauty. You’ve got one
hell of a journey ahead of you, and you’re going to love every minute of
what this place has to give you.’ He tugs my earlobe gently with his teeth
before continuing. ‘You did so well, I can’t tell you.’
I don’t say anything. I lie there, catching my breath, allowing his praise
to wash over me like a caress.
Foot Guy gets up, and a drawer pulls open with a grating sound. Next I
know, a light, soft blanket is being draped over me and pressed around me.
Rafe’s hand leaves my hair, and lips I know must be his press to my temple.
They’re leaving.
I should be mortified. I should be newly self conscious, cold in the
absence of my earlier arousal, but I already feel bereft that they’re leaving.
That he’s leaving.
The one thing I don’t have the courage to do is call him out on his
identity. Ridiculously, I don’t want to cause a scene.
‘We’re going to head now,’ Callum tells me, ‘because the three of us are
so fucking hard that we have to take care of business. Okay, baby?’
I clear my throat. ‘Okay—of course. Of course. Um. Thank you. For…’
He chuckles. ‘The privilege and the pleasure were entirely ours, Belle.
Believe us. See you next week, if we’re lucky.’ He plants a lingering kiss on
my cheek before I feel him rise.
The door in front of me cranks open, and there’s a brief rush of low-
level noise and a heavy bass before they shuffle out and the door slams
shut.
I exhale heavily and push my mask up, glancing around the room in a
total daze.
I’m not sure what just happened.
All I know is, I want more of that. More than that. Far more.
Rafe was right. That was transcendent. And that wasn’t even full sex.
I wish I was a paid-up member of this club and not some stupid virgin.
I wish I could do that on a Friday night without a second thought and
then follow Rafe out into that corridor.
Be the girl who can give him what he really wants.
Because, right now, I have a mountain to climb before I’m that girl.
 15

RAFE

I
’m pushing through that door as quickly as I physically can, given the
impediment of my raging erection. I don’t wait for Alex.
I definitely don’t wait for Callum.
I just walk.
But they’re right behind me as we head to the main Playroom, laughing
and groaning. They’re as hard as me. I saw it. Then Callum’s slapping my
back in a matey way, as if we’re all in this together, we’re all sharing some
secret.
‘You sneaky bastard.’ His fingers dig into my shoulder. ‘No wonder you
wanted to keep her all to yourself. She is hot as fuck, mate. Whew.’
He shakes out his fingers beside me like they’ve been burnt, and I am
this close to taking a swing at him.
‘Fuck off, Cal,’ I say.
He laughs. ‘Oooh. He’s shirty. Jesus fuck. I’ve got to get some lips on
this boner now.’
‘You should have tasted her,’ Alex chimes in behind me. ‘Those panties
left nothing to the imagination. She tasted like fucking heaven. It was
torture trying not to slide them aside and tongue-fuck her.’
My fists clench at my sides, because I’m equally furious with Alex for
having the opportunity to get his mouth on Belle’s sweet pussy and with
Callum for having her ear. I’d rather die than admit it, but he did a decent
job with her. He got the balance between reassuring, lighthearted, and
downright dirty just right. It’s not easy to do in those sessions.
The thing I’m most focused on right now, the thing I’m trying to
compute as I mince so painfully down the hallway that I’m tempted to get
my dick out here and now, is how fucking responsive Belle was.
I mean, I fantasised about her being like that.
I knew she had it in her.
After all, she approached me about Unfurl. She declined the super-
gentle version of the first session, which would have been way less intense
than that was for her, and she wrote those words in that blessed
questionnaire.
Still, she was skittish. And she looked fucking terrified earlier, at the
bar.
But, as my fuckwit mate Callum told her, she was a little beauty in that
room. I fuck women more often than I can tell you inside these walls, but
that, back there? That was something else. I love being with women who
love sex, but most of the women at Alchemy are a sure thing, whether
they’re staff or members. If they aren’t screaming the house down, you’re
definitely doing something wrong.
Watching Belle take our hands and our mouths, watching her arousal
build and build, those lips part and that back arch, watching her come apart
in front of three guys she didn’t know, couldn’t see?
It felt like a front-row seat to a fucking miracle.
I didn’t get to taste her pussy.
I didn’t get to whisper the stuff in her ear that I know would have got
her hot.
But I got to sample her gorgeous tits, which are a very generous
handful, in the way I’ve been dreaming of since I met her. Seeing her
beforehand in that liquid gold dress, no bra, was the best foreplay I could
have asked for.
Thank fuck Gen put me on the billing tonight. Thank fuck she trusted
me to keep my shit together and deliver what Belle deserved for her first
Unfurl experience. Because when my mouth closed around that puckered
nipple of hers, I was done for. And when I kissed her, my lips and my
tongue desperate for hers, I almost drowned.
You can tell how aroused a woman is by the way she kisses, and Belle
kissed like she was desperate for release, like she needed the way my
tongue fucked her mouth as much as she needed Alex’s tongue on her clit.
I knew I was in trouble as soon as I met Belina Scott, but she was a no-
go zone. Now, though, I can’t un-see her body arching into our touch in that
chair. I can’t un-hear her sweet fucking moans into my mouth, moans so
anguished, so involuntary, so delicious they practically made me come in
my pants. I can’t un-feel her soft tits. Her taut nipples. The wet heat of her
mouth as she matched every stroke of my tongue.
She’s still a virgin.
She’s still innocent of most of the elements that make up an average
night at the club for me.
But her potential to be unleashed is sky-fucking-high.
And I want to be the one to unleash it.
Which begs the million-dollar question: did she know it was me?
Could she tell?
Did she want it to be me?

T HE P LAYROOM IS in full swing. Pun intended: there’s a very happy-

sounding woman being fucked on one of the swings in the far corner.
Good.
It’ll get me out of my funk. Remind me that this is where I should look
for my pleasures and not in that little room where we made magic happen. I
cast my eyes around the huge space. It’s high-ceilinged, dim, with white
pillars and soft pink uplighting that flatters all skin tones and doesn’t
scream sex dungeon. There’s a room downstairs for those with more
adventurous needs.
Men and women are everywhere, in various stages of undress. I pass a
guy lying on a banquette, one brunette sitting on his face while a blonde
goes down on him with great enthusiasm. Fuck. My dick hardens even
more.
That’s what I need. Something basic. Primal. Something that will make
me forget the siren call of the virgin I left in that room.
I will not think about her.
I won’t think about her rising, dazed, from her chair.
Stumbling into the changing room, peeling off that soaked underwear.
 Staring at her flushed face in the mirror.
What does she see? A woman who’s finally taking ownership of her
body? Her needs?
Or will the Catholic guilt, the endless years of being fed dogma, kick in
and make her feel shitty?
I really hope it’s the former. I hope we turned her on so much that she
may need a replay. She may need to slide her fingers into that slick, bare
pussy and make herself come again as she thinks about the three of us
consuming her. Feasting on her gorgeous body.
Fuck. I really need to come. My balls are about to explode. It hasn’t
escaped my notice that Alex and Cal have already disappeared into the
throng. Most of the female members here are pretty cool—they’re here
because they love sex, not because they’re trying to bag a rich guy. Plenty
of the women are at the top of their game in their respective industries. But
I’m not in the mood for any small talk, for any uncertainty. I need a sure
thing.
I spot one of our hosts, Isabel, and beckon her over. Our staff members
are all salaried and play other roles at Alchemy. They don’t have to fuck if
they don’t want to. But Isabel definitely does. She and I have played around
a few times before, often with another woman, which is Izzy’s favourite
thing.
That, and having people watch her.
She’s a professional, and she gets it. Best of all, with her long, honey-
blonde hair, she could pass for Belle from behind.
And that is what I need right now.
She sashays over. I suspect my face and trouser situation make it pretty
clear what I’m after. She’s in a white slip-dress, and that’s the only thing
she’s wearing. Her perfect tits are on clear display.
‘Hi, Mr Charlton,’ she purrs. I’m not some dick who makes my staff
call me Mr. We’re casual here at Alchemy. After all, most of us have fucked
each other. She’s doing it because it gives us both a kick if she submits to
me.
‘Isabel,’ I grit out. My hand slides around her neck, just the way it did
with Belle’s, and I pull her roughly towards me.
Her breath hitches as she takes me in from a couple of inches away. My
jaw is so tight I may shatter a tooth.
She cups my erection, and I nearly lose it there and then. Holy fuck.
 ‘What do you need?’ she asks.
‘I need you to stop talking and bend the fuck over.’
Her pupils dilate. She loves this stuff. ‘Yes, sir,’ she says breathily and
turns her head, looking for an appropriate spot. I’m in too much of a rush to
find a room, and I don’t give a shit who sees me fuck Isabel.
She turns and walks away from me to a nearby sofa. It’s empty and
exactly right for my purposes. I watch her walk, watch the perfect globes of
her arse cheeks move under that thin white fabric. In my head, she’s Belle,
because I need her to be Belle. I need to claim this beautiful proxy for the
even more beautiful virgin I couldn’t touch the way I wanted to. The virgin
I had to walk away from.
Izzy is no Belina. She’s no virgin. But I can pretend she is, and I can do
what the fuck I want to her.
I admire the sight of her stopping at the back of the sofa, folding herself
over it, and, casual as you like, reaching behind to flip that white dress over
her backside, leaving her perfectly exposed for me.
There she is.
This girl is good. I approach, nostrils flaring with my exhale as I take in
the vision before me.
Long, long legs in high strappy sandals. Just like Belle.
Peachy arse cheeks and a perfect, bare pussy with the hint of a landing
strip at the front. Just like Belle.
Izzy’s already wet, her cunt glistening despite the dimness of the
lighting, and I sink to my knees behind her. My cock is desperate to drive
straight in, but I need to hold off long enough to enjoy imagining that this
pussy at eye-level is Belle’s. Because, fuck knows, I missed out earlier. I’ve
earned this.
I slide a couple of fingers inside her. She moans loudly and pushes back
against me. I can’t even imagine how tight Belle would be. I’d have to lead
with a single finger. Have to take it slow. The mere thought of it has me
taking out my cock and stroking it. Fuck, I’ll blow quickly.
Izzy’s fucking soaking. I pull my well-coated fingers out and reposition
my middle one at the entrance to her tight little arse. Jesus. I wonder how
long it would take to get Belle to grant me access here.
She wriggles against my fingertip. ‘Please, Mr Charlton,’ she whimpers
loudly enough that I can hear her over the music and the sounds of pleasure
around us.
 ‘Take this,’ I say and push all the way in as my index finger slides back
inside her pussy before my tongue hits her clit.
She screams, and my cock jumps in my hand, and my balls draw up
even further. I bury my nose and mouth in her perfect, wet folds and inhale
her like a drug, because right now, this is all I have. I’m eating Belle, I tell
myself, and she’s screaming my name. She’s writhing, she’s out of control,
and she wants my dick so badly she doesn’t know her own name.
Izzy’s screams, and the sight of a beautiful blonde bent double over the
sofa as I go to town on her pussy is drawing a crowd. I sense men and
women gathering around us. I love that this woman is shameless and secure
and brazen enough to bend over bare and take what she needs, but the idea
that someday I could get Belle to this level is blowing my head.
I rub my nose over her flesh and make my tongue as taut and rough as I
can, lapping at her clit so hard that she blows and convulses against my
face.
As soon as her orgasm subsides, I’m up, grabbing a condom from the
poser table beside me, sheathing myself and burying myself balls-deep in
Izzy’s pussy. She bends over further, sticking her arse in the air as far as she
can, and I lean forward, raking my hands over her beautiful hips, dragging
them over soft skin, imagining that it’s Belle I’ve got impaled on my cock
and screaming for more.
Belle. Belle. The fantasies of her nervous and overwhelmed and hungry
as hell for the sensation of my dick bottoming out deep inside her at this
angle are too much, they’re just too much to handle, and as Izzy’s muscles
contract around my cock, I explode. I fucking explode, shooting every
ounce of frustration and desire and shame I feel over wanting to fuck Belle
into my condom as I grip Izzy’s hips hard and drive in harder.
Thank fuck. Thank fuck. I pull out and give her a slap on the arse.
‘That’s my girl,’ I tell her. She doesn’t move, and I know from experience
she’ll want someone else to step right up and take my place at her exposed
pussy.
Suits me. I’m not an exhibitionist, per se. But I do get off on having a
woman naked and writhing around my cock, so desperate that she doesn’t
care who sees her.
Whether beautiful, sweet Belle could ever reach that level of depravity
is anyone’s guess.
But after tonight, I’d say the odds are shortening.
 16

BELLE

M
addy has spent the entire morning blowing up my phone, so I agree
to meet her for a bowl of pasta during our respective lunch breaks.
To be honest, I don’t need much persuading. Not only am I
dying to hear what she got up to at the club last night after I went through
for my, ahem, session, but I need to unload on her. Badly. Because my head
has not stopped spinning since those guys walked out of that little room.
Maddy’s the only person I would dream of talking to about this stuff.
Not only is she my best friend, but she’s the least judgemental person I
know. Fourteen years of convent school made many of us fear-and-shame-
driven. Judgemental. Not Maddy. It made her determined to take everyone
as she finds them, and it’s one of the things I adore most about her.
I walk up Old Bond Street, absentmindedly perusing the window
displays. I may be preoccupied, but I can always find headspace to
appreciate a great dress or a pair of killer heels. Mummy instilled in me
from a young age both a love of dressing up and the importance of
investing in quality pieces that will stand the test of time.
With that in mind, it’s hard to force myself away from the stunning
white sheath in the window of Ralph Lauren’s massive London flagship,
but I know Maddy’s waiting. So I sigh and instead turn into Burlington
Gardens.
Maddy is indeed waiting at the bar of Cecconi’s, looking gorgeous and
refreshed and not at all like she had an all-night orgy. This place is rammed
full of hedge fund types, and they’re throwing interested glances her way,
but for once she seems oblivious.
I hug her before pulling out one of their iconic green leather bar stools
and climbing up. ‘How’d you get a reservation?’
‘Dropped Ventrix’s name.’ She shrugs. ‘Always works. I could only get
the bar, though.’
Ventrix is the hedge fund she’s temping at. I imagine their employees
give Cecconi’s pretty steady business.
‘Works for me.’ I lean in. ‘As long as no one overhears our
conversation.’
She laughs. ‘I’m sure they’d love to hear our conversation. Half of them
are probably Alchemy members.’
I look around nervously.
God.
I hadn’t thought of that. Imagine if one of the random, obnoxious
finance-types doing deals over Cecconi’s iconic crab ravioli had his face
between my legs last night. The exclusive enclave of Mayfair feels
uncomfortably small all of a sudden. But he wouldn’t recognise me with my
clothes on and my sleep mask off.
Would he?
She laughs and hits me playfully on the arm. ‘Relax, babes. No one here
knows you’ve turned into a dirty little ho overnight. You still look innocent
and gorgeous.’
That gets a grin out of me. ‘I could say the same for you. Minus the
innocent part. But tell me what you got up to last night. I’m dying to know.’
‘No. I’m dying to know.’
‘I’ll fill you in on every detail, I promise. But you’ve got to tell me—
did you go into the Playroom bit? I can’t even imagine.’
Her knowing grin tells me I’ll regret asking her, but a server interrupts
us with menus. We wave the menus away and order what we always have
here: Pellegrino, crab ravioli and a green salad.
‘Okay.’ She shimmies in her seat. ‘It was amazing. Honestly, like porno
Disneyland.’
I groan and cover my face with my hands. ‘Oh God.’
‘Yeah. Oh God, indeed. I don’t know why the hell I spend so much time
going out to clubs and getting fucked and going home with some guy who
can’t find my clit.’ She leans forward conspiratorially. ‘I’m telling you, this
place is the bomb. I had two drinks and three orgasms and I was home by
midnight, sober and well-fucked. I slept like a fucking baby. Alone. Like,
hello? What’s not to love about that?’
I laugh at whatever revelation my beautiful friend is having. I can’t even
imagine the experiences she had last night, but I love her attitude. ‘I’m glad
you found it so… convenient?’
She throws her hands up. ‘Super-convenient. Orgasm express.’
‘I need more information. Talk me through it. Were the three orgasms
all from the same guy?’
She blows out a breath. ‘Please. No. Three guys.’
‘All at once?’ I venture, because apparently I’m now the kind of girl for
whom three guys in one night is not remotely shocking.
‘Okay, okay. I’ll tell you the juicy details.’
‘I bet there was a lot of juice,’ I deadpan.
‘Look at you, making a sex joke! Who are you and what have you done
with my innocent friend Belle?’
I smirk.
‘Yes, there were a lot of juices,’ she concedes. ‘Though, you know. Safe
sex and all that. But still.’
‘Tell me,’ I order.
‘So, right after you left, Genevieve, who I really liked, by the way, took
me through to the Playroom, and oh. My. God. I swear I got wet the second
I walked in. It was just so… carnal. Unapologetic. People fucking left, right
and centre like it was the most natural thing in the world. And everyone
seemed pretty hot. It was definitely encouraging.’
‘How does it work in there? Do random people just come up to you and
ask you to have sex? Or do they even ask?’ I’m not yet up to speed on the
workings of Alchemy proper. I’m still the sad little virgin in their equivalent
of pre-school, and I have to admit to being fascinated, in a horrified kind of
way, by what the big kids get up to.
‘Kind of,’ she says. ‘It’s all far more open than in a normal club, where
you have to make small talk or skirt around the issue. So I’m standing at the
bar with Genevieve, and this guy makes a beeline for us. He’s gorgeous. He
opens his mouth, and he’s Italian.’
I roll my eyes. I love how Maddy attracts the Italian stallion straight off
the bat.
 ‘I know, right? He says he and his friends were checking me out and
they wondered if I’d like to join them. I’m like, why not? So I follow him
over to a darker corner, and there are people everywhere, going down on
each other and fucking, and some just watching and getting themselves off.
‘So this dude—he doesn’t give me his name—sits down next to his
equally hot friend on the sofa, and they kind of lean back and admire me. I
go to sit but he’s like no, the view is way better when you’re standing, and
then he asks me if I’m wearing underwear, and I say no.’
I gape. ‘Weren’t you?’ Maddy was in a gorgeous mini-dress last night,
made entirely of gold chain-mail. It definitely wasn’t the type of dress most
people would choose to go commando under.
‘Nah. It’s a sex club. What’s the point? Anyway, the friend says prove it,
and I’m thinking I’m not going to flash you, so I say, “Why don’t you have
a feel and prove it for yourself?”
‘So the hot friend leans forward and he just slides his hand up my thigh
and starts fingering me, right there and then, while the first guy looks on,
stroking himself over his trousers. I swear, babes, I nearly came right there.
Then his friend gets involved too, and I’m just standing there, widening my
stance, and their fingers are everywhere, and I’m practically exploding. It
was just so hot, you know? Standing for them while they inspected me.
‘Next thing I know, they get me on the sofa so I’m draped over one of
them. He holds my legs open while the other one goes down on me, and I
come so quick it’s embarrassing.’
Wowzers. I’m horrified and transfixed and turned on all at once. I stare
at my friend, at her flushed cheeks and starry eyes, and wonder if that’s how
I was last night, too. ‘Go on,’ I croak. ‘So that was orgasm number one.’
A server leans over the bar to pour our Pellegrino, and we stay quiet,
eyeballing each other in a way that could have us bursting into a fit of
giggles if we’re not careful.
‘Yeah,’ she says when he’s withdrawn. ‘Then they ask me if we should
find a bed, and I’m like hell, yeah. I mean, they’re gorgeous. And they
know what they’re doing—I figure I’ve found the people who’ll show me
the ropes for the evening, right? They ask me what I want to get out of
tonight, and I tell them it’s my first time here and I just want to be used. I
want them to take over.
‘So we find this room, and it’s got a bed in it, but also a bench in the
middle of the floor. They leave the door wide open, and they strip me and
get me on all fours on the bench. They’re both still fully clothed, by the
way, which is, like’—she blows out a breath—‘so erotic, because I
basically feel like a hooker. And then one of them—the one who didn’t go
down on me—fucks me from behind with a finger up my arse, and the other
guy fucks my face, and I blow. I come so hard I practically black out.’
She slaps the bar. ‘Hottest night of my life, babes. Seriously. God, it
feels good to find a place where all the men who actually know what
they’re doing hang out. I could tell these guys had fucked a million women
there, and I loved it. They gave all three holes a workout at the same time. I
literally felt fulfilled.’
I’m uncomfortably warm, and I’m not sure why, but hearing Maddy talk
like this is telling. Because I want to be horrified, but I’m not. I’m actually
a little jealous.
Jealous of how totally uninhibited she is.
A tiny bit jealous that she had a night like that.
But mainly jealous that she can walk away from it without a backwards
glance, feeling no regret or shame, and look forward to more of the same in
the future.
Sex has always seemed to me to be fraught with complexity, but people
like Maddy make it seem like the simplest thing in the world.
‘I make that two orgasms,’ I say weakly, holding up a couple of shaky
fingers.
‘Oh yeah.’ She shrugs dismissively. ‘Then another couple of people
came in, and once the guy was finished fucking me, another one went down
on me, while the guy who’d come in my mouth played with my boobs.
They basically all played with me, and I was honestly a dribbling mess
when they’d finished. Like, I was so relaxed and floppy. I was probably in
some kind of subspace. So I staggered out of there and cabbed home and
passed out like I’d drunk a bottle of vodka. I mean, who needs facials and
massages? Last night was like someone pressed the reset button, restored
me to my factory settings, and I feel fabulous this morning.’
‘That’s amazing,’ I tell her. ‘I’m so happy for you. Are you going to join
up?’
‘I emailed Genevieve as soon as I woke up. Let’s see if I can afford it.
It’ll probably have to come out of the trust fund.’ She sighs. ‘Living my
parents’ dream for me, eh?’
 ‘Maybe you should get a job there,’ I blurt out. I’m not sure where the
idea came from, but it seems like an excellent one.
Her eyes widen. ‘Do they have professionals there—like sex workers?’
‘I’m not sure how it works,’ I tell her. ‘You should speak to Genevieve.
But it could be worth considering. If you like it that much.’
‘Hmm.’ She narrows her eyes at me. ‘Do that a few times a week and
get paid. You’re not stupid, Belle Scott.’

O VER DELECTABLE RAVIOLI , Maddy coaxes the story out of me.

‘Start at the very beginning,’ she urges me. ‘I want to know everything,
and especially how you were feeling. I still can’t believe you went through
with it. I’m so proud of you, babes.’
Maddy is a fantastic listener. She gasps and laughs in all the right
places. I tell her about picking the sheer underwear, about how surreal it felt
as I got ready in that little changing room and how bloody terrified I was.
How quickly that terror ratcheted up as I pressed the ORGASMS button
and lowered my eye mask and during the brief hiatus when the guys had
arrived but hadn’t started touching me.
‘Do you have any idea how many there were?’ she asks.
‘Three. Definitely three. One at my feet, and one on either side of me.’
She smirks. ‘So hot. Eek! I can’t believe my little Belle had three guys
last night!’
‘Shh!’ I say, looking to either side of us in a panic, but the noise level in
here at lunchtime is loud enough to drown out our decidedly dodgy
conversation.
‘Tell me this.’ She nudges my arm with her elbow. ‘Were you tempted
to look?’
I recall that moment when I recognised Rafe’s scent. When I knew with
utter certainty that he was in the room with me.
‘No. I would have been too self-conscious, I think. It was better I
couldn’t see any of it, and it made it hotter, not knowing who was doing
what or what they were going to do next. It was just’—I wave my hands
around in an attempt to explain—‘hands and mouths everywhere.’
 Maddy’s beaming at me like I’ve just taken my first steps and she’s my
proud mummy. ‘Yes,’ she hisses. ‘Exactly. Ugh, I’m so fucking jealous.’
My eyebrows shoot up. ‘You’re jealous? You had a foursome too, last
night, and it sounded far wilder than mine.’
‘I know, and it was great. But there’s something about the whole virgin
thing—it’s so hot. Like, you’re lying there and you’ve never been touched,
and then there are three guys going to town on you. Whew.’ She fans
herself. ‘Maybe next time I go, I’ll pretend I’m a virgin.’
I roll my eyes. This girl is so dramatic. ‘I’m not sure you could hold that
ruse for long.’
‘Rude. But you’re probably right. Anyway, tell me exactly what they
did. I want every filthy little detail.’
As we finish our orgasmic ravioli, I regale her with a blow-by-blow
chronology of my short but explosive session, except, because it’s me,
there’s a lot of gesticulating at body parts rather than being as technical as
Maddy wants me to be.
God, I’m bad at this stuff.
I need to get better.
I’ll never be able to have a healthy relationship if I can’t even say the
word—
‘Clit. Just say it. Clit,’ Maddy annunciates.
I glare at her. ‘Clit. Happy? So he rolled an ice cube around my… clit,
and then he and, I think, Callum, had their fingers down there too, pressing
against my… entrance, and I just exploded.’
Maddy shifts sideways on her bar stool so she can cross her legs. ‘God,
you’re turning me on.’
I grimace. ‘That was absolutely not my intention.’
‘So what was Rafe doing when you came? Kissing you?’
‘Yeah.’ Although kissing falls laughably short of describing the way
Rafe’s ravenous tongue devoured my mouth. A flash of electricity travels
through my entire body as I recall the intensity of having his face and
mouth smashed against mine like that. ‘And he and Callum each had a hand
on one of my boobs, as far as I can tell.’
‘So Callum’s dirty talk was good.’
‘It was excellent. He made me feel really sexy, but it wasn’t too
intimidating.’
 ‘And then you had Rafe eating your face off and some other guy eating
you out.’
‘Over my knickers, yeah.’
‘Such a strong formula,’ she mutters to herself. ‘I mean, fuck, babes.
That was a lot for your first time. You went from nought to sixty in, like,
half an hour.’
‘I know,’ I say weakly.
‘And you loved it?’
I raise my head from my plate so I can look her in the eye. ‘I loved
every second of it. Honestly. It blew my mind.’
‘That’s my girl.’ She’s a proud mum again. ‘Now, tell me. When are
you going back for more?’
 17

RAFE

M
y productivity today has been disgracefully low. I spent the morning
at Cerulean’s offices, which are around the corner from Alchemy,
but nothing the markets threw at me kept my attention. Even a sit-
down with Paul, our exotics specialist, had me climbing the walls. Usually,
the way Paul explains the exotic derivative trades he’s proposing to put on
has me captivated.
Instead, searing montages of a beautiful golden-blonde virgin writhing
under our touch like a porn star play again. And again. And again.
In frustration, I abandon any pretence of productivity and head on over
to Alchemy. Wandering into our airy meeting room, I’m surprised to see
Zach hanging with Cal and Gen. He sets his mug of tea on the coffee table
and rises. We bro-hug, and I slap him hard on the back.
‘How you doing, mate?’
‘Not bad, not bad. Can’t complain. You? It’s good to see your ugly
mug.’
He settles down heavily on the sofa and rakes his hand through his hair.
This guy kills me. He’s a fucking trooper. There’s no other word for it.
And his daughters are just like him. The resilience those three have shown,
in the face of a tragedy no family should have to experience, is staggering.
‘I’m fine. How was Stel’s assembly?’
He smiles tiredly. ‘Adorable. She did great. Those things are good for
the soul, you know?’
 ‘Well done Stella. What did she do?’
‘She played a BBC newsreader. The theme was all about adversity, and
climbing mountains in life, and aiming high. They sang S Club 7’s Reach.’
He shakes his head. ‘It was fucking brilliant.’
‘Sounds like a topic she’s an expert on. Next time, let me know, okay?
I’m her godfather. I should be doing more of this stuff.’
‘Will do.’ He takes a sip of his tea. ‘She’d like that. What’s new around
here? Sorry I’ve been MIA.’
‘Shut up,’ we all say in unison. Zach knows he doesn’t have to ask, or
explain, or justify. Ever. Not with us.
Gen smiles knowingly. ‘Cal and Rafe had a fun evening, by the sounds
of things.’
‘Really?’ Zach settles back on the sofa and crosses an ankle over the
opposite knee. ‘By all means, distract me from my life with your tales of
sin. How many girls were there?’
I exchange a look with Callum as I sit down. I’m still feeling
antagonistic towards him, and I need to get over it. He’s one of my oldest
mates, for Christ’s sake.
‘Don’t know how many Rafe had later in the evening,’ Cal says, ‘but I
had two. Somehow, though, I don’t think that’s what Gen’s getting at.’
I butt in before Gen can say anything. ‘It was nothing. The first session
in someone’s Unfurl programme. It was all over pretty quickly—it seemed
to go well.’
When I risk a look at Gen, she’s pressing her lips together in an attempt
not to smile. ‘If you say so.’
I’m suddenly alarmed. ‘What? Did she say something—was she not
happy?’
Now Gen’s smile makes an appearance, and I know I’ve taken her bait.
‘Oh, no. I spoke to her just now, actually. She was very happy.’
‘Excellent.’ I say. I’m dying to know what Belle actually said, but
there’s no way I’m giving Cal the satisfaction of asking. I’ll wait till I get
Gen alone later. ‘Moving on.’
‘Not so fast.’ Zach holds up a hand. ‘What am I missing?’
‘What you’re missing,’ Callum says, ‘is that this girl is hot as fuck, and
she’s Rafe’s little Catholic neighbour, and he’s going all caveman and
territorial over her, and it’s very, very amusing to watch.’
Zach laughs and puts a fist to his mouth. ‘Seriously, mate?’
 ‘No,’ I bluster. ‘She’s just—she’s sweet, you know? And innocent. And
I’m sponsoring her. I feel protective of her.’
Cal coughs out a bullshit.
‘Is she really gorgeous?’
‘She had a blindfold on,’ Cal says. ‘But remember Rafe’s Bridget Hall
phase at school?’
Zach’s eyes widen. ‘Nice.’
‘She’s very attractive.’ My voice is stiff. I don’t like this conversation,
and I’m pissed off that fucking Callum spotted the Bridget Hall thing
without even seeing Belle’s beautiful tiger eyes.
‘Well, he doesn’t stand a chance with her,’ Cal tells Zach cheerfully,
‘because she loved it so fucking much, and once Alex has relieved her of
her virginity she’ll be seriously making up for lost time. I can tell. We
should comp her a membership, in fact.’
We comp the odd membership to individuals who we’re particularly
keen to have in the club for a variety of reasons. Despite my fantasies last
night when I was balls-deep in Isabel, I have zero intention of letting Belle
through these doors once she’s completed the programme.
However, I have a more urgent fire to put out.
‘Alex? What the fuck?’
Gen fixes me with a steely glare. ‘You know why.’
The others snigger. I glare back. Alex, God bless him, has a pencil dick,
but the word in the club is he knows how to use it, making him a solid
choice for the sensitive, crucial role that is having penetrative sex with a
virgin.
‘Don’t get any ideas,’ Callum tells me. ‘You’d split the poor girl in two.
Anyway, she’d probably think it was creepy. You’re her older neighbour.
Let’s hope she doesn’t figure out you were there last night, for your sake.’
Zach is laughing so hard now he’s practically spitting out his tea. I shoot
him a dirty look. For fuck’s sake. Is no one on my side? And I really do not
approve of Alex getting the first shot at her. He’s already had his mouth on
her pussy. We should be mixing things up for her.
‘Oh, I forgot to say,’ Gen says airily, ‘you’re totally busted, Rafe. She
asked me on the phone if you were there last night.’
‘And you said yes?’ I ask, too horrified by this revelation to
acknowledge Zach, whose entire body is now shaking with laughter.
 ‘We’re not in the habit of lying to our clients,’ Gen replies in her best
headteacher voice. ‘It tends to destroy the frail bonds of trust, you know?’
Yeah, yeah.
I’m fucking mortified.
Shit.
‘How did she know it was me?’
‘She said she recognised your scent,’ Gen says, and Zach and Cal
collapse.
‘You should shower more often,’ Cal gasps, slapping the coffee table.
‘Fuck you,’ I tell him. ‘I think we both know it was the Le Labo she
recognised.’ I wear a bespoke scent. It works well for me with women.
‘Whatever false beliefs serve you,’ Cal says.
I put my head in my hands. I have far bigger worries right now than his
bullshit.
Belle recognised me.
The horror morphs into something else. Pleasure, maybe? A satisfaction
that she knew. She gave as good as she got in that kiss, she climaxed like a
fucking champ, and she knew it was me. Which means she liked that it was
me or she was so lost in the moment she didn’t care. Either is encouraging.
‘Was she pissed off?’ I ask Gen.
She shrugs. ‘If she was, she certainly didn’t say so. Let’s discuss her
next session, shall we, while we’re all here?’
Zach plonks his mug down and gets up heavily. ‘I’ve had enough
salacious chat for one day, thank you. I need to put the first-half accounts to
bed today or tomorrow. Thanks for the laughs.’
I stare absently at him as he leaves, but my mind’s eye is on Belle. On
what she’s thinking. How she feels.
One thing’s for sure.
I have to see her.
 18

BELLE

You at home? Can I pop by?

O
h no.
I take a step away from my phone. From the WhatsApp message
from Rafe on my lock screen.
I am indeed at home. And I’m pretty sure I don’t want to see him.
Except I do.
I leave the message as unread and scurry into the bathroom where I
brush my teeth, comb my fingers through my hair and spray my perfume
into the air before walking through the cloud of scent so I smell good but
not like I’ve just squirted perfume all over myself.
Only then do I reply with studied casualness.
Yes and sure.

I’m glad I haven’t put the cod in the oven yet. I don’t want the place
smelling fishy.
I survey my parents’ kitchen. It’s immaculate and stuffed full of
industrial-grade stainless steel appliances and fixtures. Not only does
Mummy love to cook, but she and Daddy entertain so often that it helps to
have a kitchen the caterers can take full advantage of.
I’m just uncorking a bottle of Sancerre—I’m going to need wine for this
—when the doorbell goes.
I swallow.
 When I open the door, Rafe is standing there looking just as hot and
delicious and perfect and sexy and wicked and dangerous as he did last
night in the bar.
And, presumably, as he did after the bar, in that room, when his mouth
and hands were on me.
He’s in his usual weekday uniform of white shirt, open-necked and so
well pressed that you’d never guess he’d been wearing it all day, and
trousers that I know will give me a fabulous view of that perfect bum if he
walks in front of me. His hair is a little messed, and there’s a light of
concern shining in those brown eyes of his.
Concern that makes me feel a little special and a little pissed off,
because I don’t want him treating me like some fragile virginal charity case.
‘Come in,’ I say. Before he can attempt anything awkward, like kissing
me, I turn to lead the way through to the kitchen. I may or may not be
secretly pleased that I’m only wearing short shorts and a cotton vest over
my sports bra. Maybe the sight of my bare arms and legs and chest will
remind him that last night he was quite into the fragile virginal charity case,
actually.
Sure enough, when I turn around, his eyes are firmly on my backside,
and it feels like a tiny win.
‘Wine?’ I ask, trying not to smirk. I hold up the bottle. ‘I was just about
to have a glass.’
He hesitates. ‘Er, sure. Thank you.’
As I pour, he says gruffly, ‘I wanted to check in. After last night.
Wanted to see how you were doing.’
‘I’m doing fine, thanks,’ I say in my airiest voice.
‘Excellent.’
There’s an awkward pause. I slide his wineglass over to him. ‘Cheers.
Happy Friday.’
He picks it up and holds it aloft. ‘Happy Friday.’
More silence.
‘Um. I know you spoke to Gen earlier,’ he says.
‘I did.’ I let his unspoken words hang in the air. I’m going to need him
to say them.
‘And she confirmed that I was… in your session last night.’
I lick my lips. ‘Yeah. But I’d already worked that out for myself.’
 He sighs. God, he’s gorgeous. Such a beautiful man. His brown eyes
search mine, and if I wasn’t feeling so mortified, I might be amused that a
guy who’s slept with God knows how many women is finding this
conversation so excruciating.
I mean, don’t get me wrong. I am too. But I have zero experience with
this type of thing. Rafe should find it child’s play.
Maybe he’s better at the shagging part than he is at the post-mortem.
I bet he’s really, really great at the shagging part.
Not that I even know what that means.
‘Are you angry I participated?’ he asks.
I consider. ‘I’m not angry. I’m—I feel a bit blindsided. Kind of
vulnerable. Like it gave you an extra advantage over me. You knew, and I
didn’t. Well, I worked it out, but no thanks to you.’
‘I get that.’ He takes a step closer, his eyes on me the whole time. ‘But I
find it hard to be remotely sorry about that. It turned me on.’
‘Control freak,’ I mutter, even though it turned me on too, and therein
lies the problem.
It pisses me off Rafe was in on the plan and I wasn’t. That I had to
figure it out for myself. That someone I knew—my parents’ neighbour and
my sponsor, at that—took part in something so intimate without my prior
knowledge or consent, when I’d laid my trust on the line.
But last night? It made everything better, knowing he was there. It
bathed the whole experience in technicolor. Gave it meaning. And it’s not
like I can fault a single thing he did.
He was perfect.
It’s seriously weird standing here in Mummy and Daddy’s kitchen,
talking to Rafe and knowing I was with him last night. It’s like we had a
drunken one-night stand, except I was sober, and there was no sex, and it
was all choreographed, and it wasn’t just him I was with…
God. It’s seriously freaky. I don’t know how I’m supposed to act.
Supposed to feel.
He laughs at control freak. ‘And your point is?’
I attempt a glare.
‘Look.’ He takes a sip of wine and puts his glass on the counter. He’s
close to me now, and the thrill of being quite alone with him hits me. ‘There
was always a good chance I’d be involved. I felt responsible. I mean, I
know your parents. Not that I want to think about that fact at all right now.’
He rubs his forehead. ‘But you know what I mean. I wanted to make sure it
was as good for you as we could make it. Good, but also that you felt safe. I
needed to oversee everything, but I wasn’t going to tell you that beforehand
because I didn’t want you being self-conscious.’
My stomach’s been steadily nose-diving since he said responsible.
Ugh.
God, I’m so stupid. He’s a total man-whore, and he does this kind of
thing every single day. He shags women the whole time, and he feels up the
odd virgin on the side, weaving his magic on them, making them feel like
the most desirable woman on earth for those few, transcendent minutes
before he moves onto something that’s probably kinkier than I could even
conceive of.
Good.
Safe.
He’s in teacher mode, basically. He’s trying to communicate with me
that I’m his little pupil, or I was last night, at least. That he’s the grown up,
that there are parameters for how he acts and what he teaches me. And his
subtext? For God’s sake, little girl, don’t get a crush on your teacher.
In one fell swoop he’s made me shift from feeling like we were partners
in crime last night, with intense, amazing chemistry blazing between us
thanks to that kiss and those hands of his and the alchemy he and his friends
worked on me, to feeling like a stupid little girl who’s not cool or
sophisticated or experienced enough to hang with the grownups.
Because that’s what it’s come down to, these past few years at uni when
I guarded my virtue and refused to put out. I was labelled inexperienced,
and somehow that translated to gauche, which was a joke given I was
probably one of the most sophisticated and worldly and widely travelled
students at my university.
I’m so sick of it. That’s why I’m doing this bloody programme, for
God’s sake. I want it to be over, and then no one can patronise me. My
embarrassing, cumbersome burden will have been taken from me and my
currency will soar and I will be mistress of my own destiny.
Or something like that.
‘I get it,’ I tell Rafe now, my tone clipped. Dismissive. ‘It’s not a
problem.’
‘Okay.’ He’s looking at me like he expects me to have some kind of
childish meltdown.
 ‘Will you be in the next session?’ I ask. ‘Just so I know in advance.’
This time.
Those brown eyes of his turn almost black. He swallows. ‘Yeah. I’m
leading it. Gen will brief you, but it’s—it’ll be pretty different. Full on.’
I almost laugh. Because having had three guys touch my practically
naked body and bring me to orgasm in a sex club while I’m blindfolded
wasn’t remotely full on, obviously.
‘I’ll speak to her about it,’ I say, ‘but that’s fine.’
Fine. Rafe, king of a sex club, is standing in my kitchen telling me he’ll
be leading some kind of ‘full-on’ sexual session with me and I’m just about
pulling off being blasé. I mentally pat myself on the shoulder for a job well
done. This cool-girl lark is exhausting.
‘Excellent.’ The relief is clear on his face, and I muse that you can take
the boy out of an all-male boarding school, but you can’t take boarding
school out of the boy. Champion lover of hundreds of adoring women he
may be, but he’s still got that social awkwardness that shouts I was not
brought up around women. Growing up with my brother, Dex, gave me an
insight into the weird and wonderful workings of the male brain, which has
been helpful, given I went to a convent school and all that. Although he
moved to New York while I was at school, so it’s been quite some time
since I’ve been able to count on him for the male perspective.
Not that I blame him for abandoning ship. He had the right idea. He
wanted to get away from Daddy’s ‘toxic Catholicism’, in his words.
‘What did you all do when you left the room last night?’ I blurt out. I
can’t resist. My FOMO was sky high when they walked out, and it’s still up
there. I’m still the little girl the grown ups walked away from. They’re still
the ones who got to go and have their own sort of fun in a room I can’t even
imagine, a room I’m horrified by and fixated on in equal measure.
He scowls. ‘What?’
‘That guy, Callum, said you were…’ Turned on. No, I can’t say that.
‘Going to take care of business,’ I finish lamely. I put a hand on my hip.
‘Did you?’
He shakes his head at me. ‘Believe me, Belle, you don’t want to know.’
Which is, in my head, an exact paraphrase of don’t ask questions about
things you don’t understand, little girl.
‘I do want to know,’ I say, more bravely than I feel. ‘I want to know
what I’m missing out on.’
 Rafe looks down and swills his wine around in his glass, as if
considering what to say next. A muscle jumps in his jaw. Then he looks up
at me, those brown eyes practically all pupil. He takes a step forward, and
his proximity has me suddenly nervous.
‘Fine,’ he says through clenched teeth. ‘Yes, Belle. We all needed to
take care of business, as he put it, because you were so fucking amazing in
there.’
My heart rate ratchets up a notch at his voice, and the look in his eyes,
and his apparent lapse of control.
‘We went through to the Playroom, and I found a girl who looked
vaguely like you—long, blonde hair—and I bent her over the back of a sofa
and ate her pussy until she was screaming, and then I fucked her. Hard.
Until we both came like fucking freight trains. And then I walked away and
left her for someone else. Because that’s the kind of guy I am. Happy now?’
I should be horrified and mortified, and I am, but I’m also mesmerised
and aroused. Because it’s the first time he’s spoken to me like a real equal,
or an equal in the realm of which he is king, anyway.
It’s the first time he’s really let me in. Let me see the side to him I
wondered about and suspected existed but couldn’t really guess at. Not
accurately.
His words have conjured up a vivid image in my head, and I’m there, in
a dim room that pulsates with bodies, and Rafe is pushing me downwards
and flipping up my dress and peeling down my thong and sinking to his
knees and burying his mouth and tongue in my exposed folds, and oh God.
A single thought rings with utter clarity in my head.
It should have been me.
 19

BELLE

T
his time, I don’t wear a long, tasteful slip dress to Alchemy.
This time, I borrow a silver mini-dress from Maddy that
practically shows off my underwear.
Yes. I’m wearing underwear tonight.
For now.
The dress is armour. Whatever goes down in this little scene, however
chaste the persona I’m about to adopt in that room for Rafe and whoever
else he brings along, I want him to be clear if he sees me at the bar that I’m
a sexual being, I’m sick of messing around, and I mean business.
I want to hold my own here. No pitying looks or sanitised conversation
for me.
I hang at the bar with Maddy, who looks spectacular. She’s in a fine
white cotton shirt whose sleeves are rolled up and whose buttons are
undone almost to her navel—no bra—and an emerald-green satin miniskirt
that showcases her gorgeous eyes. She’s a knockout, and she’ll have several
hands up that skirt as soon as she crosses through into the Playroom, I’ll
warrant. I eye the door to the hub of this place warily.
Maddy’s counting on her fingers how many people in this room she’d
sleep with when Rafe rocks up with a couple of buddies. He looks
devastating, as usual. He’s in a black shirt, a couple of whose buttons are
undone, and slim-fitting black trousers. It’s like he’s fronting a Tom Ford
campaign, or channeling Mr Ford himself.
 His eyes slide down my body in a highly gratifying way, but it’s his
friend who smirks at me. His friend who is dressed almost identically to
him, though he doesn’t wear the all-black ensemble as well. Who’s stockier
than Rafe, a more traditional rugby-player build than Rafe’s broad
shoulders and tapered waist, but who is still undeniably attractive. Who’s
grinning at me like he knows me, like we share some dirty secret—
Oh shit.
‘Hello, Belle,’ the guy says, and Rafe elbows him.
Yep.
I know that voice.
This is excruciating.
‘Callum,’ I guess, trying not to groan.
‘You’re even hotter with the mask off,’ he says, and I stiffen.
‘Cal,’ Rafe says in a warning tone before stepping forward to kiss me
on both cheeks. He touches my forearms lightly as he does so, and I want to
melt against that crisp shirt and hard chest.
‘Sorry,’ Callum says with an attempt at contrition on his handsome face.
He sticks out a hand once Rafe’s released me. ‘Let’s start again. I didn’t
mean to make you uncomfortable. Belle, I’m Cal. How do you do?’
We shake. ‘How do you do?’ I mutter, because he’s irksomely
charming.
Maddy’s computing too quickly for my liking. She waves a finger from
Rafe to Callum. ‘You two?’ she asks. ‘The other night? With Belle?’
We may be in a sex club, but that doesn’t mean I’m remotely
comfortable with my sexual exploits being discussed so openly.
‘Shut up,’ I hiss.
‘Yes, Ma’am,’ Callum says, looking her up and down so appreciatively
that I relax a little. So he’s like this with everyone. Fine. I can handle that.
In fact, it’s kind of easier to deal with a guy like this, who’s openly
flirtatious, than one like Rafe, who’s all repressed and grim and growly
until he drops total bombshells like I found a girl who looked vaguely like
you and bent her over the back of a sofa. I suspect Callum doesn’t do mixed
messages.
Unlike other people I could name.
‘Lucky bitch,’ Maddy mutters.
Callum’s grin widens. ‘Come find me next door in about an hour and
then we’ll see who’s the lucky bitch.’
 ‘I’ll see you there if I haven’t had any better offers,’ she counters.
It’s just not Callum giving Maddy the once-over. The third guy in their
little trio is staring at her through his cool, black-framed glasses like she’s
just descended from heaven, right through the ornate ceiling of Alchemy’s
bar.
‘Cal, meet Belle’s friend Maddy,’ Rafe says tersely. ‘And ladies, this is
Zach, our other business partner.’
He slaps the other guy on the shoulder, and it appears to jolt him out of
his Maddy-induced stupor. He rakes a hand through his hair, which is
almost black and longer and floppier than Rafe’s.
‘How do you do?’ he enquires politely. He does not look like a guy
who’s about to go and get laid. He looks deeply uncomfortable, if anything.
‘Zach’s a rare sighting in here at this hour of the night,’ Rafe says. ‘He’s
our numbers guy—we don’t usually let him away from the spreadsheets for
long.’
‘I love a nerd,’ Maddy purrs, and Zach’s Adam’s apple jumps as he
swallows hard.
‘I’m just heading home, actually,’ he says, shoving his specs up the
bridge of his nose. I can’t help noticing how intensely blue his eyes are
behind the lenses. He definitely has a Clark Kent vibe.
Maddy pouts.
Callum grins. ‘I’ll make sure you have a good time tonight, sweetheart.’
‘We’d better get going too,’ Rafe says, looking straight at me. ‘Got to
get our dog-collars on. We didn’t fancy wearing them at the bar. See you in
there.’ He winks.
Oh, sweet baby Jesus.
I’ve just worked out why they’re both wearing all black.
They’re in costume already.

T HE ROOM IS BIGGER than last time. This time, the green ORGASMS button
sits next to a kingsize bed that’s made up very plainly with two pillows,
white cotton sheets, and a cream woollen blanket. No manacles or whips or
sex toys in here. It’s dimly lit. I wonder if this is one of their ‘virgin’ rooms
or whether they have ways of adapting each room to the needs of the user.
There’s a cabinet on the far side—it’s probably rammed full of dodgy stuff.
Never mind that, because the most pointed reminder of the depths of
depravity to which I’m about to sink is the main light source, an enormous
crucifix projected onto one of the walls in bright white light.
Oh, holy crap.
It should be a sign that redemption is possible, but right now it’s like a
marker pointing the way to the gates of hell.
I wanted this.
I signed up for it.
I touched myself when the questionnaire proposed this exact scenario,
and now Genevieve and her team are hell-bent on providing what turns me
on.
Yes. Exactly this. Please.
I asked, and they’re giving it to me, and my stomach is a roiling mess of
horror and terror and arousal and disbelief as I follow the instructions left
for me in the adjoining changing room.
Gone is the slutty silver dress, the hem of which Rafe’s eyes were glued
to in the bar. In its place is a plain muslin nightgown of high neck and
Maria Von Trapp levels of modesty.
Nothing underneath, as instructed.
My hair hangs in a single loose plait over one shoulder.
I climb onto the bed and lie on one side, pulling the sheet and blanket
over me. Then I reach out, squeeze my eyes closed, press my lips tightly
together and hit that big green button.
As I lie there waiting, I allow myself to drift into the scenario
Genevieve’s most recent briefing laid out. To shift from my own mindset to
that of a young woman who, like me, has never had sex. Who, unlike me
now, has never been touched by a man. And who, categorically unlike me,
believes it’s a sin to even think about sex, let alone to touch herself while
she fantasises about being touched by another person.
By other people.
The Belina I am tonight is a young postulant who takes the
responsibility of having a virgin martyr namesake seriously and intends to
make vows of poverty and chastity imminently. She’s someone who berates
herself harshly for those tangled, vivid dreams of flesh against flesh as sleep
becomes wakefulness in the early hours. Someone who feels deep shame
that the subconscious she keeps tightly under wraps during the day has the
power to infiltrate her unguarded sleep at night. To undo her.
She’s someone who seeks penance for those unintended sins through
prayer. Work. Reflection.
Someone for whom shame and desire are sickeningly and impossibly
interwoven. Who tonight will hand over her body and soul, not to God, but
to two men who act in His name but do the work of the Devil himself.
Gosh. I’m already aroused. Aroused because no matter how wrong, how
sinful I’ve been raised to believe this is, it’s a million times more sinful for
the Belina I am tonight.
And, rather than shying away from that feeling, shoving it down, or
worse, acting on it and denying myself as I have in the past, tonight I’m
owning it. I’m taking every word those nuns fed me for fourteen years,
every warning they issued about the sins of the flesh and the dangers of
men’s lust for me and the importance of remaining chaste, and I’m
gathering up armfuls of them and using them as kindling to stoke the flames
of desire that I know will burn bright.
Because this scene will be my ultimate desire brought to life.
All for me. All for my pleasure.
Forget kindling.
I’ll throw petrol on those flames.
The door opens.
 20

BELLE

F
orgive me, Father, for I have sinned.
Already.
The mere sight of these two in the dim room, their identical all-
black outfits broken only by the white postage stamps of their dog collars,
has my body reacting in ways I know the postulant Belina would not
entertain.
Obviously, I’m infinitely more attracted to Rafe—I’m completely
enraptured with Rafe—but I can’t deny having the two of them in front of
me is confronting in the best possible way. In a way I didn’t have during the
blindfolded session. They pack quite a punch, there by the door, especially
from my prone position.
The power balance in this room just got a lot clearer.
Genevieve’s briefing comprehensively covered everything that would
happen tonight, but I still get a guilty thrill when Rafe strolls towards me. I
feel like a bit of an idiot, staring up at him as I white-knuckle the tops of my
bedcovers, but the predatory look in his eyes tells me he very much likes
what he sees.
‘Safe word?’ he murmurs.
‘Alchemy,’ I whisper.
He nods. ‘Good. Now, Belina, I’m Fr Rafe, and this is Fr Callum.
Mother Superior asked us to stop by.’
 I don’t say anything, just give a timid nod. Callum rounds the bed and
comes to stand beside Rafe. His cheeky grin from earlier has disappeared.
He looks as intense, as predatory, as Rafe does.
‘You’re due to begin your novitiate next month, correct?’ Rafe
continues.
‘Yes,’ I squeak.
He smirks, eyes roaming over the outline of my body under the thin
covers.
‘You see, Belina,’ he says, thrusting his elegant hands in his elegant
pockets, his toned body ranging above me in a uniform that strikes me as
equally appropriate for a servant of God or of Lucifer, ‘Mother Superior has
some concerns about your chastity. She’s worried you’re not quite ready.
She’s worried that underneath that pious exterior of yours, you’re actually a
dirty little thing who’d rather be on her knees for other reasons than to
praise our Almighty God.’
His tone is careless and arrogant and insufferably patronising, and the
heat it sends careening around my belly and further south is infuriating.
‘I am pious,’ I gasp. ‘I’ve never done anything wrong.’
‘I know,’ he says. ‘But deeds aren’t the only form of sin, you know?
Can you honestly tell us you never sin in your thoughts? That you never
allow your mind to go to the very sins you’ll be vowing not to commit?’ He
leans down, and I catch his scent. ‘Can you tell us a tiny part of you isn’t
worried about what you’ll be giving up? That the pretty little cunt you’ve
got hidden under there doesn’t need attention? That you can really live
without dick?’
Oh my God. I’m growing more aroused by the second. I want Rafe to
talk to me like this forever. I suspect I could come just from his words if he
kept them up for a few more minutes.
‘I only sin in my dreams,’ I confess. ‘I try not to, but I can’t help it.’
The two priests exchange a triumphant glance.
‘Of course you can’t,’ Rafe croons. ‘That’s your body letting you know
what it needs. The problem is, you’re trying to be a good girl, when really,
you’re as filthy as they come. You can’t keep that shameful, greedy side
hidden away, Belina. We’re here to help you understand what you need.
We’re going to make you feel the things you feel in your dreams, but for
real. Understand?’
‘I can’t,’ I protest. ‘It’s wrong.’
 ‘Damn right it’s wrong.’ Rafe nods at Callum, who steps forward and
drags my blanket and sheet down the bed. They both eye me appreciatively.
‘We’ve been watching you,’ Callum says, ‘at Mass. Every day.
Someone as beautiful as you isn’t meant for a life of celibacy, you know?
You’re made to be worshipped and defiled and fucked. That hair shouldn’t
be hidden under a wimple. It should be wrapped around our hands while
you come on our cocks. Got it?’
I shake my head. ‘No. That’s a mortal sin,’ I say, but my traitorous body
squirms on the bed.
‘It may be a sin, you pretty little thing, but you want it so fucking
badly,’ Callum tells me. ‘You can’t lie to that beautiful, needy little pussy of
yours.’ He turns to Rafe. ‘Her nipples are so hard, see?’
‘Believe me, I see,’ Rafe says in a strained voice. ‘They’re aching for
our mouths on them.’ He brushes past Callum and heads towards the foot of
the bed. His fingers curl tightly around my ankle. The possessiveness of his
grip makes my clit pulse.
‘Here’s what’s going to happen.’ He strokes the thin skin there with his
thumb. ‘You’re going to obey us, because we’re acting on behalf of Mother
Superior here. She has asked us to inspect you. To see how suited you are to
a saintly life. This is part of your journey. Do you understand?’
I nod.
‘Say it.’
‘I understand,’ I manage. God, his voice is whipping me up into a
frenzy. He’s cold and clinical, and when he uses words like inspect it makes
shame and desire curdle wonderfully in my stomach. I can’t wait for these
men to spread me open and take what they want from me. It won’t be my
virginity, sadly—not tonight—but I wish it was, because I’d give Rafe
everything right now.
For the first time, I realise, I’m embracing my virginity. My lack of
experience. This scene is helping me to understand how hot it is that I
haven’t been properly touched before this. Not naked. I’ll be experiencing
this awakening, this unfurling, right alongside Belina, the postulant.
No imagination needed.
‘Good girl,’ Rafe tells me. His fingers slide up my calf, and I shiver in
anticipation. ‘This is what’s going to happen. We know you want to please
Mother Superior, and we know your body has been trying to tell you what it
needs for a long time. But we also know you try to be a good girl, try to
shove all those filthy thoughts down. We know you’ve been taught that
they’re wrong and shameful. That the pleasures of the flesh are something
you’re not permitted to know.
‘So we’re going to use some ties on your arms and legs. Your arms so
you can’t try to stop us, and your legs to hold you open so we can play with
that pretty pussy of yours. Explore your tight little hole. We want you wide
open for us. Understand?’
I nod. ‘I understand.’ I squirm on the bed again and find my legs parting
slightly at his words. The light fabric of my nightgown brushes over my
nipples as I move, so softly it’s infuriating.
Callum opens a drawer next to the bed and pulls out some silky looking
ties, throwing a couple to Rafe. He lifts both my arms and proceeds to tie
my wrists to one of the headboard slats with deft, practised movements.
Meanwhile, Rafe is tugging at my ankle and tying it to something I can’t
see at the foot of the bed. When he’s done, he takes my other ankle and
pulls my legs further apart than I’ve been expecting.
Even with the nightgown over me, the movement exposes my bare and
already swollen private parts to the air and I’m struck afresh by how badly
my entire body is aching to be touched. Now I get why they gave me such a
ridiculously voluminous garment to wear.
It was so these men could spread my legs as far as they liked.
‘Pull for me,’ Rafe orders when I’m secured, and I obligingly attempt to
tug my wrists and ankles from their restraints, but they hold firm.
‘That’s the thing about these postulants,’ Callum says conversationally
as he rounds the bed. ‘They’re obedient little things.’ He climbs onto the
empty side of the bed as Rafe comes up towards me, and I lie there as they
survey their handiwork.
‘How do you feel, Belina?’ Rafe asks in a stern voice.
‘Scared,’ my character says. ‘Guilty. This is wrong.’
‘I think you’re scared of how much you’ll enjoy it,’ he says. ‘You’re
scared that all your years of hard work and training will be undone tonight
when you realised you’ve been deluding yourself. There’s no way you can
live without this.’
He trails a hand lightly down my arm, over my sleeve, and I shiver as
much at his touch as at the barely controlled intensity in his voice. His dark
eyes gleam in the dim light, and as I allow my gaze to flick down his body,
I notice with a jolt that he’s already hard. The huge bulge in what’s
supposed to be a priest’s garb is as reassuring as it’s intimidating, because
this time I get to see I’m not the only one affected.
He’s got me trussed up on this bed, but that bulge tells me I have far
more power in this scenario than it may seem. Meanwhile, Callum’s
crouched over me, surveying his and Rafe’s handiwork, and his knuckles
graze my stomach through my nightgown.
‘How does she feel?’ Rafe asks.
‘Promising. Very promising,’ Callum drawls. The back of his hand
moves higher, higher, and then his knuckles are rubbing at my stiff nipple,
and the best kind of heat lances through me. I shudder in delight.
‘This,’ Rafe tells me, and it sounds as though every word is an effort for
him, ‘this is what you’ve been missing. This is only the very start of what
you’ve been missing, Belina.’
I am so fully present for this scenario. I want with every fibre of my
being to give these men what they desire and take from them what my body
so clearly needs. I’ll take every stroke. Every rub. Every lick. They think
they’ll be consuming me, claiming me, even, but they have no idea of the
depths of my greed for this. No idea at all.
‘Let’s see what she’s got for us, eh?’ Callum interjects.
Rafe nods. ‘Do it.’ He slides his hands into his pockets, the fabric of his
trousers pulling even more taut over that obscene erection of his, and I
swallow.
Callum stays kneeling, and leaning towards my feet, grabs the hem of
my nightdress. Cool air sweeps my shins as he tugs it higher. My thighs.
My—oh my God. The area between my legs is exposed now, the air
dancing over the sensitive flesh as he drags the fabric up over my stomach,
my breasts, over my head, and finally bunches it at my restrained wrists.
There’s a charged silence, then a strangled that’s more like it from
Callum and a harsh intake of breath from Rafe that has my body singing as
if he’s lavished me with praise. I look up at him, and my eyes lock with
those twin pools of depravity. It strikes me that he’s not the most verbose
guy, but he doesn’t have to be, because those eyes are the windows to his
soul, and in this moment, I pray to the very God we’re defying that his soul
is quite as black as the windows suggest.
He gets to his knees beside me and casts his eyes heavenward.
 21

BELLE

T
he room is still for a moment. Silent. Callum’s hand is pressed to my
wrists.
Then Rafe palms my stomach, and the flat, warm pressure of his
large hand on my bare skin is a key turning in a lock. It anchors me and has
my soul vaulting, soaring, all at once.
My gaze is locked on his face, but his is still upturned. His spare hand
presses against his heart.
‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.’
His fingers splay out further across my skin, his tips pressing in, as if
he’s trying to touch as much of me as possible.
‘I am about to dishonour this young woman and, in turn, dishonour
You.’
His hand drags upwards.
‘She’s far too beautiful to leave untouched. Far too tempting. Her needs
are too great for us to ignore them, however wrong they may be.’
His fingers brush the underside of my breast.
Oh God.
They’re so close to where I need them.
My breath is coming faster. I am Belina, and he is Fr Rafe, and I’m
immersed. I’m gone. How is he so good at this?
‘We’re flesh and blood, Father. Weak. We don’t stand a chance around
her. Show us Your forgiveness.’
 And with that, he shoots me a look so ominous it’s as if he’s damning
me to hell for tempting him to sin, to fall, and then he’s lowering his dark
head and latching onto one straining nipple as Callum stretches out on the
bed and does the same to the other.
The sight of two men suckling at my breasts, at those two dark, tousled
heads devouring me, is almost too much on its own. The sensation of it,
though? The deep pulls, the draws, the nips and the slick, warm, rolling
tongues on my needy little nubs?
That all goes straight to my clit. My clit that they’ve exposed and are
now ignoring, and that’s so swollen already I may blow just from this. It’s
so good, so intense, so incredibly hot I can barely catch my breath.
This is what I was missing the other night behind that blindfold. I was
missing this front-row seat to two men pleasuring me and playing the role
of priests dragged to the edge of hell’s abyss by the unknowing siren call of
an innocent, oblivious young trainee nun at Mass.
I luxuriate in their touch and allow myself to channel Belina the
postulant. Belina who, up until a few minutes ago, knew little conflict
beyond the dreams that tormented her in those pre-waking moments and is
now lying restrained in her bed as two priests ravish her.
She’s been told to heed her soul, not her flesh.
But in this perfectly torturous moment, her flesh is singing to her so
loudly that it’s all she can hear. It’s drowned out God’s voice, and she wants
more. More. More.
Rafe’s hand moves back down to my stomach. It edges lower still, and I
arch into their mouths’ touch and widen my legs as far as I can.
I need his touch there.
Callum’s touch.
Anyone’s touch.
I don’t care.
Rafe pulls his mouth off my nipple with a wet pop that makes my
insides clench and raises his head to look at me.
‘How does that feel, Belina?’
‘Amazing,’ I moan.
‘You have beautiful breasts. Beautiful nipples. They were made to have
men’s mouths on them. Not to be hidden under a fucking habit.’
I make a needy noise in the back of my throat.
 ‘Just like the rest of your body,’ he continues. ‘But we don’t want to
push you. Do we, Fr Callum?’
Callum comes up for air and grins at me, and my nipples ache at their
abandonment.
‘No,’ he says. ‘Maybe that’s enough for tonight. She’s been such a bad
girl already. Perhaps we should leave her here, like this, to contemplate her
eternal damnation before she sins anymore.’
Rafe’s teasing fingers brush the decidedly un-nun-like landing strip of
my pubic hair, and I buck. They’re so close to where I need his touch.
‘What do you think, Belina?’ he asks. ‘Should we untie you and leave
you alone to contemplate what you’ve done already? Or should we help you
sin more? Show you what you’re missing?’
I stare up at his dark eyes. At the sharp jut of his jaw, darkened by
stubble.
It looks abrasive.
It looks like it could deliver exactly the friction I need so badly right
now.
I have no choice over what comes out of my mouth next.
‘I want you to show me, Father.’ I annunciate the words clearly. ‘I want
you to defile me.’
Our gazes are locked, my eyes delivering a message as distinct as my
words. Two can play at this game. It’s important to me that Rafe knows I
have currency in this situation. That I have the power to affect him and
Callum even while they’re undoing me.
I want to be completely in their hands. At their mercy. And yet, I also
want them eating out of the palm of my hand, too.
Rafe stands and stares at me, his fingers clenching at his sides. Finally,
he nods curtly and turns to Callum. ‘You heard her. Time to show her what
she’s capable of.’
It seems to me that he walks to the foot of the bed in slow motion.
That, when he climbs onto the bed, and kneels between my legs, and
looks down at what he sees there in front of him, time stops.
That the waiting for him to touch me is a particular torture.
And it strikes me that everything is happening on two levels. Even
while I’m utterly immersed in this delicious fantasy of being defiled by two
hot priests, I’m painfully aware that this is the only format in which I get to
be with Rafe.
 I’m a virgin. He’s a beautiful, experienced, and most likely debauched
sex club owner.
Out there, I don’t stand a chance with a guy like him.
In here, I get to have his eyes on me. His hands. And possibly,
hopefully, even his mouth.
I get to be the object of his attention. His desires. Even if only for half
an hour.
So sue me if I’m going to give this scene everything I’ve got. If I’m
going to hope and wish and pray that I’m not the only one who’s affected.
Callum palms both my breasts, waiting, and I watch Rafe’s eyes on
Callum’s hands. I watch as he presses his lips together before glancing back
down at where I lie open for him. Finally, his finger draws a leisurely trail
from my entrance to my clit and back again, and I can tell from the ease
with which it moves through my folds that I must be pretty wet.
God, it feels good. Not good. Amazing.
He sucks in a breath. ‘For a little postulant who claims to be the epitome
of virtue, you’re soaking for us,’ he says.
The us reminds me how overpowered I am by these two men, and I
wouldn’t be surprised if I’m instantly even wetter.
Rafe raises a shapely eyebrow. ‘You like how my fingers feel on your
virgin cunt? Or you like knowing we’re both here to play with you to our
hearts’ content?’
I moan. If there’s one thing that gets me off, it’s the idea of being men’s
plaything. Of having them sample me. Use me for their pleasure. ‘Both,’ I
tell him.
Callum’s hands begin to move on my breasts, his palms making just
enough contact with my nipples to have them begging for more as Rafe
circles my entrance with that finger.
‘There’s no fucking way we let her go after tonight,’ Callum tells Rafe.
‘Nope.’ Rafe pushes his finger inside me with just enough force to feel
confronting, and I gasp at the welcome invasion. ‘We’re definitely coming
back for more. We should bring some of the others, too. She’s too sweet not
to share.’
He adds a thumb to my clit and brushes it so gently it’s agony. The
thumb swipes back and forth, but I need more. So much more. I need
friction and pressure. I arch my back as much as I can in my restraints,
pushing my breasts up into Callum’s palms and my clit against Rafe’s
thumb.
Callum laughs. ‘For an innocent little nun, she’s fucking gagging for it.’
‘I knew she’d be like this.’ Rafe’s eyes are fixed on where his thumb’s
rubbing me. ‘I knew when I saw her at Mass she belonged on her back like
this, her legs open for us and this sweet little pussy begging for us. Next
time, we should fuck her. Over and over.’
Oh my God. Oh my God. Yes please. I want nothing more than a line of
predatory, nameless priests, mindless with pent-up desire, coming to take
their frustrations out on my body in this dim room. I can’t wait till I’ve got
my virginity out of the way and I can make a reality out of the depraved
scenes that play in my head.
‘I bet she tastes delicious.’ Callum’s palming becomes decadent,
generous pinches and rolls of his fingers over my nipples, and I let out a
loud sigh of pleasure.
‘Let’s find out.’ Rafe’s voice is casual as he pulls his finger out and
bends closer to the apex of my legs. He parts my folds with his fingers as he
peers at what he sees, and the clinical act of him inspecting me for his own
pleasure has desire and shame rolling over me in equally potent waves.
Blood pulses in my exposed flesh, and the mere sensation of his warm
breath on me has me threatening to come right there.
‘Please,’ I moan.
‘Please, Father,’ Rafe corrects me.
‘Please, Father.’
He bends right over. His mouth isn’t touching me yet, but he’s so close I
can only see the top of his head. I need him I need him I need him. Callum’s
magic hands have whipped my nipples into the tightest, hardest, neediest
little peaks, and every touch from him has me more desperate for Rafe’s
mouth.
‘You’re about to let a man lick you in a place you were supposed to
keep private, Belina.’ His voice is muffled. ‘A few minutes ago, you told us
you were ready to take your vows of poverty, chastity and obedience, and
now you’re begging a man of the cloth to put his mouth on you, and lick
this pretty pussy of yours roughly, and fuck your tight little cunt with his
tongue, and make you scream and writhe and come. How can you possibly
be such a bad girl? Are you sure you want to commit a mortal sin like this?’
 His filthy, damning words have me practically falling over the edge, all
by themselves. Because there is nothing, nothing hotter than knowing that,
after all these years of struggling temptation and confusion and shame and
mystery and mortification, I’m powerless and wide open for these men and
oh-so-ready for them to use me and corrupt me.
Rafe’s words are designed to make me feel sick with shame, but he
presumably knows as well as I do that I’ll take that shame and harness it
and embrace the edge it gives me. He knows it’s the very fact that I’ve been
told, over and over and over, that behaviour like this is wrong and dirty and
sinful that will have me hurtling towards the most intense kind of orgasm
when I give in.
‘I know it’s a mortal sin,’ I say breathily, ‘but I can’t help it. I need it. I
want to be corrupted.’
‘Fuck, yes,’ Callum says. ‘Better give this dirty little nun what she
needs, Father.’
‘I intend to,’ Rafe says, and with that, he puts his tongue on me.
It’s a long lick, following the path his finger traced moments ago, and
it’s nowhere near what I need, but because he’s holding me wide open it
feels like he hits every possible nerve-ending in my entire nether region,
and it’s bloody amazing.
Indescribable.
Rafe Charlton is actually licking me there.
He groans against my flesh.
‘How is she?’ Callum asks. He bends and kisses me, which I’m not
expecting, but having his tongue invade my mouth at the same time as his
hands are on my breasts and Rafe’s tongue is working magic on my lower
body feels full and right. I moan into his mouth.
‘She tastes like sin,’ Rafe says, ‘and I’m not sure I’m going to be able to
stop.’ He gives me one long, rough lap. ‘She is every fucking temptation in
the book, right here.’ His finger finds my entrance again and thrusts inside
me hard. I flinch, but I’m already addicted to this feeling. ‘I want to fuck
her. Badly. She’s begging to be flipped over and fucked from behind while
you fuck her mouth.’
Another long lick. He flickers his tongue over my clit in a manner that
has my mouth opening in a wide O of disbelief that anything, ever, could
feel this good. Or that anyone could be this skilled at talking dirty while
winding me tighter and tighter with his magical tongue.
 Callum groans. ‘Jesus, yeah. I want to fuck this mouth.’ He rolls my
nipples hard as he plunges his tongue into my mouth.
Rafe adds a second finger, and oh wow. It’s very, very tight and
definitely uncomfortable.
‘Breathe,’ he orders me.
I obey him, and the stretching sensation eases a little.
‘She’s so tight,’ he pants out. ‘Can’t even imagine what it would be like
to fuck this.’
And then his tongue is back on me, and the fullness of his fingers inside
me makes every sensation a million times more intense. A million times
better.
‘Fuck, her clit is swollen,’ he groans to Callum. ‘She’s so fucking eager.
Does it feel good, Belina? This is what sinning feels like. Does it feel
good?’
‘It feels… it feels,’ I manage, as Callum pulls away to allow me to
speak, but I’m spinning out of control.
Rafe chuckles and keeps working me. Teasing me. He circles my clit
with his tongue. He runs it down to soothe my very stretched entrance, then
back up. He laps it roughly, and I practically blow. Callum’s kissing me, so
I can’t speak, but I push against Rafe’s tongue and moan loudly to convey
my desperation for release.
‘She’s close,’ Rafe says, and Callum obliges by upping the ante of his
kisses and his fingers on my nipples. Rafe pulls his fingers out and shoves
them back in, hard, at the same time as he laves me roughly, rhythmically
with this tongue, and he hits the spot again and again and again and I’m
spiralling higher and higher and higher, heat flooding my entire body as
these two guys continue their sensory onslaught on me.
I don’t know where my orgasm begins and ends. It’s technicolour and
electrifying and staggering. The waves of pleasure course over me, on and
on. And as they begin to subside, so do the ministrations of the men. Rafe
lessens the ferocity of his licks and slides his fingers out of me. I’m vaguely
aware, through my blinding sunspots and the deafening sound of my own
breath, that he’s sucking his fingers into his mouth and groaning. Callum’s
pinches ease, and he covers my breasts with his palms and presses down
gently as I descend.
I’m shaking as I recover. I should be self-conscious now that the
madness has passed, but I’m too limp. Too spent. Too utterly blissed out.
 Rafe steps off the bed. ‘There’s no way you’re coming back from this,
Belina,’ he says.
I shake my head. ‘No.’
‘Here’s the deal. We’ll tell your Mother Superior you passed your test.
You weren’t interested. But we know the truth. You’re a dirty little whore
who needs cock. I think we just found our newest recruit to keep the priests
happy.’
Despite my earth-shattering orgasm, my entire body thrills at his words,
at his suggestion of a scenario where I’m the plaything of a stable of
frustrated priests. I think that’s probably been every fantasy I’ve ever had.
‘Next time,’ Callum says, ‘you’re going to get it. You’re lucky I didn’t
ram my cock down your mouth.’
I glance at his crotch and notice for the first time that he’s hard. But
when I look back at Rafe, that bulge has grown bigger and his face is that of
a man who’s reached his limit. He’s every inch the conflicted man of the
cloth in this moment, his gorgeous body clad all in black, the dog collar
gleaming in the light of that crucifix, and his beautiful, staggering face
strained. Tormented.
He bends over me to grab the tie at my wrists, then looks at Callum.
‘Clear off.’
Callum blinks. ‘Mate. I’m—’
‘Save it,’ Rafe barks. He glances down at me, and I gaze back at him
like a needy puppy. ‘Got your safe word?’
‘Alchemy,’ I squeak.
‘Good.’ He jerks his head at Callum. ‘I said, clear off.’
 22

RAFE

C
allum leaves, shaking his head and muttering, and I know he’s both
uneasy and jealous as fuck. He’ll probably go straight to find Belle’s
friend and take his frustrations out on her.
Like I give a shit.
I have one priority right now, and it involves the beautiful naked woman
tied to this bed. I wait till the door’s clicked behind Callum and bend over
her.
Jesus. I take a moment to really drink her in. She’s still breathing
heavily from her orgasm. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips swollen. Just like
her clit was when she came all over my fucking tongue. That dark gold hair
is still in a long plait over one shoulder. Her perfect body is spread out for
me, her arms high above her head. I could take two steps to the right and
reacquaint myself with the heady view of her pussy.
She stares up at me, sated and uncertain and questioning. I run a hand
over her stomach before picking up the end of her plait and brushing it over
her nipple. Her lips part, and I swear to God I could shoot my load just from
doing this to her.
‘You want to keep playing?’ I whisper.
She nods eagerly. ‘Yes.’
God bless her. She is a fucking delight. Who would have thought my
innocent, tiger-eyed little neighbour would be so pliant and depraved? She
truly is an amazing pupil.
 ‘Good,’ I say curtly. ‘Safe word.’
‘Alchemy.’
I nod, then in a louder voice, I say, ‘Belina. Priests are men too. We
have needs. I can’t help you sin like that and not get something in return.
Touching you and tasting you made me very, very hard. See?’
Her gaze flicks to my monster erection. ‘What can I do?’
I inhale. ‘If you’re going to spend more time with the priests, you’ll
need to learn some skills. Yes, we want to tie you up and play with you and
put our fingers and mouths in all your tight, delicious little holes, but we
also want you to get us off. We’ll be fucking you soon enough, but for now,
let’s start slow. The good news is you already have plenty of practice at
being on your knees.’
Those tiger eyes widen and she licks her lips. Jesus fuck, I need that
mouth wrapped around my dick now. I’m pissed off Callum got to kiss her,
but I’m an old enough hand at this stuff to know it wasn’t personal. It was
about using both of us to give Belle the full experience. And boy did she
enjoy herself.
This little addition to our scene isn’t strictly in the pre-agreed schedule,
but Belle did sign off on giving oral sex during the programme, and I’m too
turned on to walk away now. Yes, I could go out there and fuck anyone I
like, but I want this.
I want Fr Rafe and his devastatingly sexy little postulant.
I want him brought to the brink of his self-control (not difficult to
imagine) and her putting her first ever dick in her mouth.
I want as much of Belle, and Belina the postulant, as I can get before we
leave this room and break this spell.
The ties at her wrists come undone under my eager, jerky tugs, and then
I’m hastening around to the foot of the bed where I admire the view as I
undo her ankles one at a time, rubbing the skin where the ties were wrapped
around her. She draws her knees up a little as if her legs are stiff, and it’s all
I can do not to flip her over, right there on the bed.
‘Stand up,’ I order her instead.
She looks up at me and swings her legs over the edge of the bed and
gets to her feet. We’re a foot apart, and my poor dick is throbbing at the
prospect of Belle tending to it.
I survey her. This woman is fucking perfect. That plait still hangs over
her shoulder, and it suits this submissive little nun she’s playing, but I want
it loose and unkempt so I can fist it when I’m fucking her mouth. I want
those honeyed locks I’ve been fantasising about on full display.
I reach up and pull the hair tie off the end, sliding my fingers through
the sections, mesmerised as they unspool in a haze of gold. When I’ve
shaken her hair out, I survey my handiwork.
Perfect.
Her hair is mussed and tumbles enticingly over her gorgeous tits. Her
eyes are hooded. The lips that have taunted me since the moment I laid eyes
on them are slightly parted, and I can’t help myself. I press my thumb pad
to her lower lip. It’s as pillowy, as yielding, as it was the other night when I
kissed her in that chair.
It’ll do nicely. Very nicely indeed.
I simply cannot wait a second longer.
‘On your knees,’ I say gruffly, and she blinks but scrambles to her knees
in front of me.
Jesus fucking Christ.
The moment is finally upon me. The moment where Belina Scott is
naked and kneeling for me, her sweet little face upturned as she awaits my
instruction. I love that she’s bare while I’m fully clothed in this armour
denoting a man of the cloth. I’m entranced by this fantasy that I’m a priest
pushed to the brink of insanity and in the process of deflowering the most
stunning, angelic, innocent lamb in his flock.
‘Feel what you do to me,’ I groan. ‘Touch me.’
She puts up a hand and hovers it over my erection before palming me
through the straining fabric of my trousers, and holy fuck. I throw my head
back and cast my eyes heavenward, struggling for control.
‘Take me out,’ I grit out, looking down, because this is too good to
miss.
She hesitates, then unzips my flies. My cock springs instantly free, thick
and heavy, and practically hits her in the face. I don’t wear boxers at
Alchemy—it’s a waste of valuable time—and I’ve never been so relieved
for easy access.
Belle’s eyes are wide, and the shock on her face tells me this really must
be the first dick she’s seen. She looks up at me. ‘What should I do?’ she
asks timidly, and something shatters in my heart at the same time my dick
gets even harder, if possible, because I know she’s not acting any of this.
I’m her first.
 I’m the first guy to breach those lips with his cock.
I breathe in, flaring my nostrils, and unbuckle my belt so I can shove
my trousers down properly. I want her to have full access.
‘Get to know it,’ I tell her. ‘With your mouth and your hands.’
She wraps tentative fingers around my shaft and I squeeze my eyes shut.
Then there’s a flash of heaven as she swipes her tongue through the pre-
cum liberally leaking from my slit before swirling it around my sensitive
crown. Her licks are tentative. Unsure. But having Belle’s lips and tongue
on me is like nothing I’ve ever known.
‘Fuck,’ I hiss.
She stops licking. ‘Is that okay?’
I tangle my fingers in her hair, pulling her closer and attempting to keep
it together enough to stay in character. ‘It’s amazing. You’re wasted in this
fucking place. Put me in, as far as you can go.’
She rolls her tongue around my crown again and finally, finally, wraps
her lips around my cock.
Fucking yes.
She takes me deeper, inch by inch, like the obedient, eager-to-please
little virgin she is. I blink as her mouth on my dick sends waves of pleasure
coursing through my body. Fuck me. I won’t last long.
‘Look at the little nun now,’ I grit out. ‘I fucking knew you could be like
this. I’ve watched you at Mass. Every morning. On your knees, saying your
prayers like such a good girl. Now you’re naked, you’ve come all over my
face and you’re sucking my cock. I’ve got you just where I want you. Keep
going like that. In and out. As deep as you can take me.’
That earns me a strangled moan from her. She leans one hand against
my thigh and moves her other from my shaft to my balls, which are getting
higher and tighter by the second. The sensation of having them cupped in
her small, soft hand almost has me blowing there and then.
‘You keep this up, and we’ll have the whole fucking seminary lined up
with their cocks out for you next time, sweetheart,’ I croon. She squeezes
my balls and sucks harder, and holy fuck.
My fist clenches tighter in her hair.
My other hand finds her neck and grips her.
I tug her closer, getting closer to the back of her throat, and she gags.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I’m undone.
 ‘Harder,’ I tell her. ‘Fuck me harder.’
She takes a huge breath and dives back in again, and her little noises of
effort and pleasure are so fucking sweet that I’m hurtling straight over the
edge. I grip her hair and pull her off my dick, more roughly than I intend,
and while she’s gasping up at me, wide-eyed, I grab my shaft, slick with her
saliva, and I pump.
I hold her head away from me and I break, erupting all over her
gorgeous tits in huge, hard jets as I grunt like a fucking caveman, because
I’ve wanted to do this in every fucking fantasy I’ve had since I met her.
Well, every fantasy where she wasn’t swallowing down every drop like
a good girl.
Next time.
I come and I come, my entire body convulsing as the need and the
friction and the desperation collide in an atomic bomb of release. Of
pleasure. My hand moves roughly, vigorously, over my dick as I milk every
last drop and claim as mine this virgin as my own.
This intoxicating virgin whose first nervous, tentative blowjob just
made me come more violently than those of any of the pros next door.
I am so fucked.
So fucked.
My eyes are fixed on her, kneeling there, looking up at me with wonder
and desire and something else—intimidation? Fear?
Whatever it is, I like it far too much. One of her hands is still on my
thigh, the other flailing uselessly. I’ve painted her tits with my seed. Her
stomach. Her hair. There’s even a splatter on her jaw.
Good.
My fingers tighten in her hair so I can tilt her face up further.
‘That was an excellent first effort, Belina,’ I say as authoritatively as I
can while trying to catch my breath. ‘You’re quite the little find, aren’t you?
All my colleagues will want a go now. But next time’—I bend closer—‘I’m
taking your cunt.’
I wipe my jizz-covered hand on my shirt-tail and pat her on the head.
‘Wait there.’ I bend and pull up my trousers, fastening my belt roughly.
There’s a luxurious ensuite bathroom through the door. I grab a flannel and
run the water in the basin till it’s warm. Once I’ve soaked it and squeezed it
out, I head back to Belle. She’s where I’ve left her, but she’s sunk lower so
her arse is resting on her heels. She’s a stunning sight from behind.
 I go to her, and tip up her head with the intention of smoothing back her
hair and washing my cum off her body.
That’s when I see there are tears in her eyes.
 23

BELLE

I
put my hand out for the flannel and try to twist my head away, but Rafe
grips my chin more tightly. ‘I can do it,’ I tell him.
‘No way,’ he says. ‘It’s my mess; I’ll clean it up.’
I push his hand off my face. This game is well and truly done. I just
want him out of here.
‘I said I’ll do it,’ I grit out.
‘Belle?’ Dammit. He’s sinking to his knees in front of me and dipping
his head so he can meet my averted gaze. ‘What’s wrong? Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine,’ I lie. ‘I’d just like to be alone.’
‘Just let me, for God’s sake,’ he says, ‘before you get too cold.’ He puts
the flannel to my chest, and I sigh and lift my chin so he can wipe me down.
I’m too drained to argue, and I suspect I’ll get rid of him more quickly if I
acquiesce on this point.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It was so hot, and I was so into it,
so completely committed, until it finished, and he ejaculated all over me
like I was some… blow-up doll, and he went all cold and distant and
dismissive.
I got off on being used, being played with.
It was exactly what I wanted. What I asked for.
And now it’s done I feel sordid and disgusted with myself. With what I
did, and how I reacted, and what I let the guys do to me. To be honest, I’m
spinning out a little, and the last thing I need is Rafe in my face, pretending
he cares. I’d rather he just buggered off and did what he really wants to do,
which is presumably to find someone to shag.
As he cleans me up, I stare at the leg of the bed as if its ability to hold
the bed up is a great miracle of nature. I don’t miss the gentleness with
which he swipes the flannel over my now cold and sticky skin, or the
thoroughness with which he cleans up every spot of the mess he made on
me, or the fact that he respects my clear disinterest in conversation while he
does it.
‘I got some in your hair.’ He dabs ineffectually at my hair with the
cloth.
‘It’s okay,’ I say flatly, twisting away from him. ‘I’ll get in the shower
when you’re gone.’ My throat is tight and aching from holding back tears.
For some reason, I feel like curling up in a ball on that bed and bawling my
eyes out.
Alone, obviously.
He stands up. ‘Don’t move. I’m getting you a robe, okay?’
I nod as he heads back into the bathroom. He returns a second later and
wraps his fingers around my bicep, urging me to my feet. As I stand, I hold
out my arms and he slides the deliciously warm, soft sleeves of the robe up
them before shrugging it around my nakedness and tying the sash.
‘Thanks,’ I say.
‘Belle.’
I look up at him. He’s so close to me, and he’s so gorgeous.
Why, oh why, does he have to be so gorgeous?
This was a terrible idea. I should have done this with Harry when I had
a chance. I should have given this gift to him, and not to some sex club
owner who looks like sin, and makes me feel things I’m absolutely terrified
of, and will have forgotten the random, overly emotional little virgin who
went down on him before he’s even reached the Playroom.
He grips me softly by the biceps. ‘I’ll be very clear. I’m not leaving this
room till you’ve talked to me. That’s not how we do things here.’
Ugh. He’s in teacher mode again. One orgasm and he’s flipped from a
black-eyed, feral beast to Mr I’m Here For Your Safety and Probably Carry
a Clipboard.
God, does he know how to make me feel like crap. He’s the adult, and
I’m the stupid little girl who got overly affected by her first oral sex-athon.
Unspilt tears are shuddering against my lower lids, threatening to drop at
any moment, and I blink them away furiously.
‘Don’t patronise me,’ I say. ‘I’m fine.’
Next thing I know, his hands are releasing my arms and I’m being
picked up and deposited on his lap as he sits down on the bed.
What the—
He keeps one arm banded around my back as I sit sideways across his
lap. His other hand slides under the lapel of my robe and splays over my
neck in a way that feels otherworldly good. He uses his thumb to nudge my
jaw so I’m turning my face towards his.
His mouth is so close to my lips. So close. He bends his forehead to
mine and pulls me even more tightly against him. ‘You are not fine. I made
you cry after you took a huge step in your journey, and if you think you can
brush that under the carpet you’re insulting me, and you’re definitely
insulting yourself.’
I let out a shuddery breath as I attempt to make sense of the flurry of
emotions in my head.
‘So here’s how it’s going to go, sweetheart. I get that it’s tough talking
about this stuff. I’ll start with a few questions and you’ll answer me yes or
no. Okay? And if and when you feel like elaborating, you do it, because I
don’t want to put words in your mouth or make any assumptions.’
I can feel his breath on my lips. ‘Okay,’ I whisper.
‘Am I right in believing you enjoyed what Callum and I did to you?’
I nod. ‘I loved it.’
That earns me a squeeze of his strong fingers around my waist. ‘Good.
But it seems I took it too far, getting you to suck me off?’
Our faces are so close that his is out of focus, but I can still pick up on
his genuine concern. Maybe it’s his arm around me, or the fact that he has
me cuddled up on his knee, but I take that concern in the manner it’s meant
and not as a sign he pities me.
‘It wasn’t,’ I manage. I risk a brief moment of eye contact.
‘Okay,’ he says slowly, like he’s navigating a minefield. Which, I
suppose, he is. I blame myself for my reaction, but I can see it’s not ideal
for him to have an Unfurl member crying moments after he persuaded them
to go down on him. ‘Was it the manner I did it in, then? I was pretty rough
—I’m sorry. I was so fucking turned on, but that’s no excuse.’
‘I don’t think it was that,’ I tell him honestly.
 ‘Do you feel like trying to articulate it, then?’
I hesitate, choosing my words.
‘I dunno—I feel a bit used and grubby.’
He goes to speak, and my hand flies up to cover his mouth.
‘I think I felt vulnerable, after you… came on me. But I know the whole
point of that role play was for me to be used, and it was exactly what I
wanted.’
‘But when it came down to it, you didn’t like it?’ he mumbles through
my fingers.
I lean backward slightly so I can see him. So I can make my confession
properly.
‘I absolutely loved it. It was everything I’d fantasised about.’
‘But…’ he prompts.
‘But the problem is I hate that I loved it, or the part of me that’s still
stuck in that convent hates it. I can’t stop judging myself, and it’s like my
mind and my body are operating on two totally different wavelengths, and
I’m exhausted.’
He frowns. ‘So you’re slut-shaming yourself, basically?’
I let out a mirthless laugh. ‘Basically.’
‘Shit, sweetheart.’ His warm hand strokes the crook of my neck, and I
tuck my head sideways to lean into his touch. He lets out a breath. ‘That’s
not good.’
‘Tell me about it,’ I say. ‘It was all great in the moment, but as soon as
you walked away I felt… I don’t know. Disgusted with myself.’
‘You know you didn’t do anything wrong, Belle. Correct? We were
three consenting adults in there.’
‘I know,’ I say meekly.
‘I’m serious. If the way Cal or I acted was out of line, or we didn’t pick
up on your needs or your limits, then I’m horrified. I would never want to
make you feel shitty about yourself.’
‘You didn’t.’
‘But it was a big fucking deal for you,’ he says. ‘Jesus, you’ve just had
a threesome, to all extents and purposes, even if poor old Cal didn’t come.’
I giggle.
‘What I mean is, you’ve gone from nought to sixty in a short time. Were
you okay the other night after we left you in the chair?’
‘I was fine, weirdly.’
 ‘But tonight I made you feel cheapened.’
‘I made myself feel cheapened. I think I felt like a hooker.’
He sucks in a breath.
‘Even though, ironically, the hooker thing is one of my fantasies. I think
it’s hot.’
‘I know,’ he says, smirking. ‘Believe me, we’re on the same page there.’
I roll my eyes. ‘You’ve read my questionnaire.’
‘Yep. And it was the sexiest thing I’ve ever read. But forget that for a
sec. What I’m hearing is we may have looked after your sexual needs
tonight, but we didn’t take care of your emotional needs.’
I remain silent, because that sounds pathetic on my part.
‘That’s not your job,’ I say finally.
‘Damn right it is. We should have paid more attention—I should have
thought about it beforehand.’ He huffs out an exasperated breath. ‘I was just
going to clean you up and put you back in bed to close out the scene and
walk out, you know? Leave you to come down in private. I didn’t even
consider an alternative.’
‘I know you were,’ I say. ‘You told me about how you had sex with that
girl the other night in the club, and you walked off and left her there. I
wasn’t expecting anything more.’ I have to admit, his retelling of that
particular tryst has haunted me more than I can say.
‘Jesus Christ, Belle. They’re two totally different situations.’ He looks
genuinely shocked.
‘They’re exactly the same. Don’t worry, Rafe. I know cuddles aren’t
part of the Unfurl package.’
I wish they were, because I suspect that’s what this session was missing.
Rafe and Callum nailed it tonight. They touched me everywhere I needed,
but each touch was strategic, with the singular objective of making me
come.
And boy did it work. But maybe I need more. Maybe I need some
intimacy afterwards, so I don’t feel like a total slut when I come down.
Maybe I need not to be left alone with my thoughts.
Rafe’s beautiful eyes search my face beseechingly. ‘Listen to me,
sweetheart. That other woman—Izzy—she likes that. I was just the warm-
up act for her. She would have been there all night. It meant nothing to her.’
He swallows. ‘I was going to walk away from you this evening because it
was programme protocol, not because I wanted to. It was so we didn’t blur
the lines. We’re all well aware that we have to keep strict boundaries with
Unfurl participants so we don’t put too much on them.’
I squirm in embarrassment, my eyes smarting again. I blink and look
down at his shirt. God his stomach is flat. I bet it’s washboard hard.
‘I know that. I get it, believe me.’
And I do know that. I know all too well what this is. It’s a programme,
and Rafe is my mentor and teacher, and that’s it. If I want emotional
sustenance after fulfilling my sexual goals and needs, I have to search
within for it. He can’t give me that. And I won’t have him thinking he’s
messed up because his needy little virgin client couldn’t hack it.
‘I want to tell you something,’ he says. ‘Look at me while I say it,
Belle.’
I drag my eyes up to that lovely face.
‘Every time I have fucked my fist, or fucked another woman, or eaten
her cunt,’ he says, his words slow and deliberate, ‘I’ve fantasised it was
you. Every. Fucking. Time. Since the first time I met you at your parents’
drinks party.’
I gaze at him in shock, not really computing what he’s saying.
‘What?’ I ask dumbly.
‘I mentally had your perfect lips around my dick about three seconds
after I laid eyes on you,’ he says, and my jaw falls open, because that’s such
an outrageous thing to say on every level.
There’s no way I had such an instant effect on a gorgeous man of the
world like Rafe. No way in hell.
‘You’re talking total nonsense to make me feel better,’ I tell him.
‘Nope.’ His eyes dance with mischief. ‘Let’s see. Blow job within three
seconds, and within five I had your sexual history down pat. I estimated
you’d slept with one guy, probably a hockey player called Carl, and he’d
never given you an orgasm.’
I laugh in shocked amusement. ‘Well, you were wrong.’
‘I know that now.’ He’s smiling, and when this man smiles at me all
feels right with the world. He is devastating. ‘Carl never got laid. And he
never got to put his tongue or his fingers in your pussy, did he?’
I shake my head, biting down on my lip. How is he so dirty and yet so
sweet? ‘Harry, actually. And yeah, he was a hockey player. How the hell did
you do that?’
 He rolls his eyes. ‘So predictable. But I’m glad you held out for me.’
His voice lowers. Deepens. ‘I’m so glad I was the first, even if fucking
Callum was in the room.’
‘Yours is definitely the first dick I’ve put in my mouth,’ I tell him,
marvelling that I can say those words now and mentally high-fiving myself
for upgrading from penis to the more nonchalant dick.
He grins like a schoolboy. ‘I love that.’ His fingers tighten around my
waist. ‘I fucking love that, sweetheart. Jesus, I’m a lucky bastard.’
The way he’s looking at me—with desire and wonder and tenderness—
takes my breath away. I can’t quite believe that Rafe Charlton, who has a
club full of experienced women at his disposal, is looking at me like I’m the
only woman to walk this earth. It’s extraordinary. It’s making my chest
tight.
His eyes move to my lips, and I can’t bear it anymore.
I lean forward, and put a palm to that square, sandpapery jaw of his, and
I kiss him.
 24

BELLE

G
od, he’s a good kisser.
His lips are lush and pillowy, and the contrast with the taut
roughness of his tongue is astonishingly effective. There’s a musky
smell that I realise with a shock is my scent.
On Rafe’s face.
Oh my gosh.
But I don’t dwell on it, because his fingers are smoothing up and down
my neck, brushing over my collarbone as he kisses me hard and luxuriously
and so perfectly I could die. Just like he kissed me the other night in that
chair. I loop my arms around his neck and grab at his thick hair so I can
angle his face right and get our mouths closer.
Our tongues explore and entangle, our lips drag and slip, and the band
of Rafe’s arm around my waist anchors me, cocoons me in the cradle of his
body. I want to stroke his neck the way he’s stroking mine. I tug at the dog
collar and it comes off easily—it’s just a little slip of plastic.
I’m struggling with getting his stiff top button open when he circles my
wrist with his fingers and pulls away.
‘Get up for a second,’ he says, and I stand, bewildered.
A moment later he’s standing beside me, popping that tricky button
easily before his dextrous fingers move down the placket. Delicious skin
and hair appears inch by inch.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask stupidly.
 ‘I’m getting my kit off, and then I’m getting your robe off, and then I’m
giving you the skin on skin time I suspect you needed after I blew my load
all over your tits. Then we’re taking a shower and I’m cleaning you up. Got
it?’
I open my mouth to protest, but the look he shoots me is so delicious
and stern and determined, and his proposition so tempting, that I close it
again and nod as I take in the spectacular sight of Rafe peeling his shirt off.
He fumbles impatiently with the cuffs and then it’s off and he’s straight
onto his belt buckle.
I stand and marvel at the beauty that’s possible in the male form. His
skin is tanned, his pecs defined and perfectly dusted with a little dark hair,
his shoulders broad and domed, his arms strong with excellent forearm
porn. But then he’s hopping around to get his shoes and socks and trousers
off, and I’m stunned. I’m in awe at his utter gorgeousness, at the lean
beauty of his body.
He’s hard again, the jut of his erection even more impressive and
terrifying against his nakedness. That thing really is massive. The physics
of it getting anywhere close to inside me strike me as dubious.
He comes towards me, his expression predatory, and puts a hand on the
knot of my sash. ‘May I?’
I nod again, and my eyes don’t leave his face as he tugs my sash open
and pushes the robe off my body and slides an arm around my waist,
pulling me towards him. I stand on my tiptoes and tilt my face up towards
him and loop my arms back around his neck, and oh my God.
This.
The impossibly perfect sensation of his hard body, his warm skin flush
against mine. My nipples encounter muscle and chest hair, and I shimmy
against him slightly. The hand on my back moves south, fingers splaying
over my bum so we’re pelvis to pelvis and that erection presses against my
stomach.
He’s warm everywhere, and he’s warming me everywhere. A hand
smooths my hair down my back, and I arch into his touch. This is what I’ve
been missing. There’s no doubt he’s skilled with his fingers and his tongue
(and, I’m sure, that huge dick), but this, for me, is a whole other version of
alchemy, the kind of alchemy that comes from having a gorgeous, warm-
blooded man doing his best to ensure that every possible inch of your skin
is fusing with his.
 It’s the alchemy of feeling his heart racing under my hand as I mould
my palm to his pecs.
It’s the velvety miracle of the skin on his back under my fingertips. I
mean, what guys even have skin this soft?
It’s the magic of feeling as though his body, his skin, is feeding and
nourishing and electrifying every single nerve ending in mine.
And when he lowers his face and claims my mouth again with those
lush, demanding lips, his hand cupping my backside like he never intends to
let me go, the magic turns transformational.
That’s what alchemy really is, he told me once. The art of
transformation.
My skin sings.
My heart opens.
And I unfurl in his arms like a flower.

I T TURNS out wet skin on skin is even better than dry skin on skin. Water,
that great conductor of electricity, adds a sensual slide to our hands on each
other as Rafe cranks up the huge four-person shower (I don’t want to think
about that concept right now) and pulls me under the spray with him. It
makes our touches more fluid. Fluent.
I’m not sure I’ve ever felt anything better than Rafe’s muscular, soaking
wet body rippling under my hands. His dick flexes between us so
tantalisingly that I want to do something about it.
‘Ignore it,’ he mutters between ravenous kisses, as if he can read my
mind. He twists and pumps some shower gel from one of the frosted glass
bottles affixed to the wall, rubbing his hands together in a leisurely fashion
as he looks me over. ‘Now I’m going to touch every inch of you on the
pretext of soaping you up. Then I might just have to get you dirty again.’
His voice is just rough enough, just ominous enough, to cause me to
catch my breath. I aim for levity.
‘And will you give my hair another protein-rich conditioning
treatment?’ I ask archly.
He raises an eyebrow as he, predictably, goes straight for my chest. His
sudsy hands roam over my breasts, palming them and rubbing at my nipples
in a way that has my arousal growing again.
How can it not?
I’m backed up against the cold tiles of a hot shower with an even hotter
man running his hands over me. His face and body make me want to
commit every sin I’ve ever been told will damn me straight to hell, and his
dick is pointed straight at me like a loaded gun.
‘I wouldn’t make jokes if I were you.’ He rolls a finger around each
nipple before abandoning them and stroking strong hands down my arms.
‘No?’ I aim for casual, but it comes out breathy. Dammit. ‘Why?’
‘Because.’ He gets slowly, deliberately, to his knees in front of me. ‘You
really want to keep me onside, especially now I know what you need. Put
your leg over my shoulder and hold onto those rails.’
I look down at him. He’s such a beautiful man. Water’s cascading down
over his bronzed shoulders and back; the wet eyelashes through which he
gazes up at me make his dark eyes look starry. I sling a leg over his
shoulder and feel for two handrails that are far too well-positioned to be
there by chance.
Clearly, a lot of action goes down in these showers.
‘What do I need?’ I ask. I want to bait him. Stoke the flames of his
desire for me till I make him as delirious as he makes me.
He kisses the skin below my bellybutton before looking back up at me.
‘Let me see.’ His voice is low and rough. ‘My pretty little virgin wants
to be defiled and worshipped at the same time.’
That pretty much sums it up, actually.
He bends his head. The way my leg is slung over his shoulder has me
open to him. He parts my folds easily with two fingers and licks me from
my entrance to my clit. I shudder. It feels… amazing. Dirty and heated and
right. I hum my approval.
‘She wants me to treat her like my slave and my queen,’ he says against
my clit. This time, his tongue swirls around precisely where the nub is
filling with blood, and my head falls back against the tiles.
Oh God.
I’m not sure I’ll survive this. How is it that this man can command my
body so easily? He may be the one on his knees, but I’m giving myself up
to him completely.
‘My whore and my madonna.’
Lick.
 His words are as perfect as the swipes of his tongue on my sensitive
flesh. Because he’s right. God, he’s so right. How can it be that I want him
to push me to my knees and tie me to his bed just as much as I want him
here on his knees in front of me, lavishing me with praise and promises and
threats? How can it be that after a five-minute conversation, during which I
don’t think I explained myself particularly well, he gets me already?
He looks up at me as he pushes a finger inside of me. I’m wet, but it’s
tight, and I gasp. His eyes glint with satisfaction as he twists it. I release one
handrail and clutch at his hair and allow myself to drown in those eyes that
have the power to submerge me.
Forget his skilful tongue and cruel fingers.
Really, all I desire is to have Rafe’s eyes on me.
Just me.
‘I need you to know, sweetheart, it’s all the same thing to me,’ he tells
me now. We’re both stock still. It’s just his finger moving inside me, sliding
up and down my inner walls as I bite down on my lower lip.
‘When I insist on being in your sessions so I can tie you up and tongue-
fuck your pussy and get you on your knees and shoot my load all over you,
it’s because I need to claim you and corrupt you and venerate you and
revere you all at the same time. When I treat you like a whore, I’m paying
homage to you in the filthiest way I know how.
‘You are so fucking beautiful and innocent. You’re Eve’s fucking apple
in the most delicious skin I’ve ever, ever seen. You’re immaculate. I want to
put you on a pedestal and admire you from afar just as I want you on the
floor, writhing under me as I fuck you.
‘I knew the first time I saw you that I wouldn’t rest until you were on
your knees in front of me, but I also knew you’d bring me to my knees. And
look at me. You’ve done exactly that.’
We stare at each other. Something has shifted. The air hums with
electricity.
I believe him.
‘You can do whatever you want to me,’ I whisper. ‘All of it. I want all
of it.’
He closes his eyes for a moment like he’s trying to regain control.
‘That is a very dangerous thing to say to me, sweetheart,’ he murmurs,
before he bends his head again and moves his tongue over me, coaxing my
body higher and higher until I shudder out my second orgasm of the night
caught between cool tiles and an inferno of a man.
 25

RAFE

hat are you doing?’ Belle asks as we step out of the lift together on
‘W her parents’ floor of our mansion block.
‘I’m spending the night with you,’ I tell her, my hand on her
back.
‘Er, no you’re not.’
‘Yes I am. Because you’ve had a hell of an evening, and I don’t want
you waking up in the middle of the night and spiralling.’
‘I won’t be waking up in the night and doing anything else, either.’ She
inserts her key in the lock and turns it.
I follow her inside, right up close so she can’t slam the door in my face.
‘We’ll see about that.’
‘Rafe.’
‘Belle. I think we’ve established that, no matter how filthy you let us get
with you in our sessions, intimacy is important to you.’ I do what I’ve been
dying to do every time I’ve seen her and swipe her hair over one shoulder. I
wrap an arm around her waist and pull her snug against me, baring her neck
to my lips. ‘And I think we’ve also established that I can’t get enough of
you. I don’t want you going to bed alone, and I’m hoping you feel the
same.’
My words turn to leisurely kisses, and she turns in my arms. She’s still
in the demure Burberry trench she wore to cover that little dress tonight.
The one that makes her look like a very expensive call girl. Not that I’d tell
her it’s slutty—she’d take it as an insult when I mean it in the most ardently
complimentary way possible.
If she was further on in her journey, I could have fucked her standing in
the middle of the club with the merest twitch of her hem.
‘It’s my parents’ flat,’ she protests in an unconvinced tone, and I know
I’m close to having this in the bag. ‘It feels disrespectful.’
‘They’re not here.’ I grin and kiss a path from her mouth to her neck.
‘Were you on the debating team at uni? You should have been.’
‘A little more respect for your elders.’ I smack her lightly on her pert
little bottom and gain an instant semi. Fuck’s sake. ‘If you’re not
comfortable with me staying here, come upstairs with me.’
‘To your evil lair? I don’t think so.’
‘Then let me stay here.’ My hands return to her hair, to that glorious
mane that messes with my mind every time I catch a glimpse of it. I rake it
off her face; I smooth it back into a ponytail and hold it in a loose fist. It’s
still damp from our shower.
I’m not sorry I came in it. Not sorry at all. It won’t be the last time it
happens; I’ll make sure of that. It’ll happen again when I finally get her
comfortable with fucking and I wrap my hand around that mane and use it
to angle her head while I fuck her from behind. Then I’ll pull out and shoot
my load all over the curve of her arse. The arch of her spine.
I go for a low shot. ‘You said you’d let me do anything to you.’
That flush stains her neck instantly. ‘I meant in the club. Not in my
parents’ flat.’ She says the words reverently, like we’re in the fucking
Vatican.
‘I’m not going to hang you from the chandelier, sweetheart.
Although…’ I cast my eyes to the ceiling and earn a thump to my stomach.
‘Ouch,’ she grumbles.
‘My abs are harder than your knuckles, baby. Deal with it.’ I make my
voice softer. More seductive. ‘I’m not ready for tonight to end. I told you
that. I want to know what you’re like when you sleep. I want it more than
anything. I want to wake you up by kissing your neck. Your back. Those
gorgeous, glossy shoulders of yours.’
It’s true.
It’s so fucking true.
She asked me, after I’d made her come and we’d jointly stroked me to
another violent climax, after I’d dried her off, whether I was going to go
next door to the Playroom.
I was speechless.
And furious.
As if, after the glorious sins of the flesh we’d committed tonight and the
truths we’d bared, I would even conceive of wandering off and fucking
someone else.
She’s trying to play it cool, I can tell. She’s compensating for what I
suspect she sees as inexperience. Neediness. She regrets showing me her
vulnerabilities, and I cannot allow that. What she doesn’t realise is how
honoured, how blown away, I feel to be the one she’s entrusting with her
firsts. That, after a rocky start, she’s beginning to open up to me with her
wants and needs.
I suspect she’d never want to be a true sub, which is fine by me. I’m not
a Dom, just a kinky control freak. Belle’s upbringing has informed her
kinks, but this phase of her life is about digging herself out from under the
rubble of other parties’ control, not submitting to it anywhere outside of the
bedroom. That said, just as being dominated in bed fires her up, having her
vulnerabilities reassured is equally important for her. Which is why I intend
to pet and adore her in bed tonight. And it’s why I made sure to lavish her
with praise as she jerked me off under the spray. Dirty words of
encouragement and appreciation and acknowledgement, her enthusiastic
response to which told me my instincts about her having a praise kink were
bang on.
What a good girl you are.
Having your little hand wrapped around my hard dick feels so fucking
good.
Almost as good as fucking that tight, virgin little cunt is going to be.
Tying you up tonight and defiling my little postulant was hot as fuck.
Pushing that virginal nightgown up and seeing your naked body, all
trussed up for me and ready to take my fingers and my tongue, sent me
fucking insane.
I was ready to come all over you the second I walked in that door. You
didn’t stand a chance.
I meant every word, and I meant the other stuff I told her in the shower.
Every single thing I did in that room was to worship her as much as it was
to corrupt her, but I wasn’t overt enough. Neither was Callum, but tonight
was my show. My responsibility. We toyed with her and teased her and
treated her like our delectable little plaything, but she hasn’t come far
enough yet to own her sexuality. To truly understand that the party holding
all the power tonight was her.
It’s as staggering as it is heartbreaking that she’s so unaware of the
intoxicating spell she weaves. She’ll find out soon enough, when she’s lost
her so-called virginity and she goes searching for new lands to conquer in
the Playroom. She’ll own it then. She’ll be the queen of that place.
The thought makes me sick to my stomach.
I trail the lightest fingertips over her neck and shrug the coat off her
shoulders. She shivers under my touch, and I close the deal.
‘No funny business. I promise. I want to know what it’s like to have you
drift off in my arms. I’ll keep my dick to myself. Just let me have this night
with you.’
She nods, and I can see she’s weary from the orgasms and the drama
and the emotional toll tonight’s taken. It’s enough to cause her to drop the
guard she’s been so valiantly holding up. ‘I’d like that,’ she says.
I get a smile, and it’s tired, but it’s real, and it’s beautiful.
 26

RAFE

I
was true to my word last night. I didn’t attempt to slip any of my body
parts inside her. I vetoed her stupid fucking suggestion that we should
sleep in our underwear, and when she lost that little silver dress and
thong and slid in, naked, next to me, I turned her and tugged her against me
so every possible inch of skin on the back of her body was touching mine.
Yeah, my dick was interested again, but I ignored him and instead
marvelled at the sense of awe I felt as this very young woman, who had
been so pissed off with me a couple of hours previously and yet who trusted
me enough to let me into her bed, drifted off to sleep in my arms.
I’ve woken this morning to find her still sleeping soundly. She’s on her
stomach, her face turned towards me and an arm thrown up in front of her
face. The eye I can see dances an REM tango beneath her lid; her
expression in sleep is serious. Thoughtful.
And just as adorable as in wakefulness.
I roll onto my back. Jesus Christ, what am I doing? Even waking up
with a woman is a novelty these days. I’m not a fan of spending the night
with women I fuck. Of the panicked declines of breakfast (I never do
breakfast with a woman), or the awkward farewells, or of having numbers I
know I’ll never call pressed upon me as I extract myself from their clutches.
I’ve hardly dated properly since we got Alchemy up and running a year
ago, and it makes me realise how much I’ve commoditised my sex life. Sex
has become a convenience, just like food. Much as I’ll order some high-end
sushi most nights when I’m at home alone, I’ve grown to rely on Alchemy
to give me my fuck fix in gloriously efficient, heady style and conveniently
strip away all the time-consuming trimmings surrounding that need to get
laid.
Flirting.
Restaurants.
Overnight stays.
Breakfast.
Until a ravishing, clueless, and far-too-young virgin crooked her finger
at me and had me obsessing over how I could get to spend more time with
her rather than less. Who had me popping up at her workplace and her
home, rutting horns with Cal and inserting myself into her sessions.
And now her bed.
I shift back onto my side and stroke my fingertips down her back. Her
skin is silk. I get a sudden flash of how she’d look stretched out like this on
the prow of a yacht in the Cote d’Azur, wearing only a thorough coating of
sun cream courtesy of yours truly and a pair of tiny bikini bottoms that I
could tug aside as I crouch over her and nudge her legs open with my
knee…
Jesus.
My morning wood goes from interested to singularly focused in half a
second, just as her eyelids flutter open. I watch carefully for her reaction as
she comes to and remembers she’s not alone.
It’s gratifying.
She frowns, focuses, and spots me before her eyes widen and she jolts,
her mouth upturning into an embarrassed moue.
I smirk and smooth a hand down her back. ‘Morning, angel.’
‘Morning.’ She smiles shyly, then claps a hand over her mouth. ‘I need
to brush my teeth.’
I laugh to myself as she bolts out of bed and scurries in the direction of
the bathroom. The shapely contours of her waist and hips and arse are the
curves of a violin. Christ, she’s gorgeous. The way her arse cheeks move as
she walks has moisture beading at the tip of my cock.
I throw back the covers and crook an arm behind my head as I wait. Her
eyebrows rise as she walks towards me and takes in the sight of me at full
mast.
‘Good morning to you,’ she says.
 She’s not the only one taking in a fine sight. Her full frontal is every
fucking fantasy of mine come to life, with that golden hair tousled and
trailing over her high, perfect tits in a way Bardot could only have dreamed
of and a flat, soft stomach giving way to the landing strip that marks the
spot my dick can’t stop thinking about.
I shoot her what I hope is a devastating grin. ‘It will be. Get over here.’
She hovers pointedly by her side of the bed and crosses her arms,
jerking her head back towards the bathroom. ‘There are lots of spare
toothbrushes under the basin if you want.’
I lick my lips in amusement and raise myself up on one elbow. I’m
tickled pink by how difficult she’s finding it to keep her eyes on my face
and away from my erect cock. ‘Trying to tell me something?’
‘I’m just being hospitable,’ she says primly, and I snort and throw my
legs off the bed. ‘You win, sweetheart.’ I slap her gorgeous arse as I saunter
past. ‘Now get back in that bed.’
The bathroom is interesting. There are probably forty or more Four
Seasons branded dental kits in the capacious vanity. I take a piss with
difficulty, willing my boner down, and obligingly brush my teeth. I get that
she’s uptight about morning-after protocol. She hasn’t had much experience
of it, if any. I refuse to wonder whether she used to let that twat, Harry,
spend the night. Even if he didn’t get in her pussy, I don’t like the thought
of it.
‘Do you have Four Seasons kleptomania?’ I ask when I get back to the
bed. She’s pulled the covers up modestly to cover her tits. We’ll soon
rectify that.
She giggles. ‘It’s Mummy. She and Daddy travel a lot, and they prefer
staying in the Four Seasons, for consistency’s sake.’
‘How original,’ I mutter, climbing into bed.
‘She nicks them for my room.’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘Does she mention that in confession? And I didn’t
realise you and she had made provisions for your steady stream of one-
night-stands. I didn’t see any condoms.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘It’s for me. If I come for dinner and I decide to stay,
I’ve got toothbrushes here.’
‘Well, that’s sweet,’ I concede, hooking an arm around her waist and
tugging her close to me.
And I kiss her.
 I kiss her deeply, decadently, as I tug at her beautiful lips, and part them
with my tongue, and drown in the clean, minty taste of her, and pull her
arms above her head, and roll her beneath me.
This.
I’ve finally, finally got her exactly where I want her. On her back, my
weight bearing down on her, my aching dick pressed between us, my
tongue invading her mouth. In this bed, in this quiet room, nothing exists
except us, and no matter how hot the play in our Unfurl sessions has been, I
get now where she was coming from.
Nothing compares to the feeling of having the full, heavenly length of
her naked body under mine. It’s not just intimate; it’s dazzling. The relief of
having her to myself like this is intoxicating.
It seems she’s feeling it, too. The low moans in the back of her throat
when my tongue invades her mouth, the way her body’s attempting to arch
under me, against me, the perfection with which she matches my kisses…
There are no games here. No kinky alter-egos. No third parties, thank fuck.
Just Belle and me learning each other like we should have been doing since
the first fucking moment I laid eyes on her.
I revel in every aspect of her. Soak her up. Allow her touch, her
acquiescence to me, to be the lightning rod that illuminates me. That makes
me want to feel everything, for once.
I nearly whisper I wish I could fuck you right now, but I don’t, because
it sounds too much like pressure, and I’m crystal clear that it’s not going to
happen until she’s moved forth at her own pace, her own terms, within the
programme.
Instead, I drag my lips across her skin, along her jaw, until I find the
petal-soft space under her ear that still holds the ghost of her scent from last
night.
‘Are you feeling it?’ I ask instead. ‘How incredible this is, the two of us
like this?’
‘Yes,’ she breathes and turns her face an inch towards mine.
‘This is what sex can be like,’ I tell her. ‘It can be hot and fast and filthy
and primal, like the kind of sex I have at the club, and the kind of sex I
know for a fact you’ll enjoy, but it can also be slow and intimate and
luxurious… and still filthy and primal.’
She laughs, and I laugh too, partly from surprise that I said that.
Because ninety-nine percent of the time, the type of sex I have is in the
former camp. Izzy being a case in point. But this bed, and the woman laid
out for me in this bed, makes me want to hole up here with her, and
entangle limbs and sheets and mouths, and fuck her lazily, and slowly, and
deeply, and wind her higher and higher until I’m pulling her up onto her
knees and finishing us both off hard and fast and rough.
‘It will be you, won’t it?’ she asks. My fist is still clamped around her
wrists, pinning them to the pillow. Her knees are up, either side of my legs,
and if I raised my pelvis and freed my cock, I could be right there, bracing
at her entrance.
‘Me what, baby?’ I ask. I raise my head so I can look at her.
‘You… taking my virginity.’ She blows out a breath. ‘Next week.’
‘It’s not supposed to be,’ I confess.
‘What? Why not?’
I hesitate. ‘We’re supposed to mix it up. Give you a varied experience.
Let you loose on the full menu, I suppose. I wasn’t meant to be in that first
session. I crashed it because I couldn’t fucking bear not to.’
She smiles, pleased, almost as if she still hasn’t got the memo that she’s
knocked me sideways.
‘Also, they’ve earmarked someone who’d be less of a tight fit than me.
Alex—he’s the guy who went down on you the first time. I’m too big. I’d
hurt you.’
‘It’ll hurt a lot more with someone I’m not actually relaxed around,’ she
points out with flawless logic.
‘I know.’ I bite my lip. I am so fucking conflicted. ‘But he’s good. He’s
really good. And he’s annoyingly handsome. He looks like that guy from
the Maverick movie—Hangman, isn’t it?’
She grins. ‘On second thoughts, I’m fine with that. Alex sounds great,
and I already know he’s good with his tongue.’ She looks up at me,
mischief shining in those green-gold eyes. ‘You can go now. Don’t you
have your PT session this morning?’
She remembered from that first Saturday morning she rocked up at my
door. It makes me happier than I care for.
‘I can cancel him,’ I say. ‘I’d rather work out in this bed with you.’
She casts her eyes downwards to the straining bicep of the single arm on
which I’m currently braced. ‘I think you should go. De-conditioning’s a real
problem at your age, you know.’
 I don’t have a free hand, so I bend my head and nip at her nipple, but
not before I throw her my dirtiest look.
She squeals. ‘Ouch!’
I give it a lick. ‘That was for impertinence,’ I say to her breast. ‘I’m in
prime physical shape, and I know you like my experience. But if you want
some fucking twenty-two-year-old idiot who can’t find your clit, then be
my guest.’ I lower my head and suck her nipple into my mouth, rolling my
tongue over the little nub that hardens gratifyingly quickly under my touch.
She sighs loudly. ‘Oh, God.’
‘Is that good, baby?’ I rumble against her nipple.
‘Yes.’ She sucks in a sharp breath through her teeth. ‘Don’t stop.’
‘Look at you, voicing your needs. What a good girl.’ I take to lapping at
her nipple, hard, working it up into a beautiful little peak before releasing it
with a pop. ‘Do you need to go to yoga?’
‘Supposed to,’ she mumbles.
‘How about we skip our commitments, and we make each other come
very fucking hard?’ I ask, my mouth hovering right above her nipple, my
voice low and rough, just the way I already know she responds to. ‘I’ll tell
Gen the only person fucking that virgin pussy next week will be me, thank
you very much. And then I’ll take you out for breakfast.’
 27

RAFE

I
t’s a typical Monday morning.
Gen is immaculate, as usual, while Cal and Zach both sport dark
circles under their eyes. I know without asking that Cal’s are fucking
induced, while Zach’s face wears the type of deep fatigue of a man whose
weekends are more exhausting than his weekdays.
I know he finds it easier Monday to Friday, when the girls are in their
routine, and distracted, and surrounded by their friends and trained
professionals. On the weekends, the practical and emotional burden falls
mainly to him. I know the relief he feels when he drops them at school on a
Monday morning is almost subsumed by his agonies of guilt over that very
emotion.
I know he’ll grab a nap on the sofa in his office at some point, and he’ll
feel guilty about that too. As if any of us give a fuck. He’s highly efficient
and seriously good at what he does, and that’s all I care about. But, unlike
Cal and me, Zach hasn’t shrugged off the Catholic guilt they rammed into
us at school.
He needs a fuck. Well, he needs a good night’s sleep and a fuck, but I’d
never suggest the latter. He’s not remotely ready. Though the way he looked
at Belle’s friend Maddy the other night didn’t escape my notice.
I wonder if and when he’ll ever be ready to put himself and his needs
first, even for an hour.
 It’s not my place to say anything, though. I’ve tried and been rebuffed
too many times. I want to help, but Zach makes it clear that having anyone
second guess how he’s trying to manage this hell is unhelpful. What he
needs from us is practical help and unmitigated support for how he’s
choosing to handle things.
What Zach needs, I intend to give him.
The only atypical thing about this Monday morning is that I have spent
the past two days not fucking, technically speaking, although I’ve been
curled around Belle all weekend and have come a gratifying number of
times.
It’s not like being inside her, though.
And that is precisely the topic I wish to bring up with Gen and Cal
today, except Cal beats me to it.
He strolls back to the sofa, fresh espresso in hand.
‘Did you tell Gen you were a naughty boy on Friday?’ he says, grinning
evilly.
I shoot him a warning look.
‘How so?’ Gen enquires in her trademark haughty style.
Fuck, I hate doing this. I hate that I have to betray Belle’s confidence in
any way, but I need to report back to Gen so we can make Unfurl an even
safer, more trusted experience.
I sigh. ‘She had a great time in the scene, but once she’d come I kicked
Cal out and got her to suck me off.’
Cal shakes his head like he’s still pissed off I pulled a fast one. Zach’s
thick black eyebrows wing up, and Gen purses her mouth like a
headmistress.
‘And?’ is all she says. She’s giving me enough rope to hang myself.
‘And it was all fine.’ I have zero intention of telling these three how
much more than fine it was, how explosively hot. ‘But afterwards, she got
upset. She said she felt cheap and grubby.’
Cal blows out a breath. ‘You absolute fucking twat.’
‘Hey. It wasn’t the blowjob, okay? It was the whole thing. We didn’t
consider the fact that she was always going to need more reassurance than
we’d factored in. She’s got a praise kink, definitely, but she was so onboard
with the scenes that I didn’t realise she’d feel so vulnerable afterwards. She
needed intimacy, really. I don’t think she can handle the filthy parts without
proper aftercare.’
 ‘Makes sense,’ Gen admits. ‘So, how did you leave things?’
I brace myself. ‘I didn’t leave things. I looked after her, we had a
shower together, and, well, I spent the entire weekend with her. Walked her
to work before I came here.’
Zach drops his head and rubs a hand over his forehead. ‘Oh, boy. Here
we go.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ Cal says. ‘You jammy fucking bastard. I knew it! I knew
you had a thing for her.’
Gen watches me. ‘Not ideal, Rafe.’
I press my lips together. ‘I know.’
‘You like her.’ It’s not a question.
‘Yeah.’ I sigh.
‘Talk to me.’
‘I’m… interested, okay? She’s got under my skin. She’s been under it
since the first time I met her. I can’t stop thinking about her. And it seems
mutual—we have a connection. It’s intense between us.’
‘Mate,’ Gen says, ‘she’s a twenty-two-year-old virgin. She doesn’t
know what she wants. You’re her neighbour, and you’re a lot older than her,
and you’re supposed to be sponsoring her. The reason we mix things up in
Unfurl is so no one gets too attached, and here you are, getting involved.
It’s blurring a lot of lines.’
‘About that,’ I say firmly. ‘I’m handling next Friday. There’s no way
Alex is fucking her.’
‘Oh my Lord,’ Cal says. ‘Listen to yourself. Did you hear a word Gen
just said?’
‘She’s not a piece of meat you can pass around,’ I tell them both. ‘She
wants it to be with me. She got upset when I told her it would be Alex.
Belle gets to choose who she fucks.’
‘Obviously, you’re right,’ Gen says. ‘But did you explain to her why we
went with Alex for her first time?’
‘Yeah,’ I tell them smugly, ‘and she said it would hurt a lot more with
someone she didn’t feel comfortable with.’
Silence. Because they can’t fault Belle’s logic.
Gen blows out a breath and gets up, looking more troubled than she
usually lets on. ‘This whole thing is bothersome, I have to say. I hope you
know what you’re doing, Rafe. The structure of the programme exists for a
reason. I can’t tell whether I’m more worried for you or for her.
 ‘She’s twenty-two. You’re her first. I—right now, it seems like the
chances of each of you hurting each other are equal. I wouldn’t know who
to put my money on. On the one hand, I’ve never seen you want to commit
to a woman, and I don’t want this poor girl getting her heart broken on our
watch because she’s your new, temporary plaything.’
I open my mouth to protest in the most vehement way possible, but she
puts up a hand to stop me.
‘On the other, she’s doing amazingly well in the programme, and I
know from having spoken to her that her father is very controlling. She’s
had a very sheltered, dogmatic upbringing. She’s just at the very start of her
journey of throwing off those shackles. She has everything ahead of her.
She’s not going to want to settle down, you know.’
‘What Gen’s saying,’ Cal interjects like the total dickhead he is, ‘is that
the last thing the poor girl needs is a new daddy.’
‘Fuck off, you twat,’ I grunt. ‘I’m well aware of that.’ I’m painfully
aware of the way Belle’s body responded to Cal and me on Friday, of the
excited flush on her face when I told her she’d earned the poisoned chalice
of being the priests’ plaything. She’s embracing this unconventional path to
finding her sexuality; she’s flourishing as she takes it.
Gen put it perfectly. She’s not about to jump out of the hold of one
controlling man and straight into the arms of another. And, if I have a single
decent bone in my body, I won’t let her.
‘Let’s change the subject.’ I recall the cooling coffee sitting in front of
me and take a gulp. ‘What did you get up to after I kicked you out, Cal?’
He grins like the cat that got the cream. ‘I made good on my word and
went to find Maddy. Fuck, she’s hot.’
A shadow crosses Zach’s face, and he quickly looks down at his mug.
Cal hasn’t noticed, though, and keeps on talking. ‘Now that’s a girl who
knows what she wants. She’s fucking insatiable. She was with some other
guy when I found her—he was eating her up against a pillar. He had that
sweet little green skirt around her waist and her shirt unbuttoned the whole
way. I tell you, her tits are perfection.
‘Anyway, I muscled in, and finally he got the message and moved on.’
‘What did you do with her?’ Zach asks. His voice is strangled, and the
sound of it sends alarm bells ringing as much as the question itself. Zach
isn’t salacious; he’s not one to enquire too closely about anyone’s sexual
exploits. He’s usually low-level amused by but generally disinterested in
what the rest of us get up to here.
Cal hasn’t noticed that Zach won’t meet his gaze. ‘Well, she said she
was jealous Belle got two priests, so I made it my business to tend to her. I
took her to one of the glass-fronted rooms, kept my costume on, stripped
her naked and fucked her from behind on the table. We had quite the
audience in the end. She’s really fucking hot.’
A muscle leaps in Zach’s jaw. ‘Sounds like fun.’
Cal picks up on the yearning in his voice and slaps him on the shoulder.
‘It was fun. A lot of fun. And you know, whenever you’re ready to dabble,
however long it takes, we’ve got your back, yeah?’
Cal has misappropriated Zach’s envy as general, whereas to me it
sounds highly specific.
I have a feeling my mate liked what he saw in Maddy the other night
and envies the fuck out of Cal for getting his hands on her. I suspect I
wasn’t the only guy on Friday letting a twenty-two-year-old get under my
skin.
And I know two things to be true.
One, Zach will never, ever act on those feelings.
Two, that’s a good thing, because I don’t know Maddy well at all, but I
have a hunch that my brokenhearted friend attempting anything with her
would be a disaster of unmitigated proportions.
 28

BELLE

R
afe has me at the edge of his mattress in his impeccably decorated
bachelor pad—a mattress so large I wonder how many bodies he’s
tried fitting on this bed before. Right now, I’m oblivious to the
midnight-blue walls and the sparse but perfectly appointed furniture and the
jaw-dropping collection of contemporary art, because my field of
consciousness has narrowed to one particular point, and that’s the touch of
Rafe’s fingers and tongue on my desperately swollen flesh.
I’m naked on all fours, a couple of ties—Rafe’s actual neckties—lying
inches from me and ready for use if I squirm or misbehave. For someone
who hasn’t yet lost her virginity, I’ve certainly been getting up to some
kinky stuff recently.
Rafe has decided I need a lesson in, as he puts it, Listening to your
Pussy and not your Convent-Indoctrinated Brain.
I know.
No wonder they needed an external branding agency to help them with
Unfurl. I’m not convinced this one rolls off the tongue… but he knows how
to make a point effectively. I’ll give him that much.
The main, er, thrust of the lesson is that he talks dirty to me while
getting me more and more aroused with his touch. If my body responds
positively, I can take it as a sign that the things he mentions are true kinks.
If not, we’ll look into what parts of my subconscious are trying to protect
me in whatever weird ways they’ve been taught.
 And yes, he’s already referred to it as a pussy polygraph.
So predictable.
It’s astounding that I can already think of him in this fond, familiar way
after only a few days and nights. It’s Tuesday, and since our Unfurl session
on Friday we’ve spent every night together. The man who last week was
banging different women every night at the club has been curled around me
this week, most definitely not getting himself laid.
Although I’ve been refining my blowjob technique every night. So
there’s that.
Rafe is standing behind me, barefoot and topless, in only a pair of soft
grey jogging bottoms that hang low on the vee of his hips and do nothing to
conceal his monster hard-on. The view is so excellent that I keep looking
backwards and nearly falling off the bed in delight.
He’s told me the view is even better from where he’s standing, and I’ll
have to take his word for it, because I am wide open to him. Everything’s on
display. Everything. And that’s deliberate on his part. He wants me
exposed. He wants me to feel shamed and shameless and to own that
feeling, to dig into it, to let it wash over me and enhance my arousal instead
of spoiling it.
He also wants me to believe him when he tells me that the sight of my
holes on display for him is the biggest turn-on there is, even if I find the
thought excruciating.
I’ve been alternately licked, sucked, kissed and fingered so far in this
‘polygraph’, and Rafe’s worked me up into a mess as he gets onto and off
his knees. The flesh between my legs is soaked and throbbing. I need
release so badly, but it seems he’s not finished with me.
The only comfort is that he must be suffering as much as I am, if that
suspicious wet spot on the front of his jogging bottoms is anything to go by.
‘Get down on your elbows,’ he says in a rough voice, and I obey, rolling
out my tired wrists as I do and trying not to think about the view he’s got
now my bum is in the air.
He brushes a fingertip over my swollen sex. ‘How does it make you feel
when I order you around like that?’
God. That’s good. I push against his finger, and he removes it. Dammit.
‘It makes me feel like I’m your plaything,’ I tell him, staring at the sheets.
‘Like you can do whatever you like with me.’
‘And does that turn you on?’
 ‘God, yes,’ I say, and I’m rewarded with a thick finger sliding inside
me. It’s not enough, not without him touching my clit too, but it’s the most
delicious form of torture, and I push against him again.
‘Good girl,’ he says in a strangled voice. He slides his finger back out
and I sense and hear him getting back down onto his knees behind me. My
body has a Pavlovian response; my flesh strains for the relief of his mouth
on it.
‘And what about when you’re playing an innocent little postulant who
knows that what she’s letting the bad priests do to her is very, very sinful?
What about then—does that make it feel better? Or worse?’
His breath is warm on my flesh. ‘Better,’ I say. ‘So much hotter.’
‘Fuck you’re dirty.’ He licks me in one long slide, and it’s so exactly
what I need that I jolt. ‘So dirty. So fucking amazing. What if the priests
brought more of their friends along because they’d heard you were actually
a dirty little whore? Would you like it if they all played with you? Tied you
up and took turns with you? Came all over you?’
Even without his touch, I moan, because being outnumbered and used
and fondled and played with and adored by any number of hot, hungry,
faceless men is my ultimate fantasy, and the mere thought of it makes me so
crazy with lust that I can’t tell where the shame ends and the arousal begins.
I can’t decipher what part of me revels in this, what part of me hungers to
be both the object of their collective desires and the afterthought, the
nameless plaything who’s almost incidental because it’s all about them and
their selfish desires, and I’m just the channel through which they sate
themselves.
I’m shaking. I’m shaking so hard, and I’m so far gone I can barely
speak.
‘Use your words,’ Rafe says, the merest tip of his finger hovering at my
entrance, ready to push in hard and reward me if my answer pleases him.
‘I want that so badly,’ I admit. ‘I want them to plunder me and take
what they need. I want them to touch every inch of me at the same time.’
He sucks in a sharp breath. ‘Good, baby. That’s very fucking good. See,
I told you everything you felt the other night with your priests was right,
didn’t I?’
I swallow, trying to pull myself together enough to answer.
He reaches under me and pinches my nipple, hard, and the sensation
shoots straight to my clit.
 ‘Didn’t I?’
‘Yes.’
Rafe’s tongue swirls around my clit in lavish spirals. ‘That’s it,’ he
mumbles against me. ‘That’s it. You’re such a good girl. So fucking
desperate for my tongue. This hole is so needy.’ He breaches it with his
finger and I screw my eyes shut.
I just need him to hit the spot with his tongue.
I need his licks as hard and rough as he can make them.
‘One more question,’ he says, ‘and then you can come. What if the
priests were teasing you, and licking your sweet, wet cunt and your nipples,
and shoving their hard cocks in your mouth because they were so desperate
to blow, and then the bishop came in, because he’d heard his priests had the
most beautiful plaything in the whole diocese and he wanted a piece of the
action?’
He pushes my knees further apart. ‘What if he had them continue to
touch you, to hold you wide open for him so he could see you and inspect
you and taste you, and then he kicked them all out so he could claim you for
himself as his own secret little whore?’
The words he’s just uttered, the picture he’s just painted, have me
hurtling towards an orgasm even without his touch, but it won’t be enough.
He won’t finish me off till I’ve admitted what he wants me to admit—that
this scenario is perfect and beautiful and everything I’ve dreamed of in my
darkest fantasies, and it’s even better than the shower foursome I concocted,
and the mere thought of this powerful man of the church unburdening
himself within me, roughly and urgently and selfishly, is so, so provocative
for me that I can think of nothing else.
He has me. In my mind, I’m lying on a bed in some seminary the priests
have smuggled me into, and the bishop is pounding into me.
‘Exactly—that’s exactly—’ I gasp. ‘Just like that, yes.’
And with that, my teacher’s beautiful mouth is on my clit, his tongue
taut and flat and hard and lapping at me with the precise amount of pressure
I’ve been hungering for, and his finger is pushing in and out of me,
intensifying the sensation so perfectly that I could scream, but instead I
moan and claw at the sheets and dig my forehead into the mattress as I push
my bottom against Rafe’s face, against his tongue, against that finger, as
hard as I can.
 And the intolerable heat that’s been coursing through me ignites and
transforms into a fire so powerful it sucks the oxygen out of this room in a
single blaze.
Holy crap.
I buck and jolt and shudder against his mouth. I take every touch
greedily; I eat it all up. I allow myself to go under to a place where noise
roars in my ears and stars flare and burn behind my eyelids. And as I come
down, humbled and awed by my body’s abilities to respond to this man, I’m
aware of him pulling away from me and standing, and of the hot, wet head
of his dick dragging, swiping through my flesh, and of the fevered groans
he’s making.
I wipe my cheek against the sheet, because I’ve actually drooled, before
twisting around and getting up onto my knees and clambering to the end of
the bed where he stands, holding that beautiful, weeping dick in a
chokehold so tight it looks painful.
But it’s his eyes that arrest me. He’s looking at me like a man who’s
seen a vision. Reverent. Mesmerised.
‘Allow me,’ I say.
 29

BELLE

I
slide a hand around his neck and kiss him, tasting my own musk on
those gorgeous, generous lips. With my other hand, I release his grip on
his dick and close my fingers around it tightly. He’s so improbably hard,
and thick, and massive, and for the millionth time, I wonder how we’ll fit
together.
I pump him hard but slow, the way he’s shown me over the past few
days, before giving him one last kiss and scrambling down to sitting. I let
my legs drop off the bed and hook my heels around his calves as I lower my
mouth to his erection.
His balls, when I cup them, are tight and high against his body. I’ve
quickly discovered it’s a clear sign he’s close. I smooth my palm over them.
My fingers. And as I lick the moisture leaking from his slit and slide it
around his crown, he moans, low and so masculine it does strange things to
my ovaries.
I suck him into my mouth, as slowly and as deeply as I can go, opening
as wide as possible to accommodate him. I slide my lips up and down his
shaft, my hand gripping the section of him I can’t take into my mouth,
enjoying the heat of him. The barely restrained control in his body. He rakes
both hands through my hair and grips the base of my skull hard, and I smile
to myself.
He can barely cede control long enough to allow me to do my thing.
 ‘You’re so fucking good at this,’ he hisses, his fingers clenching in my
hair, pulling just hard enough that it feels great. ‘My sweet little virgin,
sucking my cock like a seasoned whore. Wrapping those beautiful lips
around me.’
He starts to move, his hips rutting against me, pushing deeper into my
mouth, holding my head in place so he can thrust inside me. I inhale hard
through my nose and focus. On my rhythm. On the primal, intoxicating
sounds he’s making and the way he tastes. On not gagging, though there’s a
moment where he hits the back of my throat, and my eyes water, and I jolt.
But I recover, and I go back to milking him the way he just milked that
stupendous orgasm out of me.
The power is heady. The knowledge that this beautiful, experienced, and
just-the-right-side-of-depraved man has chosen me. He has his dick in my
mouth, and not inside the vaginas of any of the beautiful, skilled women at
his club. His entire consciousness right now is focused on me, and on my
lips around him, and it makes me want to serve him up the best damn
orgasm of his life.
He’s working my mouth because I haven’t granted him access to other
parts of my body.
Not yet.
And when I do, he’ll be like this. He’ll fill me up; he’ll show no mercy.
He’ll take and take and give and give, and I’ll be completely in his thrall.
The thought has my inner walls clenching again.
I increase the pressure on his balls, rolling them tightly in my hand. I
pump his shaft harder. I move my lips harder over him, taking him in
deeper, pulling almost all the way off him, making sure to roll my tongue
around his crown every time I pull out. His words, his curses, grow more
pained. Less intelligible.
And then, sure enough, he goes rigid and still before he utters the groan
of a broken man and shoots hot, hard spurts into my mouth as his fists
clench around my hair and his dick drives and drives and drives.
I keep working him, slowing down as I sense he’s coming down
himself, until he releases a handful of hair and smooths a hand down over
my shoulder and back.
‘Jesus,’ he says hoarsely. ‘Jesus fucking Christ, Belle.’
‘Y OU ’ RE ONE HELL OF A TEACHER ,’ I say.
We’re lying naked on his bed, curled into each other. His leg is thrown
heavily over me, my palm rests against his heart, and I feel utterly sated.
Completely happy. I swallowed his cum down and licked him clean, and he
responded by laying me down here and proceeding to hold eye contact with
me while he told me how beautiful I was.
How unique.
How special.
How sexy.
How talented.
How filthy.
How completely crazy I made him.
How well I sucked his cock.
How well I’d take his dick on Friday.
How good it’d be for both of us.
How quickly I’d grow desperate for him to fuck me.
And I took his praise, and I rolled around in it like a cat in a patch of
sunlight, and I believed him, because when Rafe Charlton looks at you with
black eyes and tells you things like that while stroking and petting your hair
and your skin?
You listen.
I’m revelling in this cocoon, in being adored within the cradle of his
body, the aftermath of his praising words casting as warm a glow as his skin
against mine.
‘For someone who had an upbringing as fucked as you and I did,’ he
says, trailing his fingertips down my back, ‘you seem pretty dirty. In a good
way, you understand. It’s less about teaching you than giving you prompts.
You do the rest.’
‘Maybe I’m dirty because I had a messed-up upbringing,’ I say, and he
laughs softly.
‘Touché. I’m sure I’m the same. But there’s nothing wrong with your
appetites. Or your kinks.’ His fingertips continue their reassuring journey
along my spine. ‘When you’re in the moment, you know how to let go. It
seems like it’s just afterwards that your brain steps in and starts clutching its
pearls?’
The analogy hits home. ‘Yeah. I suppose so. Or at least—when I have
your hands on me… or your mouth… it’s hard to think about anything else.
I’m in the zone.’
‘Quite right.’ He kisses my forehead and lets his lips linger there.
‘But the come-down can be tough. Or it was the other night, at least. I
think I felt bereft, or vulnerable, or something. It was like all the things that
got me off in the first place came back and slapped me in the face. I was
kneeling there, covered in your, you know, bodily fluids. And I had this
chorus of voices in my head telling me what a horrible, dirty girl I was. It
was awful, but I know it was all in my head. None of it was to do with the
way you acted.’
‘But you don’t feel like that right now?’ he asks.
‘No.’ I snuggle in closer, shamelessly seeking comfort in his embrace.
‘Not at all. I feel wonderful, and safe.’
‘Not dirty? Even though I said all those things to you and you
practically squirted in my face?’
I pull back. ‘I did not! And no, because you’ve been so lovely, and it’s
overridden any intrusive thoughts I might have had. It’s like those voices
can’t get through, because I’m here in the present with you, and that’s all I
have room for in my brain.’
‘Quite right,’ he murmurs, tugging me back in against him. ‘And I
would never, ever want to make you feel cheapened. I’ll never let it happen
again. But I can see you growing already. You’re already starting to own
your sexuality. Some day soon, you’ll take what you want from me or
anyone else in that club, and you’ll walk away like the glorious queen you
are and not give us poor bastards a backwards glance.’
His words cast a pall over my mood. They’re a reminder that our time is
limited, that he doesn’t have all the time in the world to mentor his little
protégé and that soon enough he’ll be back to prowling the corridors of
Alchemy to screw and play and serve his own needs, not just mine.
They’re a reminder that monogamy is such an alien concept for a guy
like Rafe that he doesn’t, for a minute, imagine that even an inexperienced
virgin like me would choose it over the debauched smorgasbord at the club.
‘What’s up?’ he asks like the mind-reader he is.
I stay silent.
‘Belle.’
‘I’m glad it’ll be you on Friday,’ I say.
‘I wouldn’t have it any other way,’ he says gruffly. ‘You’re mine.
There’s no way Alex is getting his dirty little dick anywhere near you.’
 I shoot him a weak smile.
‘Belina. Talk to me.’
I sigh. I’ve let this man expose me more than any human has ever
exposed me so far, so I may as well lay my cards on the table and humiliate
myself in full. ‘Will it all change on Friday? When I’m done?’
‘You still have the Adieu session to cover off, if you choose,’ he says
with a smile so wolfish it would make Jack Nicholson proud.
‘I know, but after that.’ I focus on his mouth, on those perfect, curved
lips, because looking into his eyes hurts too much. ‘Once the programme is
finished, are we… finished, too?’
‘What?’ His tone is so stunned that I jerk my gaze to his eyes. ‘Why the
hell would you think that?’
‘I know you’ve taken on the role of my teacher,’ I say falteringly, ‘and
it’s amazing—you’re amazing. But you might not find me attractive after
you’ve taken my virginity. I’m not stupid. I can tell part of the appeal for
you must be that I’m a conquest. After that, I’ll just be another silly girl
fawning all over you.’ I swallow, and it feels sore. Tight.
Rafe rolls me onto my back, caging me in with his arms. He nudges my
legs apart with his foot and comes to lie between them. Our faces are inches
apart, and all I see is him.
All that exists is him.
‘Belle,’ he says. ‘Don’t break my heart, baby. You’re asking if I’ll still
find you attractive once you’ve fully stepped into your true power? Are you
fucking delusional?’
I go to answer, but it appears it’s a rhetorical question, for he tuts, his
expression incredulous. ‘Nope. I’m not finished. You think that once I’ve
‘conquered’ you that I’ll get bored—that I’m only pursuing you because I
want to smash this so-called pristine surface?
‘That is a fucking lie. You couldn’t be further from the truth. I want to
be there when you discover how much you love sex, how badly that pussy
of yours needs to be filled up, how, once you add this form of sex to your
arsenal, you’ll be fucking unstoppable.
‘You need to get over the virginity thing. The stuff we’ve done at the
club, and in your bed, and in mine—that’s all sex. That’s all stuff a lot of
people would never have the balls to do, no matter how much they’ve
fantasised about it in the dark. You are blossoming, baby, right before my
eyes. You’re unfurling like a fucking flower and I want nothing more than a
front-row seat, even if I’m at the back of the fucking queue every Friday
night in Alchemy. Literally. Because once you’re unleashed, there won’t be
any holding you back, and I would never, ever dream of trying.’
I squirm. ‘I don’t want to think about other people right now,’ I tell him,
because I don’t. I’ve got so close to Rafe these past few days. The things he
makes me feel are almost spiritual experiences, and this is coming from a
girl who has spent far too many Sunday mornings on her knees and felt
very little.
I don’t want to share him.
But I know, no matter what he says to me in the confines of this room,
that sharing will be the only basis on which I can have him at all. He’s
already alluded to the future. To the free-for-alls that are Friday nights at
Alchemy. To a lifestyle that includes mixing it up with attractive,
likeminded people. To being modern, and liberated, and unfettered.
I know he believes I share the same desires as him. He just brought me
to a screaming, shuddering climax with his dirty talk about bishops and
priests and little whore-bag postulant playthings. And that’s all hot as hell.
It’s so hot it makes me squirm just thinking about it.
And yet. When it comes down to it, everything I want is here in front of
me.
‘I know you don’t,’ he says, ‘and neither do I. But Friday is just us,
yes?’
‘Yes,’ I agree. Just us. Just me and Rafe.
‘It’s us in a new way, just like we discussed,’ he promises.
Just like we discussed.
Despite the melancholy that’s washed over my post-orgasmic glow, I
feel a frisson of anticipation.
Because Friday will be a lot of firsts.
 30

BELLE

I
’m wearing white tonight.
I know what Gen and Rafe have told me ad nauseam.
Virginity is an artificial construct.
What I’ll do tonight with Rafe, the way I’ll let him inside my body, is
simply one thread in a veritable spider’s web of sexuality.
Even so, I want to wear white. I want Rafe to see me as a blank canvas
on which he gets to imprint his mark.
I want to send him to the edge of reason.
We’ve planned the whole thing together. Not what I’ll wear, but how
we’ll act. What we’ll do. Who we’ll pretend to be. He suggested taking the
reins, as it were, and let’s say I graciously declined his offer.
‘Thank God I’m not a real Dom,’ he said. ‘You’d make a fucking
useless sub.’
That made me laugh so hard, but he was right.
‘I like it when you take control in bed,’ I told him. ‘I love it, actually.
But if you think I’ve come this far to let a guy tell me what I can do, and
when and where I can come, and to claim he owns my body, then you
couldn’t be more mistaken. I’ve had enough of being told what I can and
can’t do with my body my entire life to ever let someone have that kind of
control over me.’
To my surprise, he got this soft, funny look on his face at that. He slid a
hand through my hair, and all he said was, ‘That’s my girl.’
 I went back to the Ralph Lauren flagship the other day on my lunch
break to try that gorgeous long white sheath I’d been lusting after since I
saw it, but it was too formal for tonight. Too restrained. If I’m honest, it was
too classy.
Instead, I bought a shorter version of the same dress. It has tiny straps
and thick enough fabric to allow for no bra, but its hemline is short enough
to make me look less like a virgin and more like a hooker.
A very expensive hooker.
Which, funnily enough, is exactly the look I’m going for tonight.

T HE BAR at Alchemy is all shimmering pink onyx and buttery green leather
and gorgeous, confident people. This is my third time here, and I can now
pick up on the signs that this is no normal bar. That what lies through those
heavy double doors is entirely more enticing than the glamorous scene its
mirrored panels reflect back at us.
Yes, everyone is behaving well in here, but there’s a thrum of
anticipation in the air, of delights expected and assured, and I allow that
same thrum to beat in my veins, to flutter across my skin.
Because I share that anticipation.
I sit at the bar alone, in a short and beautifully cut white dress I’m pretty
sure Mr Lauren didn’t intend for this purpose. My heels are sky high, my
hair loose and straight, my eye makeup far heavier than usual, and my skin
buffed and glowing. I’m jewellery-free except for a sculptural silver choker
that teases my collarbones.
I sip my martini, because tonight I am most definitely Belle and not
Belina, and this version of Belle drinks spirits, not wine. A couple of good-
looking men in suits approach, asking if I’d like some company, and I
explain that I’m meeting someone. I’m calm and pleasant, but not
encouraging.
They smile and shrug and tell me it’s a shame, that they’ll see me next
door later, maybe.
And God. It really hits me then that, shortly, I’ll be on the other side of
those double doors in an alternate reality where those same guys could have
their neatly pressed shirts off, and their dicks out, and the charming
manners of out here will give way to behavioural codes I don’t know the
first thing about.
I don’t have too much time to reflect, because suddenly Rafe is standing
next to me with a suave good evening, and I’m swooning hard. He looks
delicious, as always, in a navy suit that’s been tailored to worship every
hard line of his body and an open-necked white shirt underneath.
It’s thrilling to see him here, to meet as strangers in a bar when every
other time I’ve been here I’ve been pining over him from afar. Wondering if
he’ll even remember me after our sessions. Wondering how many other
women he’ll screw after he’s finished working the poor little virgin up into
a frenzy.
Tonight he’s here for me.
Just for me.
‘Good evening, sir,’ I purr, careful not to sound over-eager, although
I’m sure the hearts dancing in my eyes give my game away. Although, from
the way his pupils are dilating at the word sir, it seems I’m not the only one
with traitorous eyes. The thought makes me happier than I can say.
You see, I can’t give Rafe what most of the women next door can give
him. I can’t slither up and down his body like it’s a greased pole and I’m a
seasoned dancer, or wow him with my amazing sexual tricks. That’s not
me.
Yet.
But what I can do is convincingly provide the mix of innocence and
deference his dominant side seems to find so gratifying.
He licks his lips and runs his gaze down over the swell of my breasts
and the hemline so short it would show off my thong if my legs weren’t
crossed. It travels down my legs to my high, very strappy sandals before
flicking up to my face. He’s assessing me, or pretending to, and it sends a
thrill over my body.
‘Are you… working this evening?’ he enquires.
I set my drink down on the bar. ‘I am.’
I cock my head prettily and wait.
‘You available?’
I smile. ‘I am.’
He bends over, close to my ear, and I get a hit of that scent I love so
much. ‘In that case, I’d be delighted if you’d come next door with me. I’m
Rafe.’
 ‘Belle,’ I say as he straightens up. ‘And why not?’
The satisfaction on his face is endearing, because I’m a sure thing
tonight. But, no matter how we’ve agreed this evening should play out, I
adore this balance of power. I adore the fact that this version of Rafe is
plucking me off a bar stool and offering to pay me for my services, that
he’ll treat me like some kind of possession, that he’s offering money in
exchange for free rein over my body, and that he’ll demand total submission
on my part. He’ll demand I service him.
Because that’s what he’s paying for.
Is it remotely feminist?
No.
Demeaning?
Yes.
Hot as hell?
Also yes.
I uncross my legs, not missing the way Rafe’s eyes flit back to my
hemline as I do, and gracefully slide off the chair. He shrugs off his jacket,
takes my hand, and strides across the room so forcefully I struggle to keep
up.
His hand goes to the heavy chrome door handle separating the bar from
the Playroom. ‘You’re mine tonight,’ he says. His eyes pierce mine.
‘Yes sir,’ I say politely. Pleasantly.
Obediently.
He gives a tiny shake of his head, like he’s struggling to hold it together.
‘Good girl.’
He pulls the door open.

T HE AIR IS THICKER in here.

It’s far darker, and the first thing that hits me is the scent of Diptyque
Baies mixed with the musky smell of sex. In the foreground, all I see are
big leather sofas and low-level tables with their shaded lamps turned down
low. Kind of like a night-club, but more opulent, the colours more muted
than den-of-sin.
And people.
 Bodies.
Bodies moving, writhing, coupling. Some are so subtle, it requires a
double take to register what they’re up to. Others are more blatant. Like the
couple sixty-nining on the giant ottoman to my right. Yikes.
I quickly avert my eyes to the stage where two practically naked women
are twirling around white sheets suspended from the ceiling in a way that
defies gravity. The music is sultry. Hypnotic. Rhythmical, which I suppose
is important when you’re having sex.
Rafe walks me past a pillar where one guy is enthusiastically going
down on another. As he pulls back, I catch a glimpse of a thick, veined dick
and avert my eyes again.
Holy crap.
It’s like watching a car crash, only hotter. The convent girl in me is
horrified, but I can’t look away. I’ve been taught for so long that sex is
wrong, sinful, dirty. That it’s a mortal sin. And here I am, surrounded by
sinners having the time of their lives.
If this is hell, it’s a damn sight more fun than they let on at school.
I’ve been hoping for total anonymity on this side of the doors, hoping
everyone will be so busy shagging that they won’t notice us. But I should
have known that here, in hell, Hades is king.
Heads turn as my companion stalks through the dim space with me in
tow. It’s not just his gorgeous looks, surely. It’s that this is his domain. His
kingdom. He created this subverted nirvana. These people are his
playmates. His playthings, even.
And who wouldn’t want Rafe Charlton to play with them when he looks
like this, when those dark eyes of his are already burning with purpose and
desire? My heart is breaking for everyone who won’t get to have him
tonight, but seeing the energy in the room change as his presence announces
itself is a massive turn-on.
Because they all want him.
And he wants me.
 31

BELLE

I
won’t think about how he usually is in here. I won’t think about how
many of these women he’s bent over sofas and screwed up against
pillars and swept off into back rooms. Still, the jealousy, the knowledge
that he’s so known and adored, adds an edge to my arousal that I seize onto.
Dig into.
Two women sashay over. One’s Black and toned as hell, her skin
lustrous in the dim light, the other’s white and auburn-haired and curvier.
They’re both gorgeous, and they’re both clad only in complicated-looking
lingerie that’s all straps and tiny lace patches. I can see everything.
‘Hey, Rafe,’ the Black one purrs. ‘Have you got room for two more?’
He shakes his head curtly. ‘Not tonight, Leila.’
They pout and wander off, but not before the temporary-sounding
nature of his not tonight hits me right in the gut. He makes it sound like it’ll
be business as usual next time. Before I have time to twist in agonies of
insecurity, he has me backed up against a pillar and is crowding me, one
hand flat on the plaster above my head as the other holds his jacket.
He leans in. ‘Belle, right?’
I allow myself an internal eye-roll, because Rafe-in-character is such a
dick, before replying with an even that’s right, sir.
He licks his lips. ‘I like to try before I buy. Pull your top down.’
I swallow. We’ve discussed this, but now I’m here, surrounded by
people in various states of undress and arousal, and now I’m noticing how
many of those people have paused to watch what Rafe, King of the
Underworld is doing with his random little blonde, it’s totally different.
My glances left and right do nothing to assuage my fears. I look back at
Rafe, sorely tempted to break character and beg him not to do this, but he’s
tugging at that plump lower lip with his teeth, desire stark on his face.
He wants this. He’s told me he’s not an exhibitionist, per se, but that it’ll
turn him on no end, knowing how much everyone wants me and getting to
sweep me off and have his way with me.
We’re both turned on by exactly the same thing, really. That idea of
bagging a prize so delicious it has everyone else salivating.
Besides, my body’s responding to him.
To this.
I’m already wet and achy between my legs, and my nipples are
hardening under my dress.
Rafe chucks his jacket on the arm of a nearby chair and swipes a finger
over one nipple. Gosh, that’s good.
‘Top. Down,’ he annunciates.
There’s nothing to do but obey. In for a penny, in for a pound. I’m in a
sex club, and I’m about to have sex. I may as well get my boobs out.
They’re just boobs. I’ve done it before on French beaches.
It’s not a big deal.
‘Of course, sir,’ I say.
I maintain hot, intense eye contact with him as I reach up and slide one
strap down, then the other. Hooking a thumb into the fabric on each side, I
tug the dress down to my waist and fall back against the pillar.
His face is so close to mine. I can feel the heat radiating from his body.
His scent has me captivated. I lose eye contact with him as soon as I get my
boobs out. Obviously. I stand there and block out all the prying eyes except
for Rafe’s. He can pry away.
And does he pry.
‘Hands above your head,’ he orders, and I oblige. He snags my wrists
with the hand that’s been resting on the pillar and holds them there as he
inspects my breasts like I’m some slave girl at an auction and he’s
considering bidding for me. It’s so demeaning, and so messed up, and so
incredibly arousing that all I can think is touch them touch them touch them.
I arch my back, thrusting my breasts closer to his face.
 ‘Very nice,’ he says, and thank Christ, he raises his free hand and palms
one breast.
Oh my God.
I jolt as he caresses it, and weighs it in his hand, and strums my nipple
with his thumb. The people around us, the naked bodies, all fade away as
my body’s entire capacity for consciousness shrinks to those few
millimetres of his thumb against my nipple.
‘Fuck me,’ he grunts. ‘Fucking beautiful.’
He moves to the other nipple and gives it the same treatment.
‘Responsive as fuck, aren’t you?’
I moan, because yes, yes I am, and this man can do whatever he wants
with me right now. I’m his tonight; I’m completely in his thrall and he’s
barely touched me. I’ve felt so intimate with Rafe this past week, but this
evening it’s his very coldness, his clinical, transactional demeanour, that has
me melting and writhing.
He bends his head and sucks my nipple hard with a decadent pull that
careens through my body. The low, masculine sound he makes at the back
of his throat is barely audible above the throb of the music, but I don’t miss
it. I flex my arms, I inadvertently thrust my hips against him, and he grips
tighter. Sucks harder.
Next thing I know, he’s pulling his mouth off my nipple and releasing
my wrists, and I stare at him in confusion as he straightens up.
He holds out a hand, palm facing up. ‘Panties.’
‘I—’ It genuinely takes me a minute to remember what the next move
is.
‘I’m not done sampling you. Take off your panties.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I say. I hoist the hem of my dress up so I can access my thong
—it doesn’t need much of a hoist, admittedly—and hook my thumbs into
the scrap of elasticated lace that serves as a waistband. I slide it down my
legs, grabbing at the pillar to keep my balance as I disentangle it from my
stiletto heels, and triumphantly hook it over his outstretched fingers.
‘Good girl,’ he says, his eyes darting from my still-exposed breasts to
my face. He shoots me a lingering look as he raises my thong to his face
and buries his nose in it, and oh. My. God.
If I hadn’t already damned myself for all eternity, I have now.
‘Let’s see if you taste as good as you smell,’ he tells me and puts a firm
hand on my back. He points to an empty sofa just beside us. ‘Bend over.’
 Rafe knows I’ve been tormenting myself with that image of him
bending his colleague over a similar sofa after our first session. He knows
because I came clean the other night. And he knows I want to prove to
myself that I’m liberated enough to let a man bend me over and eat me in
public and to revel in every second of it.
He knows everything. My demons. My desires. And he’s a particularly
kinky fairy godfather, swooping in to exorcise the former and ignite the
latter.
His hands wrap around the back of my neck, through my hair, as he
pushes me forward. I fold as gracefully as I can over the back of the sofa,
planting my palms on the seat’s cold, shiny surface.
It’s wipe-clean.
Of course it is.
He lets go of my neck, and my hair tumbles all around my face. My
neck is burning, and this silky shield is a small relief. I’m pondering
whether my dress is just about long enough to keep my bits out of view of
any passers-by when Rafe flips the hem right up. There’s an immediate hit
of cold air to my most intimate flesh and the dull drop of heavy fabric on
my back. My dress is now bunched around my waist and nowhere else.
Oh. Dear. Lord.
I instinctively bend my knees, raise my head, in an attempt to lower my
bottom slightly, but Rafe is sliding his hands over my hips, my cheeks, as if
I’m a racehorse and he’s checking out my flanks. He tugs my bottom half
sharply against him, and the sensation of raging erection through rough
fabric hits me exactly where I need it, along that seam running from my clit
to my entrance.
The guy he’s playing may be feigning indecisiveness, but my Rafe
knows what he wants. The feeling is so exactly what I need that I shove
myself back against him, and he laughs, low and pleased.
‘Told you you were responsive,’ he says. ‘Now, let’s see…’
His fingers dig in harder to my hips and there’s a scuffling sound. Next
thing I know, his entire face is pressed against me. His nose is right by my
entrance, his lips circle my clit, and he rubs his face over my flesh. Up.
Down. God, I’m so exposed, and he’s everywhere, and it feels so utterly
filthy and animalistic and carnal to have him rubbing his face against my
most private parts like a man possessed that my hips begin to move in spite
of myself.
 He pulls away, parting my lips with two fingers, inspecting me as if this
place is a market and I’m new wares, and God. I wonder how many people
are watching right now. I wonder how many people can see everything I
have laid bare for Rafe Charlton.
And then he licks me. One long, thorough lick that starts at my clit and
moves up, up, up through the flesh he’s still holding open with his fingers
until he hits the tight little ring of muscle that, until now, has been off the
table.
‘Tastes delicious,’ he mutters and licks me again.
Holy crap. My legs are already shaking, the sky-high heels and
imminent orgasm conspiring to have them collapsing from under me. My
fingertips scrabble against the pleather of the sofa, and I moan.
‘You going to come hard for me tonight, Belle?’ he asks me, his voice
carefully disinterested.
‘God, yes, sir,’ I manage.
‘Let’s see what she’s like inside,’ he mutters, and without warning a
finger is plunging inside me. I’m wet, but it’s a tight fit, and the sting serves
to remind me how much more I’ll have to accommodate shortly. The
thought has me clenching around his finger, and he groans. ‘Fucking tight.’
His finger pulls out. His mouth leaves me. There’s nothing but cold air
on wet, exposed flesh. I’m suspended here, my head filled with blood, my
legs unsteady, my heart thundering behind my ribs.
He slaps my bare bottom. ‘Up you get.’
But, as I attempt to haul myself up, he’s bending over me, covering me,
his hands going around my body to cup my breasts. He helps me up to
standing and then I’m upright, my back to his chest, his hands on my
breasts. Kneading them. Stroking my nipples. I tug my mane of hair out of
my face and over one shoulder and am confronted with a definite audience.
One guy has his dick out and is working himself slowly, his eyes stuck on
us. Oh God.
Then I’m being turned in Rafe’s arm and he whispers in my ear, ‘I think
you’ll do for tonight. Look.’
And my God, do I look.
We’re in front of a full-length mirror.
I’m all skin and legs, the top of my dress still bunched around my waist
and the bottom part millimetres from showing off my landing strip.
My hair is everywhere.
 My face is seriously flushed.
Rafe’s hands are cupping my breasts, pushing them upwards as his
thumbs move over my nipples.
And his eyes? They burn into mine from over the crown of my head in
the mirror.
I’m transfixed. I look totally wanton, and he’s the devil incarnate.
The sight is so carnal. It’s extraordinary. I’m some whore who’s almost
naked in a sex club, and she’s about to be ravaged.
I have no idea who this woman is, but, right in this moment, I can’t
imagine being anyone else.
‘You’re fucking hot,’ Rafe growls in my ear. He releases one breast and
slides an arm around my waist, pulling me back against his erection. ‘Tight
and hot. Just the way I like it. I’m keeping you for the night. Come with me
—you’ve got work to do.’
 32

BELLE

T
his room screams sex club far more than the one in which I pretended
to be a postulant. Its deep midnight blue walls remind me of Rafe’s
apartment. Matching deco-style crystal sconces adorn the wall, their
bulbs dimmed. There’s a lacquered cabinet probably chock-full of dodgy
toys, some equally dodgy-looking hooks on the ceiling, and a humongous
bed with dark grey sheets, a ridiculous amount of scatter pillows, and no
duvet cover.
If the room screams sex club, the bed definitely screams orgy.
But none of that really matters, because Rafe is behind me, hovering,
the heat from his body pumping against my bare back and bare thighs. I
managed to tug my hair over my boobs for the short walk to the room,
producing what’s likely a mermaid-meets-hooker kind of look that vaguely
protected my modesty.
He slides a hand over each shoulder and turns me to face him. He’s so,
so gorgeous, with a dusting of dark stubble, the friction from which I’ve
already sampled, and lash-rimmed black eyes that seem to hold the secret to
every type of sin I haven’t yet committed.
He bends his head and crushes his mouth against mine, one hand fisting
my hair in a rough grip at the back of my neck, holding me tight against
him as the other pushes beneath the bunched-up fabric at my lower back
and squeezes my bottom, hard. His erection is insane, pure steel between
us. I’m glad I’m not the only one totally overwrought by the idea that he
has me in a locked room to do with me as he likes.
His kiss is all taut, probing tongue and hungrily sliding lips and
gnashing teeth. It’s hot and wet and desperate. His fingers release my
bottom, nails scraping up my back before he releases me, panting hard.
‘I hope you’re ready,’ he says in a low, threatening voice. His hand in
my hair means I can’t move my head, and his lips are still so close to mine.
‘I’m gonna work you hard.’
Oh my God, yes. ‘I’m yours, sir. Do what you like with me.’ I lick my
lips in anticipation. My thong may have been insubstantial, but without it
I’m all too conscious of how wet I am. The moisture is working its way
down the top of my thighs, and if he keeps talking to me and treating me
like this, I’ll be a puddle of desire. No need to lube up this virgin.
He releases my hair. ‘Take that dress off. Heels and necklace stay on.
Then I want you on your knees.’ He reaches into his pocket and throws a
folded wad of notes held in place by a money clip onto the cabinet. ‘You get
that later once you’ve satisfied me.’
I am a highly educated woman. I have a post-graduate level education
and I am truly grateful for the privilege of the choices afforded to me. It
sickens me to consider the daily indignities and dangers that sex workers
face in the real world.
But this is not the real world.
And standing in front of me is the most beautiful, confident, dominant,
sexually experienced man I have ever met.
Treating me like his hooker.
Ordering me to get naked as he stays fully dressed.
To get to my knees and take him in my mouth.
And to say this scenario arouses me is like calling Rafe Charlton a
decent-looking guy.
I’m beside myself.
I twist my dress around my waist so I can find the side zip, and I pull.
I’m so turned on my movements are jerky. Frantic. I can think of little else
aside from how badly I need Rafe’s tongue back on my clit and his strong
fingers inside me. I get the zip undone and shimmy so the dress falls over
my hips, landing in an expensive pool on the floor.
Daintily, I step out of it, looking up at him for approval.
 His face is a picture of barely restrained lust; his beautiful wool trousers
are sporting an enormous tent. I toss my hair a little with one hand,
resettling it so my breasts are better exposed. I’m in a silver choker and a
pair of heels, and if ever I felt empowered, and devastatingly sexual, and
ready for what lies ahead, this is the moment.
I step right up close to him, and he steps backwards, hitting the door
with a thud. I close the gap, look up at him through my lashes for a second
to ensure he’s paying attention, and sink to my knees.
God, I’m good at this. If it all goes wrong at Liebermann’s, maybe I
could be a stripper.
His fingers rake through my hair. ‘Fuck, you’re sexy,’ he groans. ‘Such
a good little whore, doing what I tell you to do.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ I bat my eyelashes.
He groans again, his head falling back to hit the door.
My mouth is level with his flies. I unbuckle his belt, marvelling at the
power I feel at this moment. Though Christ knows, he could haul me up and
put me over his shoulder and have me in pieces within seconds. He’s
ordered me to my knees, he’s commanding me to service him, and yet, at
this second, the power is all mine.
Belt handled, I reach for the closure and then unzip him, and his dick
flies out.
God, he’s massive. Massive and angry and weeping, his crown dark, the
skin along his length pulled so taut it shines. He’s like the dildo Maddy
keeps beside her bed and insisted on showing me once.
I love the scent of him.
I love how he smells faintly of laundry liquid but much more of sex and
pheromones and man.
I love that I’m on my knees for him, legs slightly apart, my clit singing
and my nipples tight and furled.
I grip his shaft, and he sucks in a gratifyingly anguished breath.
And then I go to work.
He wants a hooker blowjob?
He’ll get a hooker blowjob.
I lick through the delicious moisture at his crown. I wrap my lips around
him before pulling away. I cup his balls, and tug his dick upwards, and lick
a long, slow line up the underside of his shaft. When I get nearly to the top,
I pause and run my tongue around and around that tender pad before I hit
the crown itself.
I revel in the tortured sounds he makes in the back of his throat, in the
whispered curses and threats that are starting to fall from those beautiful
lips.
You little fucking beauty.
God, you’re going to get fucked so hard tonight. You’re asking for it,
teasing me like this.
Take it. Take me all in, sweetheart. I need you milking my cock.
Like a good little professional, I do as he says, licking my lips and
wrapping them around him before I feed him into my mouth as far as I can.
I get him close to the back of my throat, feel a gag coming on, freeze, blink,
and edge him further in.
He rewards me with a hiss. Fucking yes.
As I get to work, sliding him in and out of my mouth, my tongue doing
as much as it can to overload him with sensation, my fingers teasing his
balls and his fist pulling at my hair, I find myself more and more turned on.
I love him using me.
I love him needing me.
I love seeing him like this, like he barely knows his own name. I’m not
sure if he can hold it together enough to stay in character, but I suspect he’d
treat me exactly the same right now if we were just Belle and Rafe.
I can’t help it. I moan around his cock as I imagine him pulling out and
rubbing that wet tip over my straining nipples, my needy clit.
‘You are such a little whore,’ he says. ‘Do you need my fingers on you,
baby?’
I make an affirmative noise as I suck. It sounds like mmph.
‘Jesus,’ he whispers. ‘You need to look after me, and then I’ll get off on
making you scream the fucking club down. Are you wet?’
I nod.
‘Show me.’
Obligingly, I release his balls and swipe a finger through my sex. God,
it feels slick. It feels great. I hold my hand up, and he bends over and grabs
my wrist, pulling my arm higher. His lips close around my finger and he
sucks hard, his tongue twirling around my fingertip in a way that’s
extremely graphic and just plain rude. I practically weep from the
unfairness of it not being where I need it.
 ‘I’m close,’ he grunts out. ‘Finish me off.’
And I do. I work him with my hand and my mouth and my tongue,
taking him deep. His hands land over my ears to grip my head. To move it
just the way he wants. And as I increase the pace, the depth, of my thrusts,
he pushes my head so he’s bottoming out in me more and more deeply.
It’s the oddest thing, because there is nothing pleasant about activating
one’s gag reflex, and yet the way he’s using my body for his own primal,
selfish needs has that mixture of shame and desire pumping through my
veins like the headiest drug.
‘Oh my God,’ he groans. ‘Jesus fuck, that’s good.’
And then he’s going rigid and holding my head against him, and I’m
blinking and tearing up and struggling, and he’s coming in my mouth with
hot, violent, angry spurts as he thrusts so hard the door bangs continuously
against its frame. ‘Fuuuuuuuck!’ he roars. It’s the best sound I’ve ever
heard.
I take it all, and then I swallow in a single mouthful as I pull him out of
me slowly. His dick is still mostly hard, still beautiful, and I suck and lick
him clean before releasing him and sitting back on my heels. My hand is
flat against his thigh, and he takes it and squeezes it in a way that lets me
know it’s for me, not for the random hooker I’m impersonating.
He lifts his head heavily off the door and looks down at me on my
knees, my nipples so tight they may snap off, my body exposed and ready
for him. From the look in his eyes, he likes what he sees.
‘Stand up,’ he orders me, ‘and open your legs as wide as you can. I’m
going to fucking devour you.’
 33

BELLE

A
wide-legged stance in four-inch heels when you’re aroused beyond
belief is no mean feat. Nor is working out what to do with your arms.
I stand, arms loose and fists clenching by my sides, as Rafe
rummages in the drawer of the cabinet beside us. And when a buzzing noise
kicks in, my anticipation ratchets up a notch.
He holds up a wand vibrator. It’s small—no bigger than a super-sized
tampon—but I eye it like it will be the death of me.
‘Let’s have some fun,’ he murmurs, dark eyes raking over my body like
he’s deciding where to start. Oh, crap. Wherever he puts it, it’ll finish me
off. ‘Shall I start with your nipples?’ He cocks an eyebrow sexily.
‘Yes, please, sir,’ I say.
‘So well-mannered,’ he murmurs, and he holds the tip of the wand to
my left nipple. It pulses for a mere second before he removes it, but the
pleasure is so intense my legs almost buckle. ‘Woah there, Bambi,’ he
mutters. ‘Hold on to my shoulders.’
I slide my hands over the crisp cotton and hard muscle of his shoulders
and glance down between us. The contrast is so hot. I’m naked except for
my choker and heels, and he’s fully dressed, having done his trousers back
up before embarking on his sex toy hunt. He’s the consummate polished
businessman, and I’m a whore, bare and writhing in front of him.
I love it.
 ‘Such fucking perfect tits,’ he murmurs, moving the wand to my other
nipple, and jeez. I have a similar reaction, chewing on my lower lip and
digging my fingernails into his shoulders to stay upright.
‘How’s this?’ he asks. He proceeds to move the wand from one nipple
to the other, back and forth, just a touch at a time. I’m drooling, my nipples
are on fire, my head is spinning and my clit is pulsing with need.
‘Amazing,’ I gasp. ‘Just—ahhh. God. Incredible.’
‘Good.’
His face is pure sin. I should have known the moment I saw him that he
was the devil and he’d take me to places I couldn’t conceive of, introduce
me to sins of the flesh so wicked that there would be no redemption.
Zero.
Sod redemption.
I just want to come.
‘Widen your legs,’ he orders, and I stare into those beautiful, sinful eyes
and obey, widening my stance as much as I can without squatting. He
rewards me by trailing the vibrator down over my stomach towards the
place that needs it most desperately. He pushes it against my pubic bone,
and I swear my entire body tingles.
‘You think that sweet little cunt can handle this?’ he asks.
‘Yes.’ I nod vigorously.
He pauses.
‘Yes please.’
His lips curve up into a satisfied smile as he slides the wand down and
angles it up. It makes contact with my clit for a second, and I practically
jump through the ceiling, because it’s so good, it’s so perfectly good that I
will come in three seconds flat if he keeps this up. I claw at his shoulders
and hang my head as fevered, breathless oh my Gods spill from my lips.
Rafe’s spare hand goes to my waist, squeezing hard, before dragging up
my body so he can pinch my nipple while he touches the wand to my clit
again. I’m moaning now, mewling like a kitten. I don’t think I’ve ever
needed to come so badly.
‘That’s it,’ he growls. ‘On the bed. Sit right on the edge.’
Right on the edge seems fitting, for it’s how I feel. I’m on the brink of
sanity. I glance behind me and perch my bottom on the very edge of the
mattress before looking up at him for further instructions.
‘On your back. Legs open as wide as you can.’
 I’m flat on my back quicker than you can say ho-bag, my feet planted
wide on the floor. Rafe reaches into his pocket, pulling out a tube of lube,
popping the cap and smearing it over the wand before, thanks be to all that
is holy, he sinks to his knees in front of me.
He’s right there. His face is inches from my flesh, and I feel like a
puppy salivating for a treat. Then his fingers are parting my folds, holding
me open, exposing my clit and stretching my skin in a way I know will
make every touch extra.
‘Legs up. I want you playing with your tits, okay?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I pant, putting my hands to my breasts and rolling my nipples
around between my fingers, and boy does that feel good. But I need more.
I need him.
He’s watching me play with myself, and he must like what he sees, for
he puts the wand not to my clit, as I’m expecting, but inside me, before
turning it back on. It’s small and slick enough to slide in easily, and oh my
God, does the pulsing echo through my entire lower body in the most
intense way.
‘You’re going to be so ready for my cock when I’ve finished warming
you up,’ he says, and blessed be God, he bends that beautiful, dark head and
seals his mouth to my clit.
It’s everything. Everything I need. The languorous strokes of his tongue,
the vibrator inside me, the pinch of my fingers on my nipples. All these
sensations collide and build and cascade over me. Rafe slides the wand out,
touches it to my clit, sniggers darkly when I buck like a horse being broken,
and slides it back inside me as his tongue resumes its mission.
‘How close are you?’ he mumbles.
‘Close—I’m there. I’m there,’ I gabble, and he takes pity on me. He
turns the vibrator up a notch and laves me as roughly as possible with his
tongue, and the sensations blur into one heavenly atomic bomb that
detonates my entire body. My orgasm courses and courses through me, a
relentless force I’m powerless against, and I ride it and ride it, my only
outlets the cries of overwhelm and ecstasy that I’m incapable of stopping.
When I’m done, he slides the wand out and gives me one last, long lick
that makes me shudder.
‘Just beautiful,’ he tells me. ‘And now you’re ready to be fucked.’
I CAN ’ T BELIEVE there’s more. I can’t believe that was just the warm-up act,
though Rafe’s warned me several times that I may not come through
penetrative sex at first.
I’m sated, and floppy, and practically delirious, but I’m still pulsing
with an aching emptiness. Maybe it was the wand, but my body is
demanding to be filled up.
‘Get back against the pillows.’ Rafe’s standing now, unbuttoning his
shirt with the ferocity of a man on a mission. He tugs it off and undoes his
belt and trousers so they sink to the floor. Next thing he’s naked and
crawling towards me, pure need in the glint of his eyes and in the clench of
his jaw. I scoot backwards, alarmed and turned on and genuinely
understanding, finally, how it feels to be an object of prey for a man who
wants to nail you to the bed.
His erection is back at full mast, its jut enormous and almost brutish. I
can’t imagine how virgins over the centuries have felt upon seeing this sight
on their wedding night with zero preparation. It must be terrifying, but the
thought of my virginity and of Rafe’s single-minded intention to take it
from me is, for once, the hottest thing I can imagine.
It’s not an obstacle right now.
It’s a gift.
For us both.
He crouches over me, caging me in with his arms. His gaze rakes over
my body. I hope he likes what he sees. He frowns a little, and opens his
mouth, and I’m not expecting the next word out of it.
‘Baby.’
I look up at him dumbly.
‘Belle.’ He braces on one hand as the other slides over my collarbone.
Down my arm. ‘I can’t fuck you in character, sweetheart. Not the first time.
I want to fuck you, not some imaginary, hot-as-fuck hooker.’
I take in this man looming deliciously over me. Rafe is the king of role
play. He’s up for anything. He owns a sex club, for God’s sake.
Yet he’s telling me he wants straight-up sex with me.
We talked about it. We agreed I might find it easier to relax, to
accommodate him, if it was all part of a super-hot scene, but I feel the same
as him right now. Rafe, as a sexy, predatory client, is pushing all my
buttons, but I’m not sure I can do transactional when I’m about to let his
baby maker inside my body.
 He knows me well enough by now to see my need to be defiled and
adored all at once.
‘I want you,’ I tell him. ‘No one else.’
He lowers himself down onto his elbows and kisses me. It’s slow. Deep.
Lazy. ‘You make a fucking amazing hooker, though,’ he growls into my
mouth. ‘Not sure where my sweet little convent girl got to tonight.’
I giggle in delight and wrap my legs around his waist. I still have these
bloody heels on. ‘You made it easy,’ I tell him. ‘You were so bossy and
yummy. All I had to do was say yes, sir.’
His eyes darken. ‘And you did that so beautifully.’
‘If I’m not a hooker anymore, can I take my shoes off?’
He blinks and looks around. ‘Shit, yeah. Obviously. Let me.’
And with that, he’s getting to his knees and gently unbuckling the tiny,
fiddly buckles on my shoes. I wiggle my toes in pleasure, then stop when I
see the expression in his eyes.
‘Arms above your head, gorgeous.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I whisper, my mouth twisting in amusement, and he shakes
his head at me. Then he’s prowling back over me, reaching across to the
bedside unit for a condom from the bowlful, and ripping the foil off with his
teeth.
 34

BELLE

I
’ve never been up close with a condom before. The sight of Rafe biting
down on his lower lip as he rolls the latex painfully up his engorged-
looking dick is one of the most overtly sexual things I’ve ever seen.
Then it’s on, and he’s giving it a tug and crawling back over me. He
takes another tube of lube—this bedside unit is well kitted out—and
proceeds to smear it over me, working it inside me with a couple of fingers.
I gasp at the cold as much as the stretch.
‘We’re getting you even wetter, sweetheart,’ he croons, keeping his eyes
on my face. ‘It’ll be tight, okay? But I know you’ll take me so well. I’m
going to fill you up so fully.’
His words and his fingers have me melting against him, and I nod. God,
all the times I’ve wondered when I’d possibly get up the courage to have
sex. I’ve always assumed it would be with a nice boy like Harry, with rings
on both our fingers. Not unwed and in a sex club with the most intoxicating,
debauched man I could ever imagine.
‘Legs up, baby,’ Rafe says, and I slide my feet towards me and let my
knees drop open as if I’m getting waxed. He grins at me, a dirty,
conspiratorial grin that would melt my underwear off if I was wearing any.
His fingers pull out, replaced by the bluntest wedge of manhood at my
entrance.
Oh God.
I clench involuntarily.
 ‘Relax, okay, sweetheart? I know you can take me. Let’s go slow. Don’t
forget to breathe.’
I nod, exhaling like I do in yoga class, and focus on how gorgeous this
man is, how overpowered I feel to have his huge body on top of mine, and
how there’s no one else on the face of the planet I want to do this with. My
arms are still above my head, adding to my sense of surrender.
He pauses to kiss me, his tongue greedily taking what it needs, and then
he’s edging forward, and I’m trying desperately not to scoot my bottom
away from this invasion, and he’s in, stretching my entrance so intensely I
don’t think I could manage another millimetre.
‘You’re in,’ I say like I can’t believe it, and he laughs gently against my
mouth. ‘Just the crown, sweetheart. You’re doing so well. You’re so tight I
might fucking explode. Thank fuck I’ve blown once already.’
Just the crown? Oh, Jesus.
He rolls his hips, slowly and carefully, and edges forward a tiny bit
more. There’s so little space between his dick and my walls that I wouldn’t
be surprised to hear squeaking noises.
‘Sore?’ he asks.
I consider. ‘It stings on the outside, but on the inside it just feels… I
don’t know. It’s a lot.’
‘I know, baby. You’re doing so well. We’ll be magic together in a few
days.’
It seems unlikely I’ll be able to walk in a few days, let alone have sex,
but I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, he knows more
about this stuff than me. ‘Okay,’ I wheeze instead.
‘That overwhelm you feel… think of it as pressure. Not pain. You can
take this. You just need to get used to that feeling of fullness. And sometime
soon, when my dick isn’t filling you up, all you’re going to feel is
emptiness. Got it?’
‘Mm-hmm,’ I say, and he edges forward another inch. I shift. Forget
fingers. Forget silly little wand vibrators. Rafe is filling me up with his dick,
and the sensations are as elemental as they are new and uncomfortable.
Having him push inside me, inch by inch, feels like déjà vu. Like I’ve done
this in a million previous lives and I’m just remembering.
It’s a key turning in a lock. It’s not sexual; it’s chemical. I understand
that my body’s been built to take a man like this, to take Rafe like this, in
the same way that an acorn understands its destiny as a majestic oak. He’s
unfurling primitive parts of my body and my soul that have long lain
dormant and are now claiming their birthright.
I breathe in, I breathe out, and I push into him, and he practically
collapses on top of me as he shoots forward. His cheek, when he rubs it
against my jaw, is beaded with sweat.
‘Holy fuck, Belle,’ he grits out. ‘I’ll embarrass myself if you keep doing
that.’
‘Are you in?’ I ask, like a child asking are we nearly there yet? He’s got
to be in, he’s got to, surely, because I’m pretty sure he just hit my womb.
But oh my God.
The feeling.
The fullness.
I lie perfectly still, afraid to move in case I split myself in two. He pulls
himself off me and looks down at me, and if we’d managed to keep up our
client/hooker charade until now, it would be falling to pieces around us in
this moment, because his eyes are bottomless black pools of emotion.
Disbelief.
‘I’m in, baby,’ he says. ‘Jesus fucking Christ, you’re tight. You’re so—
I’m close to losing my shit. I’m so proud of you.’
My face splits into a smile. So he hasn’t moved yet, but he’s in. I have a
beautiful man inside me. I’m not a virgin anymore, and the skies have not
fallen, and the ground has not cracked open to reveal the gaping, fiery jaws
of hell.
On the contrary, I feel pretty fabulous.
You know, full, but fabulous.
‘Oh my God,’ I whisper.
‘Oh my God is right. You doing okay? Do you want me to put more lube
on?’
‘Er, I think if you try to take that thing out and put it back in, your
chances are slim.’ I remove a hand from above my head and curl it around
his neck. His skin and hair are damp, too. I love that his entire body is
reacting so viscerally to being inside mine.
He starts to move. Slowly, like he’s learning his way around me. ‘I have
wanted to fuck your beautiful pussy since the moment I saw you,’ he tells
me in a dangerously low voice. ‘If I’d had my way, I would have pushed
you into your parents’ loo and got you on your knees. And then, when I
couldn’t hold back any longer, I would have bent you over the basin and
flipped up that little white dress you were wearing and fucked you. Hard.’
Tender Rafe makes my heart melt. But dirty Rafe, whispering his filthy
fantasies about defiling me while he’s actually defiling me is a whole other
level of intensity. I stare at him, transfixed, marvelling at the controlled
bulge of his delts as he braces and pushes forward into me.
Because Rafe has whispered all of his plans to fuck me, as he puts it, a
million times. And I have to admit it makes me hot when he says things like
that. Terrified and hot. My mind’s eye follows all too gladly to the wicked
worlds he shows me.
But now I’m experiencing first hand what it’s like to be impaled on him,
to feel the full force of this onslaught of his body on mine, it turns those
fantasies stratospheric. Rafe bending me over my parents’ basin and
pushing that monster inside me from behind and getting me to take it again
and again and again—it’s unfathomable.
The wicked alchemy of his words and his slow, sensual thrusts have me
saying something I could never have conceived of saying before this
millisecond.
‘Fuck me hard now.’
He stops. I’ve shocked the unshockable man. His face creases up in
agony. ‘Jesus Christ, baby. You’ll send me over the edge.’
I put both hands on his shoulders. ‘I mean it. I want to feel it.’
He turns his head to plant a kiss on my bicep. ‘There’s plenty of time
for that. I’ll hurt you, and I’m not having that. I’m trying to go gentle
tonight.’
‘I know you are. And I know it’ll hurt. But I just want—I want you to
really let me have it.’ I smile coquettishly, hoping he can’t refuse me. ‘I
want the full Rafe Charlton experience.’
You’d think he was on the rack from the agony on his face. ‘I can’t trust
myself to let go. Not with you. Not yet.’
I tug at my lower lip with my teeth and push my pelvis forward. He
groans.
‘Show me how you’d fuck me if we were in my parents’ loo.’
‘You’re staying on your back tonight, sweetheart. I’ll be too deep if I go
behind you.’
‘I know. I just want you to really go for it.’ I’m begging now. ‘Show me
what you’ve got.’
 Okay. Maybe that last taunt was a red rag too far, because the man’s
facial expression flips from one of turmoil to fatalism. He grinds into me,
hard.
‘God, I knew my little virgin would be like this when I filled her up
with my cock. I just knew it. You want me to show you?’
‘Yes,’ I gasp.
He hangs his head, and my hands splay over his tightly bunched mass of
back muscles, and he’s off. He slides out and thrusts hard, and the sensation
of him bottoming out in me is how it must be when tectonic plates collide.
Violent.
Elemental.
The perfect fit.
There’s pain, yes, a lot of pain as he stretches my flesh. Chafes it. But
more than pain, there’s an avalanche of sensation. Of emotional and
physical overwhelm so great the breath practically leaves my body. It’s as if
it can’t possibly accommodate Rafe as well as air or anything else we
require to function. As if it’s feeding off Rafe alone.
Being the vessel for this extraordinary outpouring of testosterone is
where I’m meant to be. The ways we’ve worshipped each other’s bodies
these past couple of weeks have been many and varied, but being fused
with him like this is on another level. It’s transcendent. It’s so intimate, I
can’t ever imagine wanting to do it with anyone else.
I simply want Rafe rutting into my body as if I’m the only one who fits
him, who can take him. I want him driving the breath out of me and
showing me that, all this time, when I thought I was full, I was wrong.
I was hollow.
His thrusts pick up pace, his hips a volley of movement against me, and
I hold on more tightly, unsure if I’ll survive this. And then he’s bucking and
swearing and gritting out things that would make a whore blush before he
thrusts once, twice, and I feel my insides fill with hot, wet seed.
He collapses on me, his teeth dragging over the skin of my neck, his
tongue darting out to lick at the slick of sweat that’s erupted all over my
body, his arms pushing under me so he can hold me to his chest. My legs
wrap around him as my heart marvels at this act, the oldest act of time. It’s
the most effective route I’ve ever seen to unravel all that lies on the surface
of two people and expose the humanity beneath.
 35

RAFE

ow come you’re so good at role play, anyway?’ Belle asks. ‘Did you
‘H secretly go to drama school?’
She’s lying in my bed with me, our limbs entangled and a
sanitary-pad-shaped frozen gel pack in her panties. I got a couple on
Amazon a few days ago, just to be prepared for when she allowed me inside
her body. I suspected she might need some ice to help the swelling. I’ve
forced a couple of Nurofen down her, too.
I grin at her, at this gorgeous honey-blonde who’s entrusted me with her
most vulnerable moments and now fits perfectly in my arms. ‘Says the
woman who’s equally convincing playing a nun and a whore.’
Her mouth twists in amusement. ‘Yeah, but I haven’t had to lead the
scenes. I usually just lie there and let you ravage me, which isn’t exactly
hard work.’
‘I don’t know,’ I drawl. ‘You were hot as fuck tonight.’ My mind serves
me up an image of Belle so gratifying that I know it’ll be at the top of my
spank bank for a long time. Kneeling in front of me, sucking me off in just a
choker and a pair of fuck-me heels. I mean, how is a bloke supposed to
withstand that? And she was just as intoxicating standing there naked,
desperate for the touch of the vibrator, and when she let me bend her over
and rub my face all over her pussy in front of the entire fucking club…
Jesus. I’m getting hard again, and I have no intention of making her do
anything about it. She was a champ tonight, and now she gets to rest. I trail
my fingers down the impossibly soft, thin skin of her back.
A thought occurs to me.
‘It’s kind of like that conversation we had in the shower after the priest
scene. I was talking dirty to you, trying to talk you off the ledge, but I
meant what I said. You want to be my whore and my madonna. You want
me to treat you like both of them. It seems to me that’s because you are
both. You feel as comfortable taking on the role of a hooker as of a
postulant. You make both feel as empowering as fuck.’
She stares at me like this concept is brand new for her, too.
‘Seriously?’
I shrug. ‘Feels that way. Which role did you prefer?’
She bites her lip, considering. ‘I loved them both. But you’re right; the
dynamic was the same in both scenarios. I just adore having you boss me
around and do what you want with me.’
I open my mouth to reply.
‘In bed, I mean,’ she says hastily. ‘Only ever in bed.’
I smile. Like I’d ever presume to try to tell her what to do outside of the
bedroom. She’s made it pretty clear that will never happen.
‘Which do you prefer?’ she asks.
‘What you said. As long as I’m getting to corrupt you, I’ll take you any
way I can have you. Nun, whore, secretary… they’re all great for me.’
‘Secretary?’ she muses.
‘Bloody hell, yeah.’
‘I can see that. But you didn’t answer my question. Why are you so
good at role play? And how?’
I blow out a breath. It’s difficult to make sense of the melange of needs
that drive my love of acting out a good scene with enthusiastic co-
conspirators.
‘Probably the same as you,’ I say. ‘It adds something. It adds to the
forbidden aspect, and that makes it hotter. It’s excellent escapism. And—’ I
stop myself before I can shoot myself in the foot.
Her eyes narrow. ‘And what?’
Here goes. ‘It creates a boundary around what I’m doing.’
‘A boundary like during the priest thing, you mean?’ she asks. ‘To ring
fence it? Kind of like, what happens in the room stays in the room?’
‘Yeah, I suppose so. It removes it from real life. If I’m someone else,
and the other people in the room are also playing someone else, then it
shouldn’t have any real-life repercussions. It keeps things clean.’
‘And by repercussions you mean relationships, yes?’
Fuck, this woman is insightful. ‘Yeah, sweetheart. I mean relationships.’
I flash her a small grin, but I want her to know I’m deadly serious about
what I say next. ‘I’m not interested in any of the women from the club
pursuing me outside of those walls. That’s precisely why I tend to confine
my sex life to Alchemy.’ My hand moves right to that curve at the small of
her back. ‘And then a young, innocent bombshell crosses my path and asks
me to help her with her sexual awakening, and I’m more beguiled and
addicted than I’ve ever been in my life, and suddenly all I can think about
is a relationship.’
She stares at me, those tiger eyes so huge and limpid and stunned that I
can’t bear it. I roll her onto her back and range over her.
‘What do you say to that?’ I whisper. I run the back of my hand over the
flat of her stomach, my knuckles brushing over velvety skin. I have the
oddest, most sudden urge to know how this part of her body would feel
beneath my hand as it swelled with new life. Life I had put there.
Holy fucking shit.
I am losing. The. Plot.
The breeding kink thing has always made me feel physically nauseous,
and here I am fantasising about knocking up a twenty-two-year-old who,
until a couple of hours ago, was technically a virgin and who has most
definitely not agreed to be my girlfriend.
Yet.
Cal and Zach would have a field day with this.
‘Are you asking me to be your girlfriend?’ she asks shyly.
‘I am. Now we’ve done the deed, we should make it official, don’t you
think?’
Something flashes across her face, more pain than pleasure.
‘What?’ I ask.
She slides a warm palm across my shoulder. ‘Rafe. You’ve been so
lovely to me, but I’m not under any illusions. I mean, you own a sex club,
for God’s sake!’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning I can’t expect you to give up your… lifestyle for me. You’ve
been so attentive and amazing, but you’d get bored in five minutes if you
went monogamous.’
 I glare at her. She has it so wrong it’s almost funny.
Her bravado shrinks under my withering look. ‘Oh. I mean—did you
mean we wouldn’t be exclusive? Like we’d be in a “relationship”, but we’d
—you’d still carry on… playing at the club?’ She trails off.
‘Belle,’ I say. ‘With all due respect, shut the fuck up. There is one
obstacle to you being my girlfriend, and that is not my being able to keep
my dick under control at Alchemy.’ I pause. Meaningfully, I hope.
‘What is it, then?’ she asks, and I’m struck afresh by how innocent she
is. How inexperienced. How fucking young.
‘The problem is that you’re twenty-two, and I’m the first guy you’ve
really been intimate with. It’s clear, from what’s gone down at the club and
the way you are with me, that you have the most incredible sexual
opportunities ahead of you, and I don’t want to get in the way of any of
that.’
‘I don’t want anyone else,’ she says. Her eyes are welling up, and
there’s panic in her voice. ‘I just want you, but I know I wouldn’t be enough
for you.’
‘Fuck, Belle.’ I lower my forehead to hers. Our lips graze. ‘Do you
know what Callum said to me the other day when he warned me to give you
some space and let you own this time of your life? He said she doesn’t need
another daddy, and those words have haunted me all week.’
She erupts with shocked laughter. ‘He said what? God, he’s obnoxious.’
‘You’re not wrong, but I can’t help but feel he’s onto something. Baby,
I’m so much older than you, and you have your whole life ahead of you.’ I
stroke the stomach I’ve vowed not to think about. ‘What if you’ve gone for
me because I’m the polar opposite of your dad, or because I’m older, and I
can show you the ropes?’
‘You’ve certainly shown me the ropes,’ she murmurs.
‘And there are many, many ropes still to show you,’ I say wolfishly.
‘But maybe you need some time out—maybe you need a nice guy your own
age—’
‘Oh my God,’ she shouts. She puts a hand to my chest, signalling to me
to get out of her space, and I do. She sits up on one elbow and glares at me.
‘I cannot think of anything more… banal than dating another Harry. I’d die
of boredom. I’d never have an orgasm. I certainly would never get bent
over the back of a sex club sofa, that’s for sure. I don’t want that.’
 ‘What do you want?’ I ask her softly, and she raises a hand to cup my
stubbly jaw. I turn my mouth and kiss her palm.
‘I want you,’ she says, ‘but no matter how incredible our time together
has been, I have never, ever allowed myself to hope I might end up with
you.’
‘Jesus, sweetheart,’ I say hoarsely. I tug her down on top of me and kiss
her hungrily, coaxing her sweet mouth open with my tongue. She’s so
delicious, so intoxicating, and so unaware of her allure it’s unbelievable.
Her hair trails over my face, and I squish it between my palms as I cover
her jaw and her ears with them.
I want her to hear nothing in this moment but the sound of her own
heartbeat.
No matter how much I want to keep going, I release her. ‘You have me,’
I tell her. ‘It’s not like I even have a choice in the matter. I’m a fucking
goner; I’ve told you that. I want you, and only you. It sounds like we’re
both doing a fine job of trying to talk the other one out of dating us, am I
right?’
Her face, which is flushed with emotion (and from my ardent kisses)
lights up with a smile. ‘Yeah.’
‘But I want to be with you. And I think you’re saying you want to be
with me.’
‘Actually, I was just using you for sex,’ she deadpans. I hook an arm
around her and wrestle her back onto her back, sealing my mouth to her
stomach and blowing a lengthy raspberry. Her skin vibrates satisfyingly and
tickles my mouth like nothing else.
When she’s finished shrieking and slapping my arm, she pipes up again.
‘I have a question.’
‘Anything, sweetheart.’
‘Talk to me about the sharing.’
I glance up from where I’m shamelessly rubbing my nose over her skin.
‘Sharing?’
‘You know.’ She squirms. ‘Like in the sessions. Callum, and that guy
Alex, that first time. And doing some… stuff earlier in the main Playroom.
Tell me how you feel about all that. About it not just being one on one.’
I throw myself back down on the pillow next to her and catch her under
her knee so I can tug her leg over my thigh and, in doing so, turn her to face
me.
 ‘I’ll tell you, but afterwards I want you to tell me how you feel about it,
too. Because it’s seriously important, especially in light of our discussion
about how much I want you to be my girlfriend.’
I lean forward and kiss her on the nose.
‘Okay,’ she says.
‘It’s a double-edged sword,’ I admit. ‘Not in the sessions. With Unfurl,
it’s all about you, so it makes things clear-cut. I stand by what I told you
that day in the park. Four mouths are better than one.’
She licks her lips. ‘I have to say, your mathematical abilities were
very… accurate.’
‘I know.’
‘Not that I’ve had four mouths on me… yet.’
I roll my eyes. She’s a piece of work. ‘Those sessions are about opening
your eyes to pure pleasure rather than stressing about the morality or
conventionality of what form that pleasure takes.’
‘And tonight?’ she asks. She’s studying my face carefully.
‘Tonight was a trade-off,’ I say, ‘between making it feel intimate and
safe for you and pushing the boundaries again. Using the opportunity to
coax you just outside of your comfort zone, or of whatever super-Catholic-
fucked-up preconceptions you had of how it might be when you lost your
virginity.’
That makes her laugh. ‘Thanks a lot.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘So… it doesn’t bother you when there are other people watching, or
touching me? Or it bothers you but you deal with it for my sake? Or it
actively turns you on?’
‘It’s a bit of all three,’ I say, the pad of my thumb going to the plump,
delicious centre of her lower lip. I press down gently and remember how
those lips felt around my cock earlier. And yes, I’m still hard. ‘That’s the
double-edged sword. On the one hand, I fucking hated it when Alex had his
mouth on you in the first session, or when Cal was pawing at you last week.
‘But watching you come apart harder than you would have if it had been
just me was fucking amazing.’
She frowns. ‘I think you made me come apart pretty well tonight, all by
yourself.’
I smirk. ‘That I did. But it also comes down to envy as an aphrodisiac.
Watching other people touching you and going fucking crazy for you is a
massive fucking turn-on. That jealousy gives my desire an edge. If I’m
being completely honest, it’s the satisfaction of being the one that gets you
when everyone else would kill for you that makes me harder than anything.
I felt on the sidelines in that first session, but you weren’t supposed to know
it was me.’
‘You shouldn’t have smelt so delicious then.’ She smiles coquettishly.
‘Anyway, I came even harder knowing it was you kissing me. It would have
fallen flat if you hadn’t been there.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ I tell her.
‘And tonight? Do you get off on people watching?’
‘I wouldn’t class myself as an exhibitionist, but I’ll admit there’s some
toxic, alpha part of me that wants the conquest and wants the public
admiration for it. I had the most beautiful woman in the entire place tonight.
Nobody else could touch you, and I got to rub it in their faces. I’m not
proud of it, but that’s how I feel.’ I pause. ‘How was it for you, having me
pretend to inspect you in public?’
She snorts. ‘I’m not sure there was much pretending going on. But I
loved it. I was really nervous—I wasn’t sure—but you looked so intense.
There was something so erotic about being this commodity you were
paying for and doing as you liked with.’ She squirms. ‘God, it was so hot. I
don’t know how twisted this is, but when you’re all clinical and bossy and
you… inspect me and treat me really dismissively, it turns me on so much I
want to die.’
God, she’s incredible. Just incredible. ‘For what it’s worth, I say
huskily, ‘acting dismissively or dispassionately towards you is fucking
impossible. But I do it because I know it gets you going, and it turns me on
just as much, believe me. It’s the power thing.’
‘Have you had lots of group sex?’ she asks timidly.
I press my lips together in amusement. ‘Probably. I don’t know. Yeah, I
suppose so.’
‘Have you done sexual things with another man?’
‘Nope.’ I shake my head. ‘I’m straight. I’m all about the pussy.’
‘But you don’t mind there being other guys in the room?’
‘No. As I said, it’s all about the woman. If there are multiple guys
servicing the same woman, then I’m up for that, because she gets to have
more fun, and I benefit from that. It’s hot. As long as the guys don’t want to
touch my dick or have me touch theirs, that’s cool. But if we’re all focused
on her, and everyone ends up shooting their load over or inside her, then
great. If it’s me and a few women, I can handle that too.’
I watch carefully for her reaction, because there’s a lot to unpack there.
She doesn’t seem horrified, just thoughtful.
‘Because the maths is good, if you have a few women to yourself?’ she
asks, and I chuckle.
‘Exactly, baby. The maths is very good.’
‘Would you want me with another woman?’ she asks, her eyes wide.
‘No fucking interest. I want to put all my focus on you.’
She smiles like she’s pleased with my answer. While I never mind
having a woman on my face and one impaled on my dick, I arguably prefer
it when a few of us are sharing one woman. I enjoy the power play. I get off
on watching her surrender completely.
‘And you have situations at the club where a few of you will be with
one woman, but you’ll all actually… finish?’ she continues bravely.
‘Definitely. Often the women love it.’ I lower my voice. ‘Remember
how excited you got the other night when I was talking about letting the
priests loose on you? Can you imagine if they all got so desperate for you
that they were unleashing themselves on you however they could while one
lucky fucker fucked you to hell and back?’
I’m not oblivious to the glassiness in her eyes. She’s as aroused as I am
imagining that. ‘That’s the kind of thing we could organise for the Adieu
session, if you like,’ I say softly.
‘But what about the boyfriend girlfriend thing?’ she asks.
‘None of these things have to be mutually exclusive, baby,’ I tell her.
‘Adieu’s part of the programme, anyway, so you have free rein. I am
fucking loving watching you unfurl before my eyes. I would never, ever
take away the opportunity for you to explore your darkest desires. This is
precisely what it’s for.’
‘What happens in the room stays in the room,’ she whispers.
‘Exactly,’ I say, more forcefully than I feel. That double-edged sword is
back, its sharp tip pressing right at my heart. Because everything I told her
was right. It fucking kills me to see other guys getting anywhere near her.
She is mine, and she’s going to stay mine.
At the same time, the idea of her stretched out in restraints while a few
of us have a crack at stirring her up into an unimaginable, transportive level
of arousal is the hottest thing I can possibly imagine.
 ‘Could there be a format,’ she says slowly, ‘where there are other guys,
like, touching me, but you’re the only one who actually gets inside me?
Because I love the idea of having lots of hands on me, and mouths, and not
really knowing who’s doing what, you know? I want to completely
surrender and just be pillaged. It’s one of my ultimate fantasies.’
‘God, I know, baby,’ I rasp. I cannot believe this woman, can’t believe
the extent of her bravery and open-mindedness and appetite. ‘I’d love to see
you come apart like that. But I’m the only one who gets to fuck you.’
‘Good. Because I cannot imagine doing that with anyone else.’ She
shakes her head, amused. ‘I can’t believe Gen wanted me to do that with
Alex. It would have been so horrible with anyone but you.’
My ego is now the size of a house. She gets it. She gets the difference
between the maths of using willing hands and mouths selfishly, to worship
and plunder every inch of her body, and the intimate intrusion of having my
dick inside her body.
I get it too. Until this month I have fucked women left, right and centre
without a second thought. I’ve seen them as beautiful bodies. Willing holes.
What I felt when Belle let me inside her body tonight was so different,
so transcendent, so intimate, as to be easily mistaken for a different act
altogether.
‘And then afterwards?’ she asks. ‘After the programme?’
‘I told you,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to clip your wings, not when you’re
only just learning to fly. We do this on your terms. I’m happy never to lay a
finger on another woman again. I have my beautiful chameleon—my whore
and my madonna. I don’t need anyone else.
‘But we’re lucky both of us have a fondness for kink, even if you
haven’t explored that much yet. If we want to play with other people in
each other’s presence as part of a scene from time to time, why not? If I
want to fuck my beautiful girlfriend in public without anyone else getting
within a foot of her, why not? And if you want to stay here in this bed with
me and never step through the threshold of Alchemy again, then you’re
worth it. I told you, I don’t need anything else apart from you.’
 36

BELLE

N
ow we’ve laid ourselves bare, I pluck up the courage to pose the
question I’m more nervous to ask than any of my kink-related ones.
‘I was wondering if you’d consider doing something with me on
Sunday,’ I say (okay, so it’s not really a question).
‘Of course. Anything.’
‘You don’t have to say yes,’ I press.
He laughs. ‘Baby. What?’
‘I was thinking of going to Mass,’ I confess, ‘and I was hoping you
might come too. I don’t know if you have a total Mass-ban these days, or
—’
‘Of course I’ll go with you,’ he says quickly. ‘I didn’t realise you still
went.’
‘I go sometimes to keep my parents company. Not usually. But I feel
like going this weekend.’
He’s quiet for a moment, then he jokes, ‘Hoping they’ll be taking
confessions afterwards? Or are you just hoping a little divine sycophancy
will make up for the fact that you’re a dirty, damned little sinner?’
I make a face at him. ‘I’m pretty sure I’m far too damned for an hour at
Mass to make the slightest bit of difference. It’s lucky I don’t believe in hell
anymore, isn’t it?’
‘Very lucky.’ He wraps his arms more tightly around me and rests his
chin on the top of my head, so when I speak next, it’s into his chest.
 ‘I think I just… I don’t know. I kind of want to prove a point to myself,
I suppose. The way Catholicism has been served up to me is so intense that
sometimes it feels like the only options are comply or die. Literally. Like,
go all in or just give up and walk away.’
‘I get that,’ he says quietly into my hair.
‘It’s so set up for failure, and the rules are so ridiculously complex. But
there are parts of it I miss. And Mass is one of them. I used to hate going to
Mass at school—it was so boring—but now I kind of miss it. It’s relaxing.
Is it weird that I feel like that, or am I totally conditioned to think it’s
special when it’s just smoke and mirrors?’
‘I think it’s a bit of both,’ he says. ‘Yeah, those rituals were hammered
into our subconscious week after week for years and years, so we’re going
to attribute a certain significance to things that may not actually warrant it.
Then again, rituals are an essential part of being human. Every culture has
rituals. They ground us, and they give us purpose and meaning. The rituals
you grew up with are bound to be the ones you find comfort in, even if you
have a complicated relationship with the Catholic God you’ve been raised
to believe in.’
‘I think that’s the reason,’ I say, ‘for wanting to go on Sunday. I want
some comfort. It doesn’t have to be comply or die. I get to be an adult who
makes her own choices and yet is still entitled to go to Mass on my terms.
Does that make sense? I’m just trying this new model on for size.’
‘It makes perfect sense,’ he says, and pulls me into him.

R AFE ’ S WORDS ring in my ears as we sit halfway down the endless rows of
pews in the Brompton Oratory thirty-six hours later. This is the church I go
to most often with my parents, and I love it.
Catholics and Protestants have always and will probably always feel a
sense of moral superiority over each other. After years of studying the
Reformation, I totally get why Luther and other mystics broke away from
the church. The Catholic church of their time was fraught with corruption
and abuses of power. Even bibles in the vernacular were forbidden. So
ridiculous to think that uneducated folk would benefit more from a Mass
said in Latin than in a tongue they could speak.
 Having said that, there’s one thing I’ve always thought Catholicism
does brilliantly, and that’s pomp and ceremony. Calvin and his cronies
called it lavish, immoral and misguided reliance on symbolism and empty
ritual at the expense of faith alone, but I disagree.
Not for me the starkly austere interiors of Church of England churches.
I’m a Catholic girl, through and through. I favour stained glass, and gold
everywhere, and priests in richly embroidered vestments, and utter
decadence.
It’s all for the glory of God, you know.
The Oratory embodies that type of audacious, opulent Catholicism that
Baz Luhrmann went with for Romeo and Juliet, and from which Dolce and
Gabbana find endless inspiration for their gilded, sumptuous take on
Sicilian madonnas. This place is bling.
Ironically, we’ve opted to attend the Latin Mass. I understand little more
than the average Tudor peasant would have, but there’s something about the
priest intoning monotonously in an incomprehensible, long-dead language
that lulls me into a kind of stupor. His words are so ancient, the air is so
thick with incense, the choir, when it sings Panis Angelicus during Holy
Communion, is so breathtaking I feel at peace.
At home.
This is what I needed. To be able to come here, to seek refuge in God’s
house, even as a sinner. Even if I don’t know what that God looks like
anymore. Last night I let my gorgeous boyfriend inside my body again. This
morning he’s kneeling next to me on a hard wooden kneeler in a
breathtaking church, because I asked him to.
I don’t go up for Holy Communion. Neither of us does. That feels like a
hypocrisy too far, especially if I no longer believe the little wafer is the
body of Christ or the wine his blood. I’ll leave it to the people who do
believe.
But moments ago, when we stood and recited the Pater Noster as one,
the age-old words gave me goosebumps.
Pater noster qui es in coelis,
sanctificetur nomen tuum;
adveniat regnum tuum,
fiat voluntas tua,
sicut in coelo et in terra.
Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.
 I’m definitely not doing God’s will. But does He care? Is He vengeful?
Or does He love me anyway? If He even exists, that is.
Still, I was right to come here. I second-guessed myself this morning. I
worried I might be doing this out of some good-girl desire to be forgiven for
stepping (way) out of line. But kneeling here I know I’m here on my terms.
And it’s empowering, because the nuns never let slip that I might one day
allow myself to choose the parts of my faith that serve me and lay aside the
parts that curtail me. That are damaging to me.
I edge closer to Rafe on my knees, and he covers my hand with his.

RAFE
After Mass, Belle and I stroll past the museums and cut down to South Ken,
where we shutter ourselves in the cosy corner of a little brunch place on
Draycott Avenue. She’s quiet on the walk, contemplative, though she
doesn’t seem upset.
Mass went better for me than I’d expected. When my girlfriend asked
me if I’d go with her, my answer was a resounding of course. I didn’t
mention to her that I hadn’t set foot in a church in years, not counting a few
weddings. Not bursting into flames upon setting foot in the place was a
pleasant surprise.
There are worse places to spend an hour than the Oratory, with its
staggering succession of intricately painted domes and sculpted arches and
marble pillars. Not a square inch of it has been left undecorated. It’s a
marvel. I spent most of the hour looking up, and the Latin words to prayers
as old as time came back to me as easily as if I was still twelve, kneeling in
the chapel at school.
I look across at the woman opposite me. She’s in a gorgeous, floaty
dress, her long golden hair cascading in silky tendrils over her shoulders.
Her breasts. She’s watching me over the top of her coffee mug, a small
smile on her face.
 She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
‘Penny for your thoughts,’ I say.
She lowers her mug. ‘I was thinking how much better I feel having gone
to Mass. It’s like how I used to feel after going to confession, you know? I
used to dread it, and I’d get so nervous about confessing my sins, and then
once the priest had absolved me, I practically skipped out of the
confessional. It was like the weight of the world had been lifted.’
‘I know exactly what you mean,’ I say. ‘But you don’t need to be
absolved, baby. You know that, right? You haven’t done anything wrong.
You haven’t caused anyone pain or suffering. Everything you’ve done—
we’ve done—is perfectly acceptable.’
‘I know that.’ She traces a fingertip through some spilt sugar on the
surface of the table. ‘I think it felt more meaningful this morning because I
came to church willingly. I went there for peace, and closure, and I got it.
Was it just me, or did it feel magical in there?’
I consider my words. ‘When you’re in a space filled with people who
believe something strongly, you’re going to feel it. Especially if they’re
praying. Doesn’t matter whether you share their beliefs on how prayer
works.’
‘Do you believe in the power of prayer?’ she asks.
‘I do. Not in a Catholic way—not in a way that paints God as some
merciful celestial vending machine who doles out grace to those who beg
hard enough for it. But if you believe we’re all made of energy, and that our
thoughts and beliefs have a vibrational energy too, and that prayer and faith
can raise that vibrational energy to a level that’s actually transformative,
then yeah. I believe prayer is powerful in the same way meditation is
powerful.
‘I went to Lourdes one year in Sixth Form—a group of us took some
people from the school’s parish who were seriously sick. There was no
denying you could feel the faith in that place—the air was thick with it.’
I pause. I haven’t thought of that trip to Lourdes in a long, long time.
She looks as taken aback as I am. ‘So you were pretty religious when
you were younger? I assumed you’d always rejected Catholicism.’
‘It’s hard to be that entrenched in something at a young age and have
the capacity to reject it outright,’ I say. ‘Those Jesuits know how to mould
impressionable young minds. But yeah, I was religious. I was an altar boy
and proud of it. I took my duties very seriously.’
 She reaches over and squeezes my hand. Her eyes are shining with
emotion. ‘I bet you were the best altar boy ever. And the handsomest.’
I chuckle. ‘I took a lot of time getting the parting of my hair just right
on Sundays.’
‘And what happened?’
I take a sip of espresso. ‘I got embittered, I suppose. There were so
many bad experiences that I started to think surely this isn’t the way it’s
supposed to be?’
‘Like what?’ she asks softly.
‘Like…’ I swallow. Jesus, this is hard. ‘I had my first panic attack in a
church. I think it was a panic attack, anyway. We were at a local girls’
school, rehearsing for a show with them. It was a convent. We stayed for
Mass after the rehearsal and it was evening—the church was pretty dark.
‘Anyway, the nuns in charge made us leave a big space between each of
us on the pews, because they said the Devil was circling the room, waiting
for one of us to have an impure thought so he could come and sit next to
us.’
Belle’s spare hand flies to her mouth. Her eyes are wide with concern.
‘Yeah. And it freaked the fuck out of me. I remember sitting there, glued
to the pew, wondering if the Devil was next to me right then, and
wondering what He’d do if he got close enough to sense my sins. I swear I
could barely breathe. I remember it so clearly—my heart was beating so
hard, and there was noise rushing through my ears. I suspect I nearly
blacked out.’
Belle lowers her hand, her other one still gripping mine. ‘How old were
you?’
I think. ‘Eleven? Twelve, maybe?’
‘Oh my gosh,’ she whispers. ‘That is so messed up. It—it defies belief. I
don’t even know where to start.’
‘I know,’ I say grimly.
‘I can’t work out if those nuns were just totally bitter and twisted and
got off on scaring the hell out of kids, or if they truly believed that crap.
And I don’t know which is worse.’
‘Exactly. The idea that they might genuinely believe it and then feel like
they’re doing the right thing by putting that fear of God into us is majorly,
majorly fucked up. But that was just one example. I lasted as an altar boy
for another two years, but I got more and more disillusioned. I kept thinking
surely it can’t be this complicated? And this vicious?’
‘Seriously,’ she says. ‘That’s what frustrates me most about my dad. It’s
like he’s constantly running this giant checklist he can’t possibly keep on
top of. It’s exhausting. Surely, if there’s anything, there’s God, and there’s
love, and there’s humanity. And we all do our bit. That’s it.’
‘Amen to that. Someone, somewhere, has over-engineered the shit out
of spirituality to create organised religion, and in my view, it does more
harm than good.’
‘I think that’s why today was nice,’ she says thoughtfully. ‘Lots of
people, lots of families, who were hopefully there to find peace and not tick
a box or ward off the Devil or whatever.’
‘That’s fair,’ I say. ‘I hope that’s the case. Coming together and praying
and just being… I get all that. It’s the idea that anyone, individual or
organisation, has any jurisdiction whatsoever over another person’s brain
that fucks me off beyond all measure. And Jesus, it’s caused so much pain
and suffering over the centuries. Witch trials, the Inquisition… it’s so
fucked up.’
‘It all comes from fear, right?’ Belle says. ‘That’s the ultimate fear-
driven behaviour. You and I have different opinions, and only one of us can
be right, and when you think differently from me you scare the hell out of
me, so I’m going to suppress and persecute the hell out of you until you
shut up and stop threatening me with your weird, “other” beliefs.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘It’s exhausting, the entire thing. Just ease the fuck up,
everyone. Stop giving a shit what other people think and do. Newsflash: it
is none of your fucking business.’
‘That’s the single sentence I would most like to say to my dad,’ Belle
says with a rueful smile as she picks up her fork.
I gaze at her. At this woman who, on the face of it, is so different from
me, who’s had fourteen fewer years than I have to put distance between
herself and the faulty logic of the beliefs she was branded with.
She’s come so far these past few weeks. She’s brave, and intelligent,
and stunningly insightful. She’s discovered her worth, harnessed her
currency, and demanded her freedom.
She’s truly amazing.
I bet she’d want to bring her kids up exactly the way I do. I bet she’d
want to tell them every day that their mind is their own, that their
observations and beliefs are valid, that the things grownups try shamelessly
to pass off as facts and rules and foundations of stone are in fact as
ephemeral as air. Subjective beliefs. Shaky social constructs.
I bet she’d teach them to nurture their own worldview and to accept
those of everyone around them without feeling threatened.
I bet she’d make an amazing mother.
 37

BELLE

I
’m new to the unique horror that is interacting with men with whom I’ve
been sexually intimate. I never had to face former one-night stands at
uni. And I’ve only slept with one man. So it strikes me as unjust and
excruciating in equal measure that this particular Wednesday night at
Alchemy should feel like a dystopian version of This is Your (Brief but
Productive Sexual) Life.
‘Belle, meet Alex,’ Rafe says. I don’t miss the clipped curtness of his
tone, nor the way his arm tightens around my shoulders in the booth we’re
sharing with Maddy, Genevieve—Gen, Callum and Zach. It’s already weird
enough sitting here opposite a guy I’ve been intimate with and who
Maddy’s actually shagged. Though I can’t say either Maddy or Callum
seems remotely fazed by the incestuous nature of our gathering.
I turn my attention to the blonde guy standing by our booth, smiling at
me. Good Lord, he really is handsome. Rafe was right. He definitely has an
air of Hangman from Maverick about him. Yummy.
Too bad he’s not the gorgeous, moody-looking, dark-haired devil whose
thigh is brushing mine and who’s captured my heart. Still. He’s hot. It’s
deeply freaky to think that this guy could have been the one I gave my
virginity to. He could have had his actual penis inside me, his entire body
bearing down on mine as he thrust. The thought is both fascinating and
horrifying. Even so, he has brought me to orgasm with his tongue, a fact I
can’t quite deal with at this moment.
 ‘Good to see you, Belle,’ he says, his blue eyes shining as he leans
forward to shake my hand.
I appreciate that he said good to see you. He didn’t say good to meet
you, which would have been disingenuous, or add a pointed again, which
would have been creepy. No, he got it just right. Clearly he’s a gentleman
(his penchant for sex clubs notwithstanding, of course, because this new,
emancipated Belle doesn’t judge).
I aim for friendly neutrality and shake back, seeking refuge in the
oldest, most noncommittal rhetorical question in English greetings history.
‘How do you do?’
Being just as English as me, he understands I don’t actually want to
know how he’s doing and ignores the question. The expression on his face
is appreciative but not creepy, and for that I’m grateful.
We all make polite small talk, before Alex gestures at the Double Doors
of Doom and explains that he’s off to the Playroom.
He’s off to have sex.
God, this place is so weird.
Not that he’s alone. Rafe and I will probably go next door in a bit and,
um, make use of the facilities. If Maddy and Callum don’t end up in there,
either together or individually, I’ll eat my hat.
The only unknowns are Zach and Genevieve. Genevieve keeps her
cards close to her chest, and Rafe’s filled me in on Zach’s incredibly tragic
story. My heart bleeds for him and his little girls. I can’t imagine how hard
it must be for him to put one step in front of the other each day. He’s such a
good-looking guy, with even darker hair than Rafe and gorgeous blue eyes
that bear the purple shadows of the chronically exhausted.
He’s quieter than the others—not that it’s hard to be quieter than
Callum. Zach seems largely content to observe, but when Maddy speaks,
I’ve noticed him casting long, sideways glances at her.
Maddy is the reason we’re here. She’ll be joining Alchemy next week to
take over some admin jobs and to manage their social media. I can’t wait to
see her unleashed on their Instagram account. She’ll be amazing. She’s
already quit her temping job and is enjoying a few days off.
She and Gen have been talking a lot. I know Maddy had psyched herself
up to apply for a hosting role in the club itself, but it strikes me that this is a
better fit for her. She’s extremely commercial and far more efficient than
she lets on, and I know she’ll do a great job for them.
 The icing on the cake? She gets Alchemy membership as part of her
package, so she can come here as often as she likes.
We’re here to toast Maddy, and despite the awkwardness of having
Callum and Alex at large, I’m enjoying myself. These are Rafe’s people,
and I’m committed to getting to know them better. It’s tempting to write
Callum off as a good-natured oaf, but Rafe tells me he’s one of the kindest,
most big-hearted people he knows.
Maddy is the centre of attention, and she’s in her element. She’s all
dressed up in a tiny, shimmery black dress. Her skin is luminescent beyond
all decency or fairness, and her light grey-green eyes are huge and clear.
She has the sweetest mouth, with a top lip that curves up into a high
Cupid’s bow, and if I were ever to kiss a girl, I’d want to kiss her.
She flicks her hair over her shoulder. It’s straight, shiny, and the colour
of milk chocolate. She’s wedged between Zach and Callum, telling a story
about one of the entitled guys at the hedge fund where she’s been temping.
Her hands move just as fast as her words spill out, and she has everyone in
fits of laughter. No one can compete when she’s like this. She’s on fire.
I’m sitting as close as I possibly can to Rafe without being on his lap. I
turn my face so I can whisper in his ear, thrilling in the feel of my lips
moving over stubble as I do.
‘Do you think Zach has a thing for Maddy?’ I ask so only he can hear.
My hand rests on his thigh, which is rock hard under his expensive wool
trousers.
We’re so going next door later.
He pulls back so he can, in turn, seal his lips to my ear.
‘I hope not. But I did wonder the other day, from a couple of things he
said. I’ll fill you in later, but she’d better not try anything.’
I frown. She’s my best friend, but I can only imagine how protective
Rafe is of Zach after all he’s been through. And I agree. She and Callum
seem like a better fit. They both have a lighthearted, I’ll-try-anything-once
vibe about them. As if life is an adventure and every moment is to be
savoured. Maximised.
It’s not a bad way to live.
Rafe’s lips are back at my ear. ‘I can almost see your nipples from here.
We need to get next door. Soon.’
I smirk. I’m wearing a stunning, palest pink cocktail dress in sumptuous
duchesse satin. Everything about it is classy, except for its low-cut neckline.
So low cut, in fact, you can see almost to my navel.
‘Er, Belle, I think Rafe could knock you up just from the looks he’s
giving you,’ Callum interjects.
Rafe tenses beside me, but Maddy gets there first. ‘It’s such a shame
they didn’t teach you any basic human biology at Loyola,’ she says sweetly.
Callum turns and winks. ‘You didn’t have any complaints about my
knowledge of human biology the other night.’
Maddy and Gen both roll their eyes. Zach frowns. And Callum,
predictably, laughs at his own joke.
‘Hey, Belle,’ Zach says after he’s recovered with a sip of his drink, ‘has
anyone ever told you you look just like Bridget Hall?’
Gen and Callum snigger while Rafe emits a mighty sigh.
‘Uh, yeah, I think a couple of people have,’ I say, trying to recall.
‘Wasn’t she a model in the nineties?’
‘Don’t listen to them,’ Rafe tells me.
Zach ignores him. ‘She was indeed.’ A smile grows on his face. He’s so
good-looking, and he’s utterly transformed when he smiles. ‘She did a lot
for Ralph Lauren. When we were at school, little Rafey here was obsessed
with her. Fucking obsessed. He had posters of her all over his wall. She was
the only woman he ever loved. Until you. He definitely has a type.’
He and Callum fall about laughing on either side of a surprised and
delighted Maddy. Rafe shifts uncomfortably beside me while I squirm
internally. Presumably he’s uncomfortable with their use of the L-word.
But then he kisses my temple. ‘It’s true,’ he tells the table. ‘She blew
my mind. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. But Belle here
makes her look positively forgettable.’
The guys make gagging faces. Gen and Maddy beam at Rafe in
approval, and I turn my head so my swoonworthy boyfriend can kiss me.

RAFE
We didn’t go to the Playroom last night. Cal, Gen and Maddy were all
going through, and it felt too close for comfort. I wanted Belle to myself.
Wanted to slide that mind-fuck of a dress off her and worship her in the
privacy of my bedroom.
In the end, we didn’t even get that far. Belle had to grab some stuff from
her parents’ place, and as soon as I got her over their threshold I was
spinning her around, and unzipping the dress, and kissing down her bare,
golden spine as my hand reached down between her cheeks to the wet heat I
knew I’d find.
I ate her like that, up against the door, before carrying her back to her
room, her long legs wrapped around my waist and her soaked pussy pinning
my cock to my stomach. Then I fucked her twice, once from behind and
once letting her ride me. Find her own rhythm.
It’s only been a few days since I fucked her for the first time. I’m still
taking it slow, still being careful, but she’s a fast and enthusiastic learner,
and fuck me if teaching her isn’t the best thing I’ve ever done.
She’s still sleeping beside me. I drop my head to the side so I can take
her in. Christ, she’s beautiful. Her beauty is the kind that can bring a man to
his knees. That brought me to my knees the first time I saw her. Her hair is
a messed-up mane, burnished with gold in the morning light that’s flooding
the bedroom. We were so crazy for each other last night we forgot to close
the blinds.
But she’s so much more than that. Belina Scott is the most bewitching,
beguiling woman I’ve ever met. Impossibly young and innocent, and yet an
old head on young shoulders. As if she’s lived a thousand lives and brought
wisdom from each previous existence through to this one.
She’s fragile and strong. I want to protect her and watch her fly.
I love her.
That much is clear. I’m hopelessly in love with her, completely in awe,
and unable to conceive of a life without her. My soulmate and my salvation
have taken the form of a twenty-two-year-old innocent.
The universe certainly has a sense of humour.
I glance at my watch. It’s nearly eight. We’ll have to get on with our day
shortly. Her gallery doesn’t open till ten, and I’m due at Cerulean today, but
I’m late. I’ve already missed the Continental European markets opening. I
couldn’t give a flying fuck. I’ll monitor the opening of the FTSE from my
phone. Cover my bases.
 But first, coffee. I grin to myself as I get gingerly out of the bed and
pad, stark naked, across the bedroom floor. An espresso, served up by a
naked and adoring man, will hopefully start my Belle’s day off on a positive
note.
In the kitchen, I slide a cup under the coffee machine as I wait for it to
heat. The sky, as glimpsed through Belle’s parents’ wall of French
windows, is hazily blue. It’s going to be a beautiful day. Perfect to walk
Belle to work through the park.
I’m staring out of the windows and absent-mindedly scratching my
stomach when the sound of a door opening makes me freeze.
That heavy click sounds like the front door. It can’t—
Oh, fuck.
As if in slow motion, the inner door opens.
The one I pushed my girlfriend up against as I ate her greedy pussy last
night, in fact.
In walks Belle’s father.
 38

BELLE

I
’m wrenched from sleep by a loud, violent-sounding roar that has me not
only hurtling into consciousness but sitting bolt upright in bed.
I know that sound.
Daddy?
Oh my God. Oh my God.
I jump out of bed so fast I get tangled in the duvet cover and almost fall
flat on my face. Dashing to the bathroom, I grab a robe and wrestle it on
before tying it tightly around me.
The raised male voices coming through from the main reception area
leave just one possible explanation, and it’s the absolute worst.
For some unknown reason, Daddy’s home several weeks early.
And he’s found Rafe in his home.
Shit shit shit shit shit.
I must look like sex and smell like sex. This is a nightmare come to life.
I take a deep breath and emerge from my room, my body so instantly in
fight-or-flight mode I feel like I’m going to either have a heart attack or
puke.
It’s worse than I could have imagined, because Rafe is naked and
holding a tea towel to his front in a way that, under any circumstance,
would be comedic and is now plain mortifying. Daddy’s tanned face has
turned actual purple, and his overnight bag is sitting on the floor right next
to my discarded dress and thong from last night.
 Oh my God oh my God oh my God.
This is the most horrifying moment of my life.
Rafe’s head whips towards me, almost as if Daddy’s an unstable
gunman and Rafe’s worried my presence will have him targeting me
instead. ‘Belle,’ he says hoarsely, his eyes silently conveying the message
we are so fucked.
‘Daddy,’ I shriek, ‘let Rafe go get changed. Go, Rafe.’ I jerk my head in
the direction of my bedroom, because I cannot endure, for a single second
more, having my boyfriend standing naked in front of the man who, until
now, believed his only daughter to be saving herself for marriage. My
mouth is dry. Like Sahara dry. I observe from some distant part of my brain
that my voice is that of someone who’s completely terrified. My neck is so
flushed it’s burning. I can feel the heat crawling up my jaw, across my
cheeks.
‘Get your clothes and get out of my house, you pervert!’ Daddy bellows
at Rafe.
In a show of chutzpah I can’t help but admire, Rafe turns and strolls
past me to the bedroom, leaving his naked rear end in full view of Daddy as
he goes. He touches me lightly on the shoulder and says, ‘I’m not leaving
you with him. I’ll be thirty seconds, sweetheart. Just hang on.’
‘Belina.’ Daddy takes a step towards me before, thank God, stopping
himself. He’s vibrating with fury, angrier than I’ve possibly ever seen him,
and that’s saying something. ‘What the hell is going on?’ he spits.
‘Why are you back?’ I gasp dumbly, holding the lapels of my robe
closed.
‘Business emergency. Jake’s trying to resign—he’s been poached. I
need to talk him out of it.’ He flares his nostrils, and oh boy. This is the
worst kind of perfect storm, because Jake Tiller runs all Daddy’s investment
firm’s global funds. He’s the high-performing poster child and the sole
reason their assets under management keep rising.
‘Oh. Where’s Mummy?’ I’m most definitely trying to buy myself time,
put off the inevitable meltdown. Again, I feel like a hostage keeping her
crazy captor from shooting up the entire room.
‘Still in Rome. I got the first flight out.’ His eyes keep swivelling to my
now-closed bedroom door. I hope Rafe hurries up. His mere presence will
incense Daddy further, but childishly, I want the moral support. I need a
grown up right now, because I certainly don’t feel like one.
 ‘Has he hurt you?’ Daddy hisses at me, an almost crazed look in his
eyes, and suddenly I see how it already is inside his head, what narrative
he’s feeding himself.
Of course I’m not culpable. I’m the stupid, innocent little virgin who’s
been led astray by the big, bad wolf the moment Mummy and Daddy turned
their backs. Daddy will blame Rafe, and he’ll blame himself, but he won’t
blame me, because no matter how much it would hurt him to believe I’ve
been taken advantage of or groomed in any way, it would hurt far worse to
believe I’m a big fat ho-bag.
‘No!’ I shout. ‘God, Daddy, of course not. Rafe’s been nothing but a
gentleman.’
As soon as the hysteria-tinged words are out I regret them, because
nothing could be further from the truth, and the fact that Daddy presumably
saw Rafe brewing coffee and swinging his junk in his home first thing in
the morning means that jig is up.
Daddy’s eyebrows wing up contemptuously and he opens his mouth to
speak, but Rafe chooses that moment to emerge, fully dressed and, bed head
aside, looking every inch the debonair businessman he is.
‘You preyed on my daughter,’ Daddy says in the low, shaking-with-rage
voice that has had me practically vomiting with tension whenever he’s used
it in the past. Believe me, I’m close to hurling right now.
Rafe looks over at me as if trying to understand what line I want him to
take here. I know he’d throw himself under the bus for me, and, terrified as
I am of Daddy, I feel more protective of Rafe than I do of myself.
‘Daddy!’ I shout before Rafe can open his mouth. ‘That’s not true. He’s
my boyfriend. We’ve been dating—we’re in a relationship. I know exactly
what I’m doing. I’m a grownup.’
I say the last sentence with a squeak that fully undermines any sense of
maturity, of accountability, I’m trying to communicate here.
‘You’re… fornicating.’ Daddy’s face twists in disgust.
‘Yes.’ There’s so much blood, so much pressure in my head I may pass
out. I have no idea what’s going on in my body, but it’s reacting so
viscerally that I may as well be in physical danger.
Mortal danger.
I’m shaking, my vision is going black, my arms and legs feel wobbly
and unreliable, and there is a not insignificant chance I may pee myself in
fear. I cross my legs and squeeze my thighs together tightly as a precaution.
 Daddy takes a step towards me. ‘You dirty little slut. You know that’s a
mortal sin. How could you?’
My jaw drops open, my face freezing in horror and disbelief as my eyes
well up. He didn’t just say that, did he?
‘Hey!’ Rafe’s shout is so loud I’m glad I’ve got my legs crossed,
because it scares the hell out of me. ‘You have no right to speak to her like
that. Belle, baby, we’re going to my place. This guy is fucked up, and I
won’t tolerate a second more of his hate-speech.’
‘Don’t you dare disrespect me. This is my home!’ Daddy bellows. If
I’m about to pee myself, he’s definitely about to have a cardiac arrest, or at
least a stroke.
‘I don’t give a flying fuck,’ Rafe snarls. I’ve never seen him like this.
He’s an angry bull, nostrils flaring, eyes alight with fury. I’m not sure what
he might do. He wouldn’t hit Daddy, would he? ‘You lost all right to my
respect, and your daughter’s, the second you spoke to her like that. You
should be fucking ashamed of yourself. Belle. We’re going.’
I look around in a daze. I’m barefoot in my robe. ‘What about my
stuff?’
‘Get your phone, baby.’ He nods towards the bedroom. ‘You don’t need
anything else.’
‘Don’t you dare,’ Daddy says. ‘You need to go to confession, my girl.’
He’s so terrifying in his stillness. It’s like he’s possessed. I’ve never seen
him this ravaged by anger.
‘One more word out of your mouth’—Rafe points a finger at him and
thrusts it for good measure—‘and I will not be responsible for my actions.
Belle. Go.’
I stagger to my room and look around at the unmade, well-used bed. I
think I might be in shock. I find my phone and grab it. When I return to the
reception area, the men are glowering at each other. I can’t handle the
tension in this room. I have to get out of here. Now. I take Rafe’s hand and
he squeezes it, hard.
‘We’re going,’ he tells Daddy. ‘When you’ve cooled the fuck off and
you’re ready to apologise for your despicable words, maybe she’ll listen.
Maybe. If you’re lucky.’
He marches me towards the front door, stooping to pick up my
underwear and dress, which he bunches in his spare hand.
 ‘We’re not finished, Belina,’ Daddy says with admirable disregard for
the threat Rafe poses to his safety right now. ‘If you walk out of here, don’t
bother coming back.’
I double up as if punched, the coldness and cruelty and contempt in his
words hitting me like a blow to the stomach. Rafe picks me up, effortlessly
bundling me and my clothes up in his arms.
‘You delusional fucker,’ is his parting shot at Daddy as he wrenches
open the front door and carries me out over the threshold.
 39

RAFE

I
’ve never known rage like it. The red mist of righteous anger hangs over
my vision and creeps like the most intoxicating drug through my veins.
My beautiful Belle is in my arms, her face buried in the crook of my
neck, her body wracked with sobs. Her breath comes in great, heaving
gasps against my skin, and God knows I want to punch Benedict Scott in
his judgemental, extremist face.
I press my fingertip to the keypad by my front door and kick said door
shut behind me. Hard. It’ll leave a dent, but I suppose better a block of
wood than Ben’s nose.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
Belle clings to me as I lower her to my bed. I pull off my shoes and
jacket and climb on beside her, tugging her right in close against my chest
and throwing a leg over hers. If I can shut the whole world out for her right
now, I’ll do it.
I lie there and hold her. I’m still, and she’s shaking. I let her cry out her
hurt and shock. Let her nervous system find its own release.
Eventually, the racking cries become whimpers, the convulsions
shudders. My shirt is damp from her tears. I smooth my hand over her hair,
from the crown of her head to the low of her back, over and over. I murmur
platitudes. It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m here. I’ll keep you safe. They’re not
enough, but I feel helpless. What use can I be when her own father just
practically spat in her face?
 ‘Do you need anything?’ I ask when she’s stilled in my arms except for
the occasional shuddery hiccup.
She shakes her head against me. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she
confesses, gripping the placket of my shirt.
‘You don’t need to do anything right now,’ I tell her.
She lifts her head. Her eyes are red, her pert little nose puffy, her cheeks
wet. I don’t want to twist away from her to find a tissue, so I tug the lapel of
her robe up as far as I can and dab under her eyes with the terrycloth.
‘I can’t go back down there,’ she says, her entire face freezing in panic.
‘But all my stuff’s there.’
‘It’s just stuff. I’ll go get it later, or I can have whatever you need
delivered from the shops. None of that’s important. What’s important is
you’re here, and you’re safe, and you have me. Consider this your cocoon,
okay? You can hide out here for as long as you want.’
‘But you have to go to work. So do I.’ Her eyes widen. ‘Oh, God. I
don’t know how I’m going to pull it together enough to face Marie.’
‘Baby, no one’s going to work today. Not you, not me. I’ll call in sick
on your behalf.’
I locate my phone in my jacket pocket and dial the Mayfair branch of
Liebermann's. It goes straight through to the out-of-hours voicemail.
‘Hi, Marie,’ I say cheerfully. ‘This is Belle’s boyfriend, Rafe. I’m afraid
she had some dodgy sushi last night, and she can’t get her head of out the
toilet long enough to call you herself, so she won’t make it in today.
Hopefully she’ll be feeling better tomorrow, but she’ll let you know.’
I end the call and throw the phone onto the duvet behind me. ‘All
sorted.’
She’s staring at me. ‘You’re terrible.’
‘You knew that already,’ I remind her gently.
‘Thank you,’ she whispers.
I kiss her on the forehead. ‘Least I can do. I feel so helpless. Would you
like me to go back down there and punch your father in the face? Or make
you a cup of tea?’
That earns me a watery smile. ‘The tea might be a little more socially
acceptable.’
‘Got it. Stay here.’ I make to get off the bed, but she sits up too.
‘I’ll come with you. I don’t want to be alone right now.’
 ‘Of course,’ I say, like the sight of my beautiful, strong girlfriend in this
shellshocked state isn’t cutting me right to the core.
As I lead her by the hand into the kitchen, I ask, ‘What the hell was he
doing back so early, anyway?’
‘His star fund manager is trying to resign—a competitor’s poached
him.’
‘Tiller?’
‘Yeah.’ She blinks, surprised, but Tiller’s reputation is well known
across the City.
‘Shit. At least that should distract him while you get yourself sorted.
Where’s your mum?’ I tug her against my chest with one arm as I get a mug
out of the cupboard with the other.
‘I dunno. Still in Rome, I suppose.’
I wrap my other arm around her and rest my chin on the top of her head.
She sighs against my chest. I don’t want to bombard her just yet with
questions or advice. I don’t want her to feel any pressure to decide how to
play this.
I mean, her dad is batshit crazy and totally fucking out of order, as far as
I’m concerned, but he’s still her dad, and she’ll have to decide how to move
forward. I’d put money on her most pressing concern being how to make
peace and get back in his good books. Really, though, the only person who
should be apologising is him.
Her mum’s a whole other issue. Belle’s told me her mum is less
radicalised than her dad, but the poor woman is compliant as fuck.
Compliant and complicit. Ben’s the bully, and Lauren spends most of her
time placating him instead of standing up to him, as far as I can work out.
This should be an interesting test of how far she’ll take her loyalty to
that man. I hope and pray that, for Belle’s sake, she pulls her fucking finger
out and stands up to him for once. Her daughter will need all the family
solidarity she can get.
The only way a bully gets stopped is when his victims decide they
won’t take his shit any longer.
BELLE
Rafe settles me on his enormous velvet sofa with a cup of tea. He changes
into a t-shirt and soft jersey shorts before snuggling up next to me so he can
order some breakfast for both of us on Deliveroo.
Despite the toxic, exhausting gamut of emotions I’m experiencing,
having him next to me is undeniably grounding. His presence—physical
and emotional—is a huge comfort.
As if he can read my mind, he takes one of my feet and proceeds to rub
it, his strong thumbs kneading my instep. ‘I don’t know if it’ll help,’ he
begins hesitantly, ‘but consider this. It’s just you and me. No one else is
here. Your dad can’t get in. In this moment, nothing else has to exist. I’m
here, I’ve got you, and that’s all you need to concern yourself with.’
I nod and exhale deeply, because he’s right. This is a technique I’ve
often used to deal with my anxiety in the past. When my mind is a
maelstrom of worrying and projecting and spiralling, I can close my eyes
and remind myself that, in this moment, none of those things actually exist.
They’re thoughts.
Nothing more.
I’m here.
I’m well.
I’m safe.
I repeat it like a mantra in my head.
I’m here. I’m well. I’m safe.
It helps that Rafe’s beautiful flat is the perfect hideout, with its awe-
inspiring art and stunning furnishings. It’s a luxury womb, insulated against
the rest of the world and its frenetic, toxic energy.
I tell myself that, but the force of Daddy’s displeasure is so great it
lingers despite the physical distance between us. It’s coated me in grimy
shame and guilt and horror and disbelief. In self-loathing at the version of
me I saw reflected in his eyes warring with the fundamental knowledge that
I haven’t betrayed my own moral compass.
Not my new and less messed-up one, anyway.
‘Maybe I should have a shower,’ I mutter.
 Rafe bites down on his lower lip before answering. ‘Of course. I’d like
to get in with you, though.’
I stare mutinously at him, and he raises an eyebrow at me. ‘Baby. If you
go for a shower by yourself you’ll either collapse in tears or you’ll end up
scrubbing yourself raw in an attempt to wash off how dirty he made you
feel.’ He pauses. ‘Tell me I’m wrong,’ he says softly.
There are no words.
No words for how this man gets me.
How close I feel to him after such a short time.
How far I would trust him.
I’d trust him with my life.
‘You’re not wrong,’ I tell him. My lower lip trembles.
‘Jesus, sweetheart. Come here,’ he says, pulling me into the cradle of
his body. I go willingly, because pressing my cheek against his beating heart
makes everything a tiny bit easier. I’m like a premature baby, held against
her mother’s heart so she can flourish. Fight.
But it’s Rafe who’s giving me the healing strength of his life force.
‘How about,’ he mutters into my hair, ‘we have a bath in a bit? I’ll wash
you. But meanwhile, you have nowhere to be. Go easy on yourself and eat
the pancakes that are on their way.’
I’m not sure I’ll be able to swallow a single bite. My stomach is in
knots. My entire body is tense. But I nod wearily against his chest and revel
in the simple touch of his hands in my hair.
‘That’s my girl,’ he croons. His fingers thread through my hair with
infinite gentleness, smoothing it away from my face and down my back.
How can it be that this man, whom I found so terrifying, so intimidating,
when I first met him, is here by my side at my lowest low, seeming like my
entire universe in one perfect chunk of human flesh?
I’ve never been so grateful for anyone’s presence in my life.
‘I want you to know something,’ he continues. ‘I wish I wasn’t saying it
under these circumstances, but I need you to know before you spend
another second in pain.’ He cups my face in his hands and pulls back from
me enough for me to see the beautiful brown eyes that share my pain while
radiating strength and affection back at me.
‘I love you,’ he says. His thumb strokes my cheek, his facial expression
softening. ‘I’m completely in love with you, baby. You blow me away with
your strength and your grace, and while I am so fucking angry with your
father right now, I need you to know how I feel. You should know you have
me in your corner, forever if you want me, and I will do everything in my
power to protect you from ever feeling like this again.
‘If you decide you want to make a stand against your dad and fight for
you and me, know I’ll never let you down.’
The tears come now, not in agonised gasps like earlier, but in a slow
outpouring of emotion and gratitude and disbelief. I gaze at the man in front
of me, the man I undoubtedly love, whose words simply underline what his
actions told me earlier this morning—that I come first for him. My
happiness. My wellbeing. And that he’ll be here, just like this, anytime
someone tries to hurt me. Anytime someone tries to make me feel less than.
And maybe, just maybe, the dazzling, life-affirming power of his love
will be the support I need to believe in my own strength.
Maybe, with Rafe and his superhero brand of love by my side, nothing
else will hurt quite so much.
‘I love you too,’ I stammer through my tears.
Words I never expected to say.
Not to Rafe.
But nothing has ever felt more right and true and pure.
 40

BELLE

R
afe loves me.
It’s staggering to think that the best and worst moments of my life
have coincided in a single morning. I know it’s deliberate, that he told
me how he felt so I’d be empowered. I’ve taken the gift of his words, and
I’ve wrapped his love for me around myself like a Teflon cloak, and I’ve
allowed his gift to work the magic for which he intended it.
To swathe me. Protect me.
Embolden me.
To that end, we’ve also called in the cavalry.
Maddy.
No one’s lived the complicated web of my familial relationships like
Maddy. No one else has walked by my side, their arm linked with mine,
over the eggshells I’ve navigated these past years. She’s the one who
understands, viscerally, every nuance of the toxic cocktail of freezing and
fawning and resentment and self-recrimination that have churned in my
heart for as long as I can remember.
So when my beautiful boyfriend reminds me that Maddy’s off work this
week and suggests inviting her over, I jump at the opportunity.
A brief text is all it takes.
Daddy found Rafe in his flat this morning. He’s gone mental.
Any chance you can come over (to Rafe’s)? I’m a bit of a mess
xxx
 She replies right away.
Fuck fuck fuck

Be right with you

Hang in there gorgeous girl xxxxxx

She arrives less than half an hour later, bustling past Rafe and armed
with wine and bakery boxes that she promptly deposits on his coffee table.
‘Oh my poor, beautiful girl,’ she coos, throwing herself at me and
enveloping me in her fragrant scent. Even on her week off, she’s as glossy
and well groomed as I am puffy-eyed and dishevelled.
I still haven’t got around to that bath.
‘Is it too early for wine?’ she asks, releasing me.
‘It’s eleven o’clock,’ I clarify.
She cocks her head. ‘I’m not sure if that’s a yes or a no?’
I laugh in spite of myself. ‘Let’s try to last till after twelve, at least.’
‘Sure.’ She shrugs, collapsing on the sofa and patting the spot I just
vacated. ‘Nice pad, Rafe. Now, come and sit down, babes, and tell me
everything. You too, Rafe.’
After we’ve meekly complied with her request, Rafe coming to sit on
my other side, I fill her in on the bare bones of my catastrophic morning.
She’s a good audience, but her aghast reactions do little to quell any
fledgling hope I might have had that I was overreacting.
‘Wait—did Ben see your dick?’ she asks Rafe, cutting me off.
‘I grabbed a tea towel as soon as I heard the door go,’ he says, ‘but it
was pretty obvious I was totally fucking naked, and when I went to get
changed, he got a lovely view of my arse.’
She snorts and clamps a hand over her mouth. ‘Ohmygod. Ohmygod.
That is so fucking horrific I don’t think I’ll survive. Fuck. Me.’
‘Helpful, thanks,’ I say drily, patting her knee.
‘Sorry. But that’s literally, like, the worst thing that could possibly have
happened to you. Unless he walked in and found you fucking, I suppose.
Actually, that’s far worse. Imagine if he’d found Rafe ploughing into you
from behind, or—’
‘Seriously,’ Rafe interjects as I bury my face in my hands. The mere
thought of that sends shockwaves of horror echoing through me. Okay,
maybe I can be thankful for small mercies, after all.
 ‘Sorry, sorry,’ she says again. She sits still as I tell her the rest of the
story, but when it comes to what Daddy said to me, I find I can’t get the
words out. I can’t make myself say them. So Rafe takes over and curtly, in a
voice vibrating with anger, fills Maddy in on the horrible, devastating
indictment that will be forever burnt onto my consciousness. He does it
with his hand squeezing mine hard the entire time.
Maddy flinches, her huge eyes filling with tears. She puts one hand to
her chest as if her heart is aching and her other to my shoulder. ‘Tell me he
didn’t say that. Oh my poor, darling baby girl.’
I close my eyes, exhaustion and nausea hitting me all over again. ‘Then
he said I should go to confession.’
Maddy explodes. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake! Ben, you twisted fucking
wanker. I can’t bear it,’ she tells me. ‘I can’t bear that he has the world’s
most amazing soul for his daughter and he’s so far up his own ultra-
fucking-religious arse that he can’t see it. What is wrong with him?’
My head flops back on the sofa. ‘Ugh, I don’t know. I don’t know if this
is an abusive relationship, or if he actually needs intervention—I mean, is
this him or is this his religious extremism talking? When he was saying all
these things, I was thinking where’s my dad? Where’s the man who adored
me when I was a little girl?’
‘That man is still there, but his little girl isn’t playing ball anymore,’
Maddy says. ‘He’s beginning to realise he can’t control you how he wants,
and this morning was a rude awakening. I mean, I wouldn’t have wished
what’s happening to you on my worst enemy, but honestly, babes, I think
this is a good thing for you.’
I turn my head on the sofa so I can stare at her. ‘In what possible
universe is it a good thing?’
‘Well,’ she says, ‘for one, it’s forced the issue. Tell me, babes. If you
and Rafe were still seeing each other when your folks got home, how long
would you have pussyfooted around for? I know you—I know what your
dad does to you. He puts the fucking fear of God into you! I’ve seen you lie
to his face when he’s asked you if you’ve been to Mass on a Holy Day of
Obligation—it’s bullshit.
‘He doesn’t get to tell you what to do. He doesn’t get to make you feel
scared of living your own life and feeling like you have to lie to protect him
or worse, protect himself. Can you imagine how terrified you would have
been of him finding out you were dating Rafe? What would you have done
—used the service lift in the mornings so your parents wouldn’t catch you
on your walk of shame?’
She raises her eyebrows at me in a challenge. She’s got me, and all three
of us know it.
‘I know what you mean,’ I say feebly, ‘but at least I could have eased
him in gently. I—’
She holds up a finger and tuts at me. ‘Don’t bullshit me, babes. It would
have been hanging over you, and that anxiety of yours would have ratcheted
up higher and higher. This has saved you months upon months of agonising
and tortured indecision.’
Rafe’s hand releases mine and comes to stroke the back of my neck. ‘I
suspect she’s right, sweetheart,’ he says softly.
‘Okay,’ I concede. ‘Fine. But I don’t know what to do. I can’t leave it
like this, but the idea of having it out with him in any shape or form makes
me feel physically sick. You know I’ve never even raised my voice to my
parents, Maddy. It’s always been yes, Daddy and how high, Daddy?’ I
shudder out a breath. ‘The idea of having to sit down and confront him is
just—I think I’d faint. He’d out-argue me, he’d quote Scripture and the
catechism and he’d bulldoze me, and I don’t know if I can do it. Maybe I
should just apologise and smooth—’
‘Woah,’ Rafe says at the same time Maddy sticks a hand up to stop me.
‘Stop. Right. There. Rafe, I’ve got this if you don’t mind.’ Her green-
grey eyes fix me with a steely gaze, and I know she’s in Stern Maddy mode.
She shakes out her shoulders and tosses her glossy hair.
‘I’m happy to announce that, after years and years of me being the hot
mess and the delinquent and you being the good, sensible one, I can finally
give back. Because, my darling girl, I have years and years and tens of
thousands of pounds of therapy to draw on, and all the lessons I’ve learnt
boil down to one single word.’
She raises her eyebrows at me expectantly.
I look back blankly.
She sighs. ‘Boundaries, babes.’
‘Oh,’ I say. Boundaries may just be Maddy’s favourite word. She’s
always quoting Brene Brown and Oprah and Glennon Doyle at me when
she talks about them, but I still can’t say I could define them accurately if
you held a gun to my head.
 ‘Let me be very clear here,’ she says. ‘Boundaries are crucial in all our
relationships, but never more so than when dealing with our beloved,
fucked up families, and guess where the boundaries are usually shot to hell
or non-existent? You’ve got it. Families.
‘You need boundaries with your parents. Should have had them years
ago, but it’s never too late. Unfortunately, the later you erect them, the more
painful they are to enforce, but the more they will help you heal when you
have them up and running. Okay? Now, repeat after me. Boundaries are the
line between what is okay and what is not okay.’
‘Boundaries are the line between what’s okay and what’s not okay,’ I
repeat.
She beams. ‘Excellent.’
‘She’s good,’ Rafe mumbles in my ear, and I press my lips together to
stop myself from smiling.
‘I’m very good,’ Maddy says archly. ‘Now, boundaries are most
important when it comes to ensuring that we’re not trying to control other
people. In that respect, if your father wants to be a crazy twat with over-
zealous religious views, that’s his prerogative. Got it?’
I frown. ‘Got it.’
‘But he seems incapable of establishing healthy boundaries, so this is
where you need to do the work yourself. He does not get to use those
beliefs to influence or control your beliefs or lifestyle.’ She begins ticking
her points off on her fingers. ‘He doesn’t get to demand that you bend over
backwards to accommodate him or his beliefs. He doesn’t get to put them
on you as if they were hard facts and rules and not subjective or
questionable dogma. And he does not get to withhold his love for you
because you refuse to conform. Yes?’
I blink. ‘Yeah.’ Wow. This version of Maddy could rule the country if
she wanted to. ‘Go on.’
‘Can you see that your dad is incapable of upholding any of these
boundaries himself? You need to draw a line in the sand. You need to be
brave and tell him this is the only way our relationship can work. You tell
him what you will and won’t tolerate—you do not ask him. Basically,
babes, he’s a big bully, and no one’s ever stood up to him before, so he’s got
no fucking boundaries.
‘He’s got some entitled and misguided-as-fuck belief that you and your
mum are extensions of him and that we still exist in this patriarchal fucking
society where what he says goes. It does not go. You hear me? It does. Not.
Fucking. Go. Someone needs to read him the riot act, and I’m afraid that
falls to you, gorgeous, because poor Lauren’s been told what to think for so
long she has no fucking clue that she’s got any rights at all.’
She takes a huge breath. ‘I’m nearly done. One more thing. He gets to
believe his shit. You get to do your thing. And most importantly, how he
reacts to you doing your thing is not on you. You understand me? No matter
how hurt or disappointed he is. It’s on him. He’s a big boy. His reactions are
not your responsibility, and it’s not your job to pick up the pieces.’
 41

BELLE

E
very truth bomb out of Maddy’s mouth yesterday detonated with
enough force to blow my mind.
I spent most of the day lying with Rafe. On the sofa. In the bath.
And later, when I felt less fragile, on the massive daybed on his sun-
drenched terrace. Trying to make sense of what had happened. Of the
watershed moment this really was.
Maddy talked about drawing lines in the sand. I’d unwittingly drawn a
line in the sand yesterday morning when Daddy discovered Rafe. She and
Rafe made me see it as a small win, a fragile advancement from which to
press my advantage, not to retreat in shame and guilt and all the things
Daddy wanted me to feel.
Today feels like a new dawn. Thankfully, I slept the sleep of the bone-
tired last night. Before Maddy left yesterday, she and Rafe escorted me
down to my parents’ flat. I activated the lock with my thumb print and then
Rafe smuggled me back upstairs while Maddy packed up all my
belongings.
All that remains in my room now is a stripped bed and approximately
thirty-five Four Seasons dental kits.
Mummy texted me. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I suppose I should
have expected exactly what I got.
 Darling I’m flying home later. Daddy is very upset but I’m sure if
we give him time he’ll calm down. Let’s all chat tomorrow. He is
keen to get you over to confession and he wants to get a priest
to bless the flat given what’s gone on there. It will all be fine.
You know we both love you dearly xx

Rafe nearly threw my phone across the room, but I couldn’t blame her.
The woman has spent over thirty years of her life tiptoeing around my dad’s
beliefs and moods and rages.
Maddy was right.
If this family can resurrect any semblance of a relationship, there needs
to exist brick-and-mortar boundaries between the lands of What is Okay
and What is Not Okay.
And it seems I’m the only member of the household capable of erecting
them.
What Rafe and Maddy don’t fully grasp, because it’s hard to
comprehend this level of religious extremism unless you’ve experienced it
firsthand, is quite where Daddy’s coming from with all of this.
I truly don’t believe he’s judging me for judgement’s sake. Even though
the disgusting names he called me yesterday make it easy to jump to that
conclusion.
No. He’s judging me now, in this lifetime, because he’s completely
terrified that, when the time comes, I’ll be judged, and found lacking, and
condemned to eternal damnation.
Think about it.
Daddy buys into every word of Scripture. He embodies all the
thousands of lines of dogma he’s been fed his entire life. He believes
steadfastly that, as Catholics, we face heaven or purgatory or hell at the end
of our time on earth. His family—Mummy, Dex and I—are the most
precious things in his life.
It follows, therefore, that he’ll do anything to keep us safe, not only in
this life but in the next.
It follows that he wants to know we’ll end up safe in heaven, that St
Peter won’t find fault with us when we reach the pearly gates.
It follows that knowing we are damned would cause the man immense
grief and worry.
It follows that he feels obligated to take on the burdens of our sins, and I
know he does this. I fully expect that he’s spent most of last night praying
fervently for my eternal soul, and it breaks my heart a little to know how
fully he takes that burden on.
And, finally, it follows that he will do what he can to exert his influence
over me to save me from this path of self-destruction I seem hell-bent on
pursuing (pun intended).
It’s the ultimate example of the end justifying the means.
If I can’t be trusted to live like a good Catholic girl, then it’s his job as a
loving father to make me see sense. To steer me out of the wilderness and
back onto the path to redemption.
That’s the one thing I’ve always marvelled at when it comes to Daddy.
The courage of his convictions. He’s willing to jeopardise his most
treasured relationships for a higher cause.
Saving us from ourselves.
And that’s what makes it hardest, I think. Because where Rafe and
Maddy see a controlling bully who’s overstepped, I see a deeply flawed,
loving human being who’s driven by the same terror and shame the threat of
Lucifer has struck in the hearts of so many sinners over the ages.
I see a man impossibly torn between honouring his love for us in this
fleeting lifetime and fulfilling his purpose to shepherd us safely through to
the next infinite one.
And that makes me want to choose compassion as much as I choose
censure. It drives me to empathise with Daddy’s position as much as to
protect myself. To respect the beliefs he fights so exhaustively to defend,
while also respecting my right to forge my own path.
To live by my own code.
Simple, huh?

I MADE it to work today, though I looked so dreadful, with black shadows

under my eyes and pale, blotchy skin, that it was no challenge to persuade
Marie I had indeed been ill. She took one look at me and grimaced in
horror. Rafe turned up at lunchtime with a picnic rug and a bag of goodies
from Fortnum’s. We lolled in the park, eating and kissing, and the warmth
of his love emboldened me.
With him by my side, I can face anything.
 Which is fortunate, because we’re sitting side by side on a heavily
cushioned wrought-iron sofa on Mummy and Daddy’s beautiful terrace in
what should be convivial surroundings. The rooftops of London are golden-
hued, the evening air hazy and warm. Mummy has poured a crisp white
Burgundy for herself and me and Scotch for Daddy and Rafe.
Daddy looks gaunt. Shattered. I suspect I was right about his all-night
vigil. Mummy had the gall to text me this morning to see if I’d like to take
up Daddy’s offer to have a priest here this evening, to ‘offer counsel’. It was
all I could do to decline civilly. Read the room, woman. Her ability to be
deliberately obtuse never ceases to astonish me, though I suppose I’m
grateful right now for her ability to ignore the unpleasant and make small
talk, because Daddy and Rafe haven’t exchanged a word since we got here,
and you could cut the tension with a knife. Daddy’s entire body still
shimmers with angry energy, and he won’t look me in the eye.
It’s the worst. The worst. However much I rationalise his actions, and
despite the fact that I’m twenty-two and an adult, having my father
withhold his affection and slap conditions on what should be unconditional
love is the worst kind of freezing out.
Even as it strikes me that not much about Daddy’s love has ever felt
unconditional, being here and having the full force of his disapproval and
disappointment sets off another visceral reaction in my body. I’m shivering
despite the warmth of the evening and my light cardigan, my teeth are
chattering, and I feel what can only be described as grotty. Headachy.
I wanted the oratorical skills of an Aaron Sorkin character for this
confrontation, but now that I’m sitting opposite Daddy, with his hulking
great size and face like thunder, I’m cowed before we’ve even started.
‘Well, it’s so lovely to see you, Belle,’ Mummy says with false
brightness, and my heart goes out to her. It’s definitely easier to pretend, to
gloss over, to make-believe everything is fine, than it is to have the difficult
conversations. And given difficult conversations get shut right down in the
Scott household, neither Mummy nor I have had much chance to build that
skill set.
Daddy interrupts her gruffly. ‘I think we all know why we’re here,’ he
says, staring at his Scotch. ‘What I came home to yesterday morning was
quite simply unacceptable, and I’m very worried about you, Belina. I hope
you’ve taken some time to reflect on the error of your ways and how to plan
to make amends to God.’ He shakes his head dolefully. ‘Make no mistake
about it, what you’ve done is a mortal sin of the most fearsome kind, but—’
That’s enough.
That’s all the kindling I need to stoke the flames of my righteous
indignation to the level Daddy’s already reached.
Rafe squeezes my hand. He knows I’ve got this.
‘Daddy,’ I say in a bright, firm voice, the kind I imagine I’d use if I
were a primary school teacher, ‘I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and I have
a lot to say. I’d like to get it out, if you don’t mind.’
He nods and gestures with his hand for me to proceed. ‘Be my guest.’
‘I’m truly sorry for what you came home to,’ I say first. ‘It must have
been such a shock for you. Rafe and I were horrified too, and we’d like to
apologise.’
Daddy nods again, curtly, and takes a sip of his drink. Mummy gives me
a tight smile.
I exhale. ‘But that’s the only thing I intend to apologise for.’
Daddy’s head jerks up.
Mummy’s face is a picture.
Rafe squeezes my hand harder.
‘I beg your pardon, young lady?’ Daddy asks.
‘This conversation is a long time coming.’ I shake my head. ‘And I wish
it wasn’t one we needed to have, but it is, and we do.’ I smooth my modest
skirt over my knees, picking my next words carefully. ‘You and Mummy
have always done what you think is best for me and Dex, and I’m grateful.
Honestly. But at no time in my education or my home life have you given
me permission to decide on my own beliefs or spirituality.’
Daddy goes to open his mouth, and I put a hand up to stop him. I can’t
quite believe I’m doing this. ‘No, Daddy. I insist on saying this. Everything
you believe about Catholicism comes down to belief and faith. You see the
theology and the constructs as real, and I respect that. But you have to
understand that’s all they are. Beliefs. Opinions. They are not facts, no
matter how you want them to be.
‘You’re entitled to believe whatever you want, and so am I, no matter
how much you dislike that fact. And I’m sorry if my lifestyle choices cause
you sorrow or shame or disappointment, but that’s on you. It’s not on me.’
Daddy slams his tumbler down hard on the glass-topped coffee table,
and we all flinch. ‘Where the hell is this blasphemy coming from, Belina?
Is it from him?’ He jerks his thumb at Rafe.
‘No, it’s not from Rafe,’ I say quietly. ‘It’s been a long time coming,
and I’m sorry yesterday expedited this conversation, but at the same time I
think it’s good that we’re doing it.’
‘Are you telling me you reject the teachings of the Church?’ Daddy
asks, his voice menacing. ‘All of it? Or just the parts that inconveniently
judge you for your sins of the flesh? Because the Bible is very clear on that
front.’
Oh dear, sweet mother of Jesus. This man will be the death of me. I
knew he’d try to out-doctrine me.
‘The thing is, it doesn’t matter which parts I’m rejecting,’ I tell him,
‘because it’s none of your business. And I don’t mean that rudely. It’s my
business, and my soul, and mine alone. Honestly, you’re so religiously
conservative that sometimes it terrifies me, and sometimes it makes me
furious, and sometimes it makes me want to run a mile in the other
direction. But it’s none of my business. You’re a grown man. You’re
entitled to your beliefs, no matter how extreme I think they are. And I’m
entitled to mine, no matter how immoral you think they are.’
I pause, mainly to check I haven’t given my father a stroke. His face is
puce, his eyes disbelieving.
Mummy interjects first. Of course she does. ‘But he’s your father,
Belle,’ she says weakly. ‘He wants what’s best for you—we both do.’
‘I know you think that,’ I tell them both, ‘but I’m an adult, and I reserve
the right to make my own decisions about what I do and don’t believe
without him worrying about whether I’m eternally damned.’
I drag both my palms over my face in frustration. ‘Look, Daddy. It’s
very straightforward. Everybody should be doing what serves them. You get
to keep your beliefs, and I get to live my life. I shouldn’t have to worry
about your judgements of the choices I make—that’s on you. And you
shouldn’t have to worry about my eternal soul.
‘There are billions of people out there who aren’t Catholic, and if you
insist on seeing my stepping away from a faith that doesn’t serve me as
some kind of failure, then that’s arrogant beyond belief. Honestly, all I’m
asking for is a little respect. Your way is not the only way. It’s not
necessarily the right way. I don’t try to control what you believe, so please,
for God’s sake, offer me the same courtesy.’
 ‘I don’t know who you are right now,’ he mutters, staring unseeingly at
me. ‘You’re not the daughter I raised.’
I feel a pang in my heart, because this is the problem with blinkering
yourself. The world around you changes, the people you love grow and
evolve, and you’re so intent on not noticing that you get the shock of your
life when someone finally makes you aware.
‘I’m sorry, but that’s another thing I can’t take responsibility for,’ I say.
‘I know this must be a shock to you, but honestly, I’m frustrated, too. I’m
seriously frustrated that it’s taken me so long to work out that I’m allowed
to believe what I like and do what I like with my own body. And I’m even
more pissed off that I’ve felt so guilty and conflicted the entire time.
‘Honestly, I’m done pretending. I can’t live my life to protect you from
disappointment. I just need to live. And you need to get on board with that
concept. I hope you can find it in you to love me for who I am, and not who
you want me to be, but you need to know this. I will never, ever allow you
to speak to me like you did yesterday or call me names like that. And if you
can’t make that promise, then I’ll have to put a lot more distance between
us, just to protect myself. I don’t want to, but I’ll do it.’
I begin to cry. I cannot believe I’m having this conversation with my
father. That it’s come to this. That all the bandages Mummy and I have
desperately smoothed over the dysfunction in our family for so many years
have come unstuck, revealing a chasm so gaping I’m not sure we can
traverse it.
‘I love you so much,’ I say through shuddering tears, ‘but not enough to
hurt myself just to please you, okay? I just—I’m exhausted. I can’t do it
anymore, so I hope you can meet me halfway.’
Silence.
Mummy is crying. Daddy is shell-shocked. He’s a man whose
perception of his entire world has been proven false.
I feel awful. Hideous. So, so guilty. So cruel.
And immensely, extraordinarily relieved to have laid my burden at my
father’s feet.
Rafe breaks the silence. ‘I think that’s a lot for everyone to digest.
Belle’s shattered. How about we leave you to have a think about what she’s
said?’
Daddy nods, picking up his glass and draining it. His jaw’s so tense he
may shatter his teeth. He can’t look at me.
 Rafe stands and tugs me to my feet. ‘Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you
home.’
 42

RAFE

T
his weekend is about rest. About putting enough distance between
Belle and her parents that she feels safe to start her healing process. To
begin to move on with a life of which she’s the sole architect.
A life with me.
She’s limped through the last couple of days at work. We both have,
really. I’ve been worried sick about her. Which is why I booked up the
largest suite I could get at Cliveden and drove her here after work last night.
It’s close enough to London to be convenient and luxurious enough to
smooth away those worry lines that have been a permanent fixture on her
face since her Dad copped an eyeful of me on Tuesday.
I can’t quite believe it’s only been four days, but despite what this week
has cost us in stress, it’s given us a gift, too. It’s allowed me to prove to
Belle that I’m all in. That she can count on me to protect her, and celebrate
her, and love her without judgement.
I’m so bloody proud of her for standing up to her father with grace and
honesty. I know the emotional power that man and his conditional, fucked-
up kind of love holds over her. It’s not easy to stand up to your father when
your resistance threatens the very thing we should all count on from a
parent: unconditional love. I think her speech to him was remarkably
gracious given the circumstances, but there’s no doubt she hit the points she
needed to make.
 Ben is a white, Catholic, middle-aged man who was raised in a
patriarchal culture and fully intended to continue that tradition with his own
family. He didn’t expect anyone, let alone his obedient little daughter, to
call time on his bullshit. Whether he can swallow the ego and self-
righteousness so inherent in that identity, and forge a new, healthier
relationship with Belle, remains to be seen.
Her act of courage the other evening cost her, though. She’s been a
shadow of herself all week. I can’t imagine the toll all of that stress and
activated trauma has taken on her body. We’ve had sex a couple of times,
and it’s been incredible. Intimate. Almost spiritual. It’s been a way of
strengthening our connection, proving our trust in each other and declaring
our love.
But it hasn’t been dirty.
And while that’s not a problem, a tiny part of me is concerned that
Belle’s second-guessing her morals again.
That, while she stood up in no uncertain terms for her right to own her
life, her brain and her body, she’s secretly worried those unforgivable things
her dad said to her may surface if she steps too far into what she sees as the
darkness again.
I haven’t set foot in Alchemy all week, not even during the day. We
haven’t discussed if and when she’d like to go ahead with the Adieu session
about which she was so excited. I’ll never push my own agenda with Belle,
but I don’t want her forgoing pleasure, denying her own desires, because
she’s been made to feel guilty for having them.
I can’t handle seeing her cowed and shamed.
I want to see her fucking shameless.
She’s spent the past couple of hours having a deluxe full-body massage.
It seemed time to enlist professional help with drawing all of that stored-up
tension out of her body. I’m relaxing on our bed in our old-school, over-
furnished room, reading some dull-as-fuck Morgan Stanley strategy report
on the outlook for global equity markets, when the door opens.
It’s Belle. And she’s smiling. Her hair is loose and mussed up. If I had
to guess, her scalp didn’t escape the masseur’s fingers.
The wellbeing in her expression makes me grin. I chuck the research
report on the floor and stretch my arms behind my head. ‘You look relaxed.’
‘I’m like a rag doll,’ she says. ‘That was unbelievable.’ She comes
towards me, and there’s something in the way she sashays, in the hunger in
her eyes as she gives me the once over in just my swim shorts like I’m a
piece of meat, that has my interest piqued.
‘Good,’ I drawl. ‘See something you like?’
‘Oh yes.’ She climbs on the bed and straddles me, and her robe gapes
open.
I raise my eyebrows at her. ‘Did you go to the spa in just your robe?’
‘No. I had my bikini on, remember? But it got wet in the hydrotherapy
bit. It’s in the bag.’
‘Um-hmm.’ The sight of her golden skin is playing havoc with my
cock. Her robe’s fallen open almost to the navel, and it’s sliding up her legs.
I can have everything on show in three seconds flat, if I want. But it’s her
face that’s distracting me most. Her demeanour.
‘But I walked back naked,’ she says, smirking at me.
Something shifts. She walked through the whole fucking hotel with
nothing on but a robe. To come back to me. And she’s delighted with
herself.
I take a punt. ‘You’re a very bad girl. They probably thought you were a
hooker.’ I slide my hands up her well-oiled thighs, shifting the robe further
open. And I wait.
She hesitates for a second. ‘They said the gentleman in the Lady Astor
suite required some servicing.’
We stare at each other. Then:
‘Damn fucking right he does,’ I growl. I yank her robe off and leave her
naked and straddling me.
Fuck me, she’s perfect. Her tits are so high and round, her already-hard
nipples playing peek-a-boo through hair that looks just-fucked. Her knees
are pushed wide on the bed. I know exactly how I’ll find her if I reach
between her legs, and I can’t resist doing just that.
I sit forward and run my fingertip from front to back, over the already-
swollen bud of her clit, through the perfect slickness of her seam to the
entrance to her cunt. She’s heaven. She moans, long and low and shuddery,
a sound that goes straight to my cock.
‘That feel good?’ I grunt.
‘Yes, sir,’ she whimpers, and Jesus fucking Christ, the woman I love
being my willing whore is almost too hot to handle. I circle her entrance
again, just to hear her moan.
‘You want more?’
 ‘Yes please, sir.’ She grinds down on my finger, but I pull it out.
‘Then get on my face,’ I tell her. I motion to her to pull herself up onto
her knees, then I slide further down between her legs so my head’s on my
pillows and I’m lying stretched out flat on the bed. I crook my finger at her.
‘I said get over here.’
She crawls up the bed. I hook my hands behind her knees and pull her
impatiently over me.
Oh, God.
She looms above me in all her golden glory, staring down at me. In
response, my lips curve into a wicked smile, because her pussy is right
there. I can feel and smell the wet heat pumping off her, her unique musk
mingling with whatever decadent oil the masseuse used on her. We’re
definitely stocking up on a few bottles of that before we leave here.
My hands go to her waist. ‘Hold on to the headboard, gorgeous,’ I
growl, and I yank her down onto my face.
Good God.
A muffled groan of pleasure and appreciation escapes me. It sounds like
mmph, but in my head it’s yes! Because Belle is too much for my senses.
She’s my everything, right here, her wet, needy, delicious flesh already
rubbing against me to take what she needs as she rides my face.
I devour her with my lips, my tongue. I tug her forward and plunge my
tongue as far inside her as I can before licking a slow, dragging line along
the plump wetness of her seam. As I find her clit and settle there with lavish
laps, my hands slide up her side to find her tits. As soon as they clamp over
her soft skin, she moans harder, and her forehead hits the ridiculously over-
stuffed headboard.
‘Oh, God, yes, exactly,’ she pants out, her forehead rolling against the
headboard as she twists her head from side to side. ‘My nipples, please sir,
harder—’
Her fevered entreaty so vividly recalls that blessed entry in the Unfurl
questionnaire—Yes. Exactly this. Please—that my sac draws up even tighter
and my cock twitches.
Jesus, she’s so fucking hot. I adore seeing her like this, already lost to
herself, to the lightly sketched fantasy we’re sharing. To the sensations
threatening to take over her body. I reward her with hard pinches to both
taut little nipples as I tense my tongue and work her clit harder. It’s so
swollen with blood. I tongue her harder, working my stubbled mouth
against her more abrasively as I tweak and roll her nipples and soak up the
taste of her and the sounds of her whimpers as she grinds her pussy against
my face.
Then she’s coming, gasping and choking out cries and rubbing her
forehead against the headboard as she arches into the touch of my hands. I
have a front-row seat, and it’s fucking incredible.
She stills, dragging a hand down her face as she emits the little post-
orgasm giggle I’ve come to love. She shimmies her hips back a little,
releasing my mouth, and my hands slide down her sides to her thighs.
‘I need you on my cock,’ I rasp. ‘Now. I want my money’s worth.’
She reaches behind her and wraps her hand around my impossibly hard
shaft. I shudder. Fuck me, that feels good. Her tiger eyes don’t leave mine
as she pumps. ‘Yes, sir,’ she says, biting down on her lip, and I shake my
head.
The little minx is going to get it.
Hard.
I snatch the box of condoms from the bedside table and pass one to her.
‘Put it on.’ I’m desperate for us to go bare, but I need a full suite of tests
done first before I expose my beautiful girlfriend to any health risks. She’s
on the pill already—something to do with irregular periods—but I won’t go
within a mile of her bare till I’m sure I’m clean.
She shimmies further down my body and deftly rolls the condom on
while I press my lips together and attempt not to disgrace myself. My little
Belle is a fast learner. Then she’s lowering herself onto me, taking the time
she needs to adjust to my size. We’re still getting there on that front. She
pauses, wincing.
‘Here.’ I grab the lube and she holds out her hand. I squeeze some out
onto her fingertips and watch with extreme gratification as she uses a
couple to stroke herself, to dip inside herself and get herself as slick as she
needs to be to take me. Then she’s lowering herself back down, and I’m
bowled over by the sight and the feeling of my cock disappearing into her
impossibly tight, hot channel.
‘Good girl,’ I grit out as she sits right down, sheathing me fully. I’m
balls-deep in her, my cock locked in the grip of those tight muscles, and I
vow to take her bare as soon as humanly possible, to remove that last
barrier between us.
 She’s moving slowly up and down, acclimatising to me as she does, and
the drag of her most intimate parts against mine is fucking excruciating.
This is everything.
Everything.
I lie back and let this glorious honey-blonde goddess work me, her
perfect high tits bouncing as she picks up her pace. She grinds down, again
and again, and I’m as transfixed by the growing arousal on her stunning
face as I am by the friction she’s giving my cock. I need to blow.
Badly.
But there’s no bloody way I’m going off before her.
Each time she sinks down on me, I thrust up into her hard, and her sighs
threaten to become moans. She’s growing agitated; her eyes are glassing
over and her mouth is twisting as she takes my cock over and over. She
throws her head back, arching.
She is fucking spectacular.
‘Tell me how it feels,’ I rasp.
‘It’s an ache,’ she breathes, ‘and it’s so deep, you know? It’s so—God.
Oh, God.’
That strangled God comes as I drive my cock up into her as hard as I
can. Jesus fuck, this woman will be the death of me.
‘I know,’ I tell her. I grab another pillow and stuff it behind my head so
I can sit up slightly and get my fingers where I want them.
Right on her clit. I massage her slick button and she practically shoots
off the bed.
‘Remember, I’m your client,’ I tell her. ‘I’m paying for a good show. I
want to see you fucking desperate for it. Okay? Touch your tits. Touch
everywhere that feels good—you’re going to go off like a rocket for me.
Got it?’
‘Yes, sir,’ she manages, grabbing a hair-tie from her wrist and bundling
her hair up into a huge, messy top-knot. The arch of her body when she
holds her arms above her head like that is a true work of art. But then her
slim fingers are fondling her nipples, and she’s rising and falling on my
cock like a pro, and her clit is filling up with blood under my touch, and
this.
This is the best fucking spectacle in the whole world.
Especially because the look of rapture on her face tells me she’s not
putting it on for me.
 Definitely not.
My queen is taking purely for her own pleasure in this moment. She’s
riding me, hard, her stupendous muscles dragging along my length in a way
that’s making me dizzy with the need for release, she’s rubbing her tits and
pushing down on my dick and into my touch, lost to everything except the
sensation of my flesh against hers and that fire I’m stoking deep inside her
core.
She’s back.
My goddess is back, riding me more shamelessly than I could have
dared to hope for, taking and taking and, in return, giving me more than she
knows. She’s so beautifully, perfectly wanton in this moment that she takes
my breath away.
‘Take it,’ I tell her through ragged breaths, because holy fuck, I’m close.
‘Take every inch of me into that tight little pussy. You need my cock so
badly, don’t you?’
‘Yes, sir,’ she practically weeps, and then she’s coming hard, bucking
and riding and shuddering her way through her orgasm as her beautiful
internal muscles flutter and dance around my dick. I grip her waist hard
with my free hand, so hard I’ll probably leave bruises, and I thrust up again
and again, spilling everything I have into the fucking condom before I hook
a hand around the back of her neck and tug her down to me for desperate,
hungry kisses and delirious I love yous.

‘I THINK it’s safe to say you’re back,’ I tell her as I kiss her tenderly. I
disposed of the condom at the speed of light so we could curl into each
other. I stroke her face as it lights up with a smile so open my heart may not
survive it.
‘I was thinking that, too.’ She traces the outline of my jaw with her
fingertip, her soft skin grazing my stubble. ‘You’re my incredibly kinky
magician.’
‘You mean client,’ I growl, and she throws back her head and laughs.
‘That reminds me, you can leave my money on the desk.’
‘Un-fucking-believable,’ I murmur against her lips. ‘But worth every
penny.’
 She stills as I kiss her, my hand smoothing over her hair as I hold her to
me. ‘I love you,’ I tell her. ‘I’m far too old for you, and I should leave you
to find a nice guy your own age, but I’m also far too selfish. I can’t let you
go.’
‘I think our souls are the same age,’ she whispers, her eyes searching
mine. ‘It doesn’t feel like you’re older than me. Except, obviously, for all
those extra years you’ve spent honing your skills.’
She grins, and my heart shatters in the most exquisite way. I want to
spend my life looking at the world through Belle’s eyes. I want to stand by
her side in front of every sunset and every artistic masterpiece the world has
to offer and have the singular privilege of knowing the most exquisite
human being on the planet is soaking up that magic beside me. That it’s
feeding her beautiful soul.
‘If my skills give you pleasure, then that’s good with me,’ I tell her,
smoothing an errant strand of gold off her face. ‘But I have no intention of
practising those skills on anyone but you ever again. I have everything I
need right here.’
She’s silent for a moment. Thoughtful. Then she shrugs. ‘I suppose that
means Adieu’s off the table.’
My eyes widen. My predictable cock twitches. She hasn’t mentioned it
since all the shit with her dad went down, and I certainly haven’t brought it
up. Planning a potential orgy isn’t the most obvious way to assuage your
girlfriend’s moral crisis.
‘You know you get whatever you want, Belle,’ I tell her. ‘You’re right at
the start of your journey, and I never want to clip your wings. I’ve been
around the block enough times to know what I do and don’t want, whereas
you need to experiment. You owe it to yourself.’
‘Shh,’ she says gently. ‘You know I want you. Only you. I mean, God.
Look at us just now. I came so hard—I don’t need anyone else. I love you.
The idea of anyone else’s dick inside me still makes me feel as horrified as
it did when Gen tried to persuade me to shag Alex.’
I laugh, gratified and humbled in equal measure by what this young,
young woman is prepared to sacrifice for me.
She tugs on her bottom lip with her teeth and shoots me a saucy look.
‘But… Adieu’s still technically part of the programme, correct?’
I smile wolfishly. ‘Correct.’
‘And, you know, it means goodbye.’
 ‘Your mastery of the French language is staggering.’
She sticks her sweet little pink tongue out at me, and I laugh. ‘So I’m
thinking maybe we could say goodbye to the programme in style? Maybe
with the help of a few other… hands? A wise man once told me knowing
my maths was important.’
I snigger. ‘Definitely. What did you have in mind, sweetheart?’
‘Well.’ She traces a fingertip down my chest. ‘The massage gave me an
idea…’
 43

THE VERY GIRTHY EPIC-LOGUE:

ADIEU

SISTER BELINA

T
his room is the one where the priests usually host me. After that first
time, when Fr Rafe and Fr Callum came into my room at the convent
and took my body for their pleasure and mine, I’ve always come here,
to the seminary.
They kept their word. They reported back on my admirable chastity
levels to Mother Superior, and last month I entered my year-long novitiate.
As a novice, I’ve earned the title of Sister, though I know my time with
these men in the dead of night makes a mockery of my efforts in the
daylight hours.
This room may be the usual one, but there’s something different about
tonight. The large, low daybed in the middle of the room is, as usual,
covered with black sheets, but that’s where the similarities end. The room’s
lit only by hundreds of candles this evening. A sultry take on Gregorian
chanting plays, its beat darkly hypnotic. The priests—I count six—seem on
edge. Incense hangs heavy in the air.
 ‘What’s happening?’ I ask the one nearest to me. I don’t know their
names. Here, at the seminary, they don’t share their names. But they all
know my name.
Belina.
They love to say my name, to grit it out when they’re teasing me, and
ravaging my body, and coaxing me to celestial heights.
He smiles knowingly as he steps in front of me and begins unbuttoning
my modest nightgown. ‘Word about your beauty and your appetites is
spreading far and wide. The bishop is coming to see you tonight.’
My eyes widen. The priest’s smile turns rueful. ‘He wants you all to
himself later. He’s a man of particular tastes—and excellent tastes, if I may
say so. We’re to get you ready.’ He stoops in front of me, taking the hem of
my nightgown and lifting it up, up. I hold my arms over my head and he
pulls it off me with the flourish of someone unveiling a priceless painting.
I stand there in the midst of all these hungry, fully dressed men, stark
naked and utterly exposed, allowing my shame and anticipation and
vulnerability to course through me, to work their magic as they tighten my
nipples and moisten my pussy and send goosebumps scattering over my
cool skin.
It always starts like this. With the promise that the evening will bring
uncertainty. Surprise. The need for courage, for faith. And pleasure. Always
pleasure. For everyone.
But tonight, I suspect, will take each of those constituent parts to new
heights.
‘Do what you like with me,’ I say, both to drive them wild and to ratchet
up my own desire. This is what I live for. These nights that are as profane,
as carnal as my days are sacred. Contemplative.
‘Get her on the bed,’ one of them says behind me. ‘His Grace wants her
oiled up and ready to blow.’
I could climax here and now from the delicious potency of that threat
alone, but I’m being manhandled backwards and down, strong arms
gripping my shoulders and firm hands supporting my head, until I’m lying
on the low daybed. The bed that, from experience, is exactly the right
height for taking one priest in my mouth while I brace myself on all fours
and another takes me, in turn, from behind.
My legs are gently tugged till they’re spread out wide; my arms are
spreadeagled. My hair is fanned out with reverence. I lie there, already a
helpless mixture of pliant and squirmingly excited. Every part of these
sessions is so exquisite, but this may just be my favourite part of all.
The waiting.
Sometimes, they tie me up in various positions, but not tonight. Tonight,
someone begins to brush my hair from root to tip with a brush whose soft
bristles make my scalp tingle pleasantly and drag roughly against the sheets
as it works through my lengths. I watch from my prone position, in my
dreamily passive state, as the men standing around me pass a bottle of oil
between them, pouring the liquid into their palms and rubbing their hands
together.
They’re all so handsome. So formal, in their all-black garb and their dog
collars, their smart trousers failing to conceal the sight of their arousal. I
feel a pang of sympathy that they’ll be returning to their beds tonight with
their fists—or each other—for company.
Tonight I have a more important man to please.
They crouch, and the massage begins. I’m not blindfolded tonight, so I
can enjoy the overwhelming sight that is six men working my body. Two
get to work on my feet and legs, two on my hands and arms. One man
towers over me from behind, his strong fingers flexing around my neck and
over my shoulders. I hope he won’t make me wait too long before they trail
to my breasts and pluck at my painfully stiff nipples.
And the sixth priest? He’s kneeling at the end of the daybed, right
between my legs, staring at my exposed pussy like it’s supper as he smooths
confident palms over my stomach, down my hips and under my bottom.
There’s naked desire on his face, on all their faces, and it’s only a small
mercy to know they’re suffering the same as me.
I let my eyelids flutter closed as the men keep me in this limbo for Lord
knows how long. More oil is poured on me. Assured hands smooth it slickly
over my skin before massaging it in. And the cycle repeats itself.

I’ M in heaven and in hell. I’m floating and drowning. The music has me
lured into a kind of stupor with its mesmeric beat, and my body is on a
knife-edge. Nobody is touching me where I need to be touched, and yet I’m
so aroused I could explode at any moment. My nipples and my entire sex
are throbbing. Pulsing.
Hands trace the undersides of my breasts before circling agonisingly
close to my nipples. They drag along the creases where my bottom meets
my thighs, but avoid my pussy. Strong thumbs knead my palms. My
forearms. My insteps. My thighs. Sharp, pained intakes of breath from these
men tell me their loyalty and obedience to the bishop is testing their limits,
and I’m conscious that my own whimpered moans and whispered pleas are
joining the chorus.
And then: ’It’s time,’ one of them says, and my eyes snap open. The guy
behind me cradles my head and slips on a silk sleep mask, and my world
goes dark. The hands halt, but don’t leave me, and I’m aware of the door
opening, and footsteps hitting the hard floor, and a gust of cool air that
wafts cruelly over my exposed pussy.
‘Keep going,’ a low voice commands. The culture and power in his tone
are unmistakable, and I shiver. ‘I want to see how fuckable she looks when
she’s coming apart. Make sure you keep her arms and legs like that, too.’
There’s a murmured chorus of yes, Your Grace, and I hold my breath.
They start to move their hands over my body again, just like they were
doing before the bishop entered. His mere presence, the commanding
timbre of his voice, and the fact that the blessed man has ordered his priests
to tip me over the edge has my heart rate ratcheting up.
Then they touch me. Properly. Oh my God. My nipples are rolled and
pinched and coaxed into peaks so impossibly stiff they may actually snap
off. Fingers trail teasingly over the thin skin of my breasts before kneading
them so hard I cry out. My cries are rewarded with deep pulls at my nipples,
and I try to arch my back, but the men massaging my legs and arms have
me essentially restrained on the bed in my spreadeagled position.
I love it. I love it. The experience of being overpowered and
overwhelmed, with hands everywhere, roaming and exploring. Caressing.
‘Touch her pussy,’ the bishop orders in that intoxicating voice of his,
and I hope with all my heart that he isn’t just a voyeur, that he’s planning on
taking over at some point and claiming me, of making me so unequivocally
his that I’ll be ruined for life. His loyal servant forever.
The priest at my feet swipes a couple of fingers once through my flesh,
and it’s enough to make me attempt to lift off the bed once again. Searing
heat floods through me.
 ‘Don’t give her too much,’ the bishop says. ‘I want to hear that pretty
mouth begging before I flip her over and fuck it.’
Oh God oh God oh God. A deluge of moisture is flooding me between
my legs. I’m so wet, so wanton, that I should be begging these men to show
mercy and leave me to my modesty, but I, in fact, want quite the opposite.
I want them to use me, and plunder me, and wring me out, and then I
want the bishop to make me his limp, pliant little plaything and fuck me
over and over again.
My clit is tickled agonisingly lightly with—what was that? A feather?
Whatever it is, it’s torture. My entire body is about to explode. I swallow
the mouthful of saliva I’ve accumulated and I start to beg.
‘Please. Please, Your Grace, have mercy on me. I can’t bear it, I can’t
—’
‘She begs so sweetly,’ he says in a derisive voice that has tears of
humiliation and frustration pricking my eyes at the same time as my
shameless pussy leaks a little more. ‘Give her your fingers. See how many
she can take.’
And then one, two fingers are being pushed inside of me, but because
I’m so drenched I take them easily. A third is added, strong and thick, and it
stings like hell, but the pressure against my inner walls is so filling, so
satisfying, that I push into the man’s hand and take whatever sensation he’s
bestowing. My nipples are still being plucked, pinched, and all my other
body parts are being beautifully smoothed and petted and attended to, and
the stimulation is divine, it’s divine, but I still need—
‘Such a good little nun,’ the bishop says. ‘Look how well her pussy
takes your fingers, Father. I think she’s earned an orgasm. You can finish
her off.’
I gasp, bracing my body for the onslaught it surely won’t survive. If I
don’t feel human flesh against my clit in the next second, I will pass out.
And then fingers are on my clit, two fingers, it feels like, and the hands
on my nipples are mercilessly squeezing them, and every nerve ending in
my body is on fire, and the stimulation on my clit is so extraordinarily
perfect that it sends fiery waves of pleasure coursing through every last
millimetre of my body, and I can’t withstand it. I can’t, I don’t stand a
chance.
I soar. My body’s nervous system builds and builds before exploding in
a detonation of white light and deafening noise and sensation that comes
and comes and comes. And it’s not until I start to descend from wherever
heavenly plane I’ve visited that I’m aware the priests are holding me down
and my body is bucking and my mouth is spouting gibberish.
The strokes on my skin grow softer. The hands working my nipples
palm my breasts in stillness. The fingers that brought me so much pleasure
pull out of me, and I whimper at their departure. The bishop laughs.
‘That little cunt won’t be empty for long, Sister, don’t you worry. Now,
get her on all fours for me. Just the way I like it.’
I’m rolled gently onto my stomach, a whole host of hands tugging me
up so I’m on my hands and knees. There’s the clip-clip of shoes on hard
floor again, followed by a jostle of bodies and the unmistakable clank of a
belt being unbuckled. The man now in front of me is the best thing I’ve
ever smelt, and I’m too busy anticipating his next move to be self-conscious
about the fact that I’m exposing my still-wet, probably still-quivering pussy
to a roomful of men.
He hasn’t asked any of them to leave. Maybe he likes to be watched? Or
maybe he’s not finished getting them to tend to me yet? The thought makes
me clench internally.
The sound of unzipping has me licking my lips, Pavlovian style,
because these men have trained me well. Then there’s the rustle of fabric
and the unmistakable scent of man.
They pull the sleep mask from my eyes.

D EAR L ORD IN HEAVEN . There’s a very hard dick right in my face, and it’s
enormous. Easily bigger than any of the priests’ appendages I’ve seen over
these past few months. I blink, then let my head fall back and my eyes
travel upwards, over an untucked black shirt to the bishop’s face.
He’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever, ever seen. This is a man of God?
What a waste. What a dreadful waste. Although, given how he’s spending
his evening, it seems a few lucky women get to sample him, me included.
His jaw is square and stubbled, and eyes that are practically black gaze
down at me appraisingly. Suddenly, earning his approval matters more than
anything.
 My eyes flick to his cock and back upwards again, and he smiles,
amused.
‘See something you like?’
‘Yes, Your Grace,’ I say.
‘Fuck.’ He tugs his lower lip between his teeth before continuing. ‘She’s
even more magnificent than you led me to believe,’ he tells the men
watching quietly before tugging his attention back to me. ‘I very much
enjoyed watching you come, Sister. That pussy of yours is so greedy. I
know it can’t wait to take my cock, but right now you’re going to suck me
like a good girl, and these guys will take care of you. Yes?’
I nod my head. ‘Yes please, Your Grace.’
‘So obedient.’ He drags his thumb across my lower lip. ‘And so fucking
sexy. Look at the way the candlelight plays over your skin. And your arse is
swaying a little, did you know that? Like you already need more than what
we just gave you. Un-fucking-believable.’
I stay silent and watch him, loving the commanding way his thumb rubs
at my lip. Like he knows my mouth is his.
My whole body is his.
By day, this man leads flocks and commands congregations and
performs the miracle of transubstantiation, turning bread into Christ’s body
and wine into His blood. That I’ve already reduced him to this animal
tonight, without laying a finger on him, sends a surge of power and desire
rushing through me.
I can’t help myself; my tongue darts out and licks his thumb, and he
draws his hand back as if burnt.
‘Get to it,’ he barks.
And I do. I brace myself on one hand, and I cup his balls, massaging
them gently. They’re so high and tight already. My gaze flicks upwards
through my eyelashes. He’s standing stock still, his entire body vibrating
with need, watching me. I lick at the moisture weeping from his crown,
swirling it around with my tongue. His dick twitches so hard it evades my
mouth for a moment.
He must give some sort of nod, because I’m conscious of the other men
kneeling down on the bed beside me. Behind me. A couple slip their hands
underneath me and begin to massage my heavy-hanging breasts. My
stomach. To roll my well-oiled nipples between their fingers once again.
 Hands stroke my flanks as if I’m a skittish horse, rubbing and soothing,
before a warm tongue presses against my sex and starts to lick me like an
ice cream, in long, decadent swirls. My body responds immediately,
unfurling under their touch, blossoming at the delicious dirtiness of this
situation.
I’m supposed to be that most chaste, most devout woman, a bride of
Christ.
Instead, I’m allowing nameless men to put their fingers and their
mouths everywhere they please while their bishop prepares to fuck my
mouth. It’s the most profane, depraved sin I could conceive of, and yet this
pleasure—this fleeting, intoxicating pleasure of the flesh—is, in this
moment, the most sacred act I can imagine.
I know that, within moments, these men will help me to transcend this
realm of consciousness in a way that prayer, despite my most fervent
efforts, simply doesn’t.
Two fingers jam harshly inside me, and the unexpected breach is so
perfectly invasive that my head jolts forward, taking the bishop’s cock
deeper into my mouth. He moans and rakes his fingers through my hair,
gripping the sides of my head and holding it in place. I flutter my fingers
over his sac before gripping his shaft hard. There’s no way I can fit him all
in my mouth, and I want this to be as intense as possible for him.
As intense as it is for me.
I breathe in harshly through my nose as I attempt to accommodate him,
to tamp down my gag reflex and make him proud. I pull him out of my
mouth, lap at his crown with my tongue, and then plunge back in. He makes
a harsh male noise at the back of his throat.
‘Harder.’ His voice is strangled.
I take that as a directive for me, but it seems the other men hear the
same command, for they step up their ministrations. My breasts are
massaged, my still-sensitive nipples tugged hard. Whoever is going down
on me licks harder, his tongue sweeping rhythmically over my clit as his
fingers probe harder. Faster. Another finger is added. I’m being filled up at
both ends in a way so perfect it seems I was made for this. I was made to be
a vessel of this sort, to bring these men release while they do the Lord’s
work. My back is being rubbed with more oil, my feet kneaded, my inner
thighs fondled. The sensory overload is simply extraordinary.
 There’s nothing else like this. Like being used and defiled and
worshipped. I’m a plaything and an icon. I’m incidental and the star of the
show. I’m a whore to be used and a saint to be venerated.
The more they work my body, the harder my mouth works. I suck, I
lick, I dare to drag my teeth up His Grace’s beautiful, slick shaft. I take him
deeper, deeper, and I know he’s close. I can feel it. I am too. Everyone in
the room can feel it. The men are all breathing hard; the bishop is grunting
and blaspheming and gritting out fevered praise.
Good girl, good girl.
That’s it.
Jesus Christ, you’re so fucking dirty.
Look at you, taking his fingers and my cock.
You can’t get enough, can you?
Suck me harder.
You know you can, Sister.
Then there’s a buzzing sound, and something cold and wet is being held
right at the entrance to my most intimate hole, teasing and tickling the
puckered flesh that protects it. I gasp around the bishop’s cock and try to
wriggle away from the threatened intrusion, but he grips my head harder.
‘Now, now. You must have known we’d want to take all your holes
tonight. You’re ours. Mine. This is small—it’ll fit right in. Do you feel nice
and full right now?’
I look up at him and nod as best I can. He runs a thumb down my jaw.
‘Good girl. This will make you feel even fuller. Trust us. Use your safe
word if you don’t like it.’
I focus on relaxing. Breathing. Sucking. The object, which must be a
skinny wand vibrator, tickles my entrance in a way that makes me feel
unpleasantly squeamish, but then it’s breaching that barrier and sliding
inside me with surprising ease, and oh.
Oh my God.
Now I know what he meant. Everywhere possible is filled up, the warm,
wet parts inside my body are full of cock and fingers and now a vibrator,
and they somehow all add up to a sensation that’s sublime. Boundless. The
vibrations make the feel of the tongue on my clit echo more deeply through
my body, they heighten the power of the fingers inside me and the pulls on
my nipples.
 I can’t bear it. I can’t last. The pleasure is so all-encompassing, and the
matter of being gagged by the bishop’s enormous cock makes it all the more
intense. I can feel myself starting to unravel in the most glorious,
spellbinding way. He’s begun to thrust harder, holding my head as he feeds
me his cock, and I take it as best I can, my eyes watering, while the rest of
my body readies itself for detonation.
‘Now,’ he orders, and every part of my body is probed harder, rubbed
harder, tongued harder as the bishop stills and erupts in my mouth, roaring
out his pleasure and shooting jet after jet of his hot seed as my clit explodes
and I shake, shake, shake, shuddering my orgasm out helplessly as my skin
is soothed and stroked and the bishop moves his hands to wipe the tears
from my cheeks.

I’ M STILL REELING from my second debilitating climax as the bishop pulls

out of my mouth. I brace on the hand I was using to grip him and flex the
fingers of my other one. Ouch. Wrist-ache. One of the guys takes it and rubs
my hand, my wrist, my forearm as the others continue to smooth and pet the
rest of my body. I smile at him gratefully.
‘You did so well, little one,’ the bishop says.
I look up at him, at the intensity on that handsome face. ‘Really?’
He pulls a tissue from a box on the table next to him and wipes my
mouth with it before handing me a glass with a straw. ‘Drink.’
I take a generous sip.
‘Fuck, yes, really,’ he continues. ‘Taking us in all your holes like that
and sucking me off like a champ? Hottest night of my life. You, Sister, are
intoxicating.’
I bask in the welcome warmth of his approval as I wonder just how hot
this senior cleric’s nights tend to get.
‘And now I’m going to fuck you, like I’ve been looking forward to for
weeks. Ever since they told me about you. That pussy must be so puffy and
wet and ready for me.’
I’m two orgasms down. I could easily lie down and fall asleep on this
bed in front of everyone here. I have no idea if I can come again. But all I
know is that I want this man inside me. I want him to claim me in the most
decisive way possible. I want him so desperate to use my body again that he
unleashes his selfish greed and desire and needs inside me.
‘It is,’ I tell him, looking up at him with all the seductive
submissiveness I can muster. ‘It’s yours. Do what you need with it.’
He studies me, a muscle pulsing in his jaw as he considers just how to
use me, before blinking and looking around.
‘Everybody out,’ he orders. ‘Go on, get lost.’
The priests rise up from the bed and shuffle out, but I don’t take my
gaze off him. His eyes glitter ominously, and a thrill of anticipation runs
through me at being left alone with this predator.
It’s me and him.
One on one.
And he’s made it very clear who’s in charge.
He’s dangerous.
The door shuts with a loud click.
‘Let’s get a proper look at you,’ he says. He puts his hands in his
pockets, probably to stop his still-undone trousers from falling down, but
the studied casualness of the gesture has my poor sex clenching again.
I’m his possession. To peruse. Inspect. I’m his plaything. He begins to
stroll around the bed.
‘Did you enjoy your orgasms?’ he enquires.
‘Very much, Your Grace,’ I say.
‘You were very responsive.’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’
He comes up to the side of the bed and puts one knee down, reaching
around me so he can cup both breasts. Fondle both nipples. They’re
sensitive and a little sore, but in a good way. In a way I know will make
whatever friction he sees fit to bestow upon me even more delicious. I
shiver at his touch.
‘That feel good?’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’
‘Fucking beautiful,’ he murmurs. He releases my breasts and stands up
again. If I tuck my head, I can see his legs between my thighs. He’s
standing right behind me, looking at my exposed pussy.
‘Legs further apart,’ he orders.
I quickly open my knees further. My legs are still shaky after the
orgasms, and from holding this position.
 ‘Sister Belina,’ he says, his voice low and ominous, ‘you don’t know
how long I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. They’ve told me so
much about you. About your great beauty, as well as your willingness to
give and receive pleasure. And I hear that, during the day when the priests
see you at Mass, you are demure and chaste. It’s the perfect cover.’
He moves forward, the bed taking his weight, and runs a finger around
my entrance, and every part of me pulses.
‘Fuck me, this cunt is even prettier and greedier than I’d hoped.’ He
pulls it away and smooths a hand over each of my cheeks before pulling
them apart, exposing every hole and every intimate fold for his viewing
pleasure.
Oh my God. My body has already forgotten its two orgasms, because
the way this man is inspecting me and touching me and praising me, and the
power, the dominance, inherent in everything he says and does, has my
body weeping for him already. I relish the delectable shame, the
vulnerability of being in this position with him. He can humiliate me. Tease
me. Test me. I don’t care.
He is a man who gets everything he wants, but he won’t have to fight
me for a single thing. I want to give it all to him.
Then his tongue is on my sex as he continues to hold me wide open for
him, running experimentally over my clit, cutting a decisive line through
my folds, thrusting deep inside my pussy and finally, most shamefully,
probing and teasing at the entrance to my puckered hole.
I can’t help myself. I flinch and try to pull away, but his hands hold on
to my hips. ‘Don’t fight it,’ he says, his breath warm and gallingly seductive
against my flesh. ‘I saw how much you fucking loved having that wand up
your arse. Don’t forget I saw how hard it made you come.’
He licks me there again, and I make myself lean into the feeling,
because he’s right. It did.
I did.
‘All your holes belong to me tonight,’ he says. ‘Remember that. I’m
only going to fuck this one’—he slides a long finger into my pussy again
—‘for now, but you’re here for my pleasure. Got it? I’ve wanted you for a
long time, Belina. And I always get what I want.’
It’s the power in his voice. That sternness. The indomitable will that’s
so attractive, so obvious from a mile away. And right now, I’m alone in a
room with this man so he can do what he likes with me. The thought of
putting myself in his capable, demanding hands fills me with so much pride
and joy and pleasure I can barely contain myself.
‘I understand, Your Grace,’ I say, my voice sounding breathy to my
ears. Needy. Desperate. ‘Please, do what you want with me.’
He inhales sharply and crooks his finger inside me before sliding it out.
‘Fuck me,’ he says. ‘So fucking wet for me. Turn around, just for a
minute. I want you to watch me.’
I scoot around on the bed so I’m sitting up and facing him. He’s such a
pleasure to watch. He’s a feast for the eyes. A Caravaggio. A Titian. A
masterpiece I could look at all day long.
‘Back on your elbows,’ he orders. ‘Knees up a bit, and let them fall
apart.’
I do so, aware that I must look the picture of submission, of temptation,
with my hair messed up from his hands and falling over my shoulders, my
breasts visible, and my sex swollen and exposed for him.
Please let him fuck me hard. Please let him fuck me hard.
‘Good,’ he says. He doesn’t take his eyes off me as he tugs off the dog
collar and unbuttons his shirt. Firm, tanned skin comes into view. As he
pulls the shirt off, I’m able to enjoy the sculpted perfection of his chest. His
arms. His stomach. A trail of dark hair leads to his cock, already hard and
jutting again. I eye it with a mixture of excitement and trepidation.
He shoves down his trousers, bending to tug them and his shoes off, and
then he’s naked.
Naked and glorious and masterful and utterly perfect.
He takes his dick in his hand and pumps it slowly, his eyes not leaving
mine.
‘Like what you see?’
‘Yes,’ I breathe.
‘I’m going to fuck you very hard with this.’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’
’Play with your tits for me—no. Play with one of them, and touch your
pussy with the other hand.’
I bite my lip and take my weight on one elbow as I use that hand to
pluck and pull at my nipple. The other hand I slide down, over my slippery
stomach and between my legs, and God. The second it hits my clit, I know I
can go again. A low moan escapes my lips.
 ‘How does that feel?’ he grunts, still working that dick of his with slow,
decisive pumps.
‘Not as good as having your cock inside me will feel,’ I tell him
honestly, and his face contorts.
‘Jesus fucking Christ, Sister, you’ll be the death of me. Turn over.
Fuck’s sake. Get on your knees. Now.’
I don’t need to be told twice. I remove my hand and roll onto my front.
He’s on the bed, sliding a hand under my stomach and tugging me up onto
my knees before I can do it myself, kicking my legs further apart with his
knees. I just have time to brace myself on my hands again before he’s lining
his slick, swollen crown against my equally slick, swollen entrance and
pushing in.
Oh my God. Oh my God. He’s so big—he’s huge. He has one hand
gripping my hip, hard. The other, I assume, is helping him feed that monster
inside me.
‘You thought you were full earlier—you have no idea,’ he grits out.
‘This is fullness—me filling you up with my cock. Can you feel it?’
‘Yes,’ I manage, because God is he right. His size and this angle are
conspiring to stretch me beyond all my limits, to fill me so completely that
he’ll drive the breath right out of my lungs.
And then he’s in, he’s bottoming out and grinding into me, and he’s
deeper inside me than I could have ever dreamed of having another human
being. I let out a low, shuddery wail because this kind of overwhelm is the
best thing I’ve ever felt.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he says, and he pulls out, just a bit, before driving back
in. Just that movement and I’m practically shooting off the bed. I tense my
arms harder.
He does it again. I’m more ready this time, but despite my best efforts,
he nudges me forward.
‘Where’s a fucking headboard when you need one?’ he grumbles.
‘Okay, beautiful. Get on your elbows. Low as you can, and hold on tight,
because I need to fuck this pretty little pussy of yours very fucking hard.’
I scramble downwards so my arms are stretched right out in front of me,
affording me, hopefully, some purchase. My bottom is high in the air, and I
know I’ve just made the angle even deeper.
He runs a hand down the discs of my spine. ‘Fuck, yes. Look at you like
this. Look at you giving me all the access.’
 I think he means his dick, but then he’s spitting, and a thumb’s rubbing
his saliva on my puckered back entrance again. I’ve learnt my lessons.
Don’t argue with this guy.
This feels far better than you thought it would.
And so I breathe and attempt to relax as he pushes his thumb past the
tight entrance and all the way in.
‘Fuck, you are so fucking sexy,’ he rasps. With his other hand gripping
my hip, he begins to move. He pulls almost all the way out in a slow,
excruciating drag before driving back in, hard. The slam of his crown deep
inside me and the slap of his balls against my skin has me emitting a low,
primal sound that’s possibly more akin to a cow in labour than a woman in
the throes of an orgasm, but I don’t care.
‘Look at you,’ he says, slamming into me again.
I moan and twist my head, rubbing my forehead against the sheets.
‘You take it so well.’
Slam.
‘Your holes are so fucking perfect. They were made for me.’
Slam. His thumb twists.
Oh, God. The sounds I’m making now are desperate. Wanton. All I
know is he’s hitting a place inside me in a way that has a new ache building,
building, seeking release.
‘Harder,’ I plead into the sheets. They’re chafing my nipples in this
position, and it feels wonderful.
‘Harder what?’
‘Harder, please, Your Grace.’
‘That’s more like it,’ he says, pulling out and driving in harder. My
entire body jolts along the bed a little.
‘I’ve never wanted to fuck anybody this hard,’ he growls. ‘You make
me crazy. I’m going to fuck you right off this bed. You’d like that, wouldn’t
you?’
‘Yes,’ I mutter through my hair. My world has shrunk to that magical
thing his dick is doing to my front wall, to the mysterious ache only he can
make better.
‘If you think I’m letting you go after this, you’re mistaken,’ he says. His
hand moves up my side, squeezing my waist before returning to grip my hip
so he can ram into me hard. I take it, I push back, I soak up every single
sensation he’s giving me like the greedy, damned little whore I am.
 ‘No more priests, Belina,’ he warns. ‘I don’t want another man touching
you after this, you hear?’
‘Mmm,’ I answer, because all I want is for this man to order me about
like this and touch me like this and fuck me like this and make me feel like
this for the rest of my days.
‘No. One. Else.’ He slams into me again and again, and I groan loudly,
clawing desperately at the sheets with my outstretched fingers.
‘Tell me you understand.’ Slam.
‘I understand,’ I shudder out. Oh my God. Oh my God. I’m so close.
I’m sweating profusely, I’m drooling against the sheet, and the lower half of
my body may not survive this final detonation.
‘You’re mine,’ he tells me hoarsely. He no more has the power of
speech than I do in this moment.
‘I’m yours,’ I promise, right before the ache explodes and my entire
being vaporises into pure white light.

BELLE
‘Mmph,’ I say, my lips moving against warm skin. ‘Gottaughschmot.’
The warm skin vibrates as a chuckle echoes right next to my ear. It may
just be the best sound I’ve ever heard.
‘Jesus Christ,’ says the bishop, who I’m reasonably sure is also Rafe,
the love of my life. ‘I’ve never seen you crash so hard before. You must be
deep in subspace, baby.’
‘Lurveleshff,’ I agree.
He shakes with laughter again, and that laughter vibrates through the
arms holding me, the leg thrown over mine, and the chest I’m currently
using as a pillow.
‘Poor baby,’ he says. A kiss is pressed to the top of my head, and I
snuggle into the warmth of his body like a cat. There’s something soft and
cosy over us, but I’m too tired to open my eyes and see where we are.
 I can kiss him, though. I’ll never have too little energy to do that. I press
my lips to the smattering of hair on his chest, soaking up the unique,
intoxicating scent of his skin. ‘Luvoo,’ I manage.
‘I love you.’ He squeezes me tighter. ‘Just take your time. We’ve got all
night. I’ll run you a bath shortly.’
‘Mmm.’ A bath sounds good. I’m sleepy, but in a delicious way. My
body feels sore, well-used, but at the same time, I’m more relaxed, my
muscles floppier, than I can ever remember them being. I close my eyes and
enjoy being snuggled by my boyfriend for a few more minutes.
As consciousness ebbs and flows around me, the veil starts to clear.
‘Where are the priests?’ I ask Rafe’s chest, and this time they sound like
actual words.
‘Three earth-shattering orgasms and you want to know where the
fucking priests are?’ he asks. ‘Unbelievable.’
I giggle. ‘No, I mean—I feel bad. It can’t have been much fun for
them.’
‘Baby, that was the hottest foreplay they’ve ever had in their lives.’
‘But you can’t just work your members up like that and not deliver,’ I
protest. ‘You’ll have no members left if you keep that up.’
He chuckles again. ‘There’s another scene going on down the hall.
Twelve so-called virgins. Those guys went straight from here to there—they
must have been like wild animals.’
‘Good,’ I say. ‘They did a great job.’
He pinches my upper arm, and I yelp.
‘No more priests, remember, Sister Belina?’ he asks in his ominous and
horribly arousing bishop voice. He lowers his mouth back to my ear and
intones, ‘You are mine. All mine.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I tell him. ‘I didn’t pass out that badly. I remember. I’m
yours.’ I wrap my arms around him more tightly and begin to giggle. ‘Crap.
I cannot believe I just did that.’
‘I can,’ he says.
‘I knew you were dodgy, but holy hell. You’re definitely the devil.’
‘Excuse me. You were the one who concocted that whole scene,
remember? After your massage. I must send the masseuse a thank you gift.’
I mean, he’s right. I came up with every last filthy detail, and my
morally dubious, enabling, loving boyfriend helped me put it into action.
‘Did you enjoy it?’ he asks. ‘Was it everything you wanted it to be?’
 ‘It was more,’ I tell him, and it really was. It was stupendous. Quite
literally mind-blowingly hot. ‘You all did such a great job. I was so
immersed—I was Belina.’ I stretch luxuriantly in his arms. ‘Can we play
that every night?’
‘No more priests,’ he hisses in my ear, and I laugh.
‘I meant just Sister Belina and her sexy, bad-boy bishop.’
‘Any time, sweetheart. It was hot as fuck seeing you like that. I swear
I’ve never been so turned on in my life. And you give good head, for a
nun.’
I roll my eyes against his chest. ‘I’m rolling my eyes,’ I tell him.
‘Of course you are. But seriously. It doesn’t have to be adieu. It was
epic, seeing you like that.’
‘No, no.’ I shake my head. ‘That was something I wanted to do—I
needed to prove to myself I could do it, and I did it for my old self, who
never allowed herself to disregard everyone else’s voice and just do what
felt good for her. But seriously, I’m not sure I could survive another round
like that. You know how we were always told we’d go blind if we
masturbated? Well, I feel like one more orgasm and I might actually have
gone blind. My body would have short-circuited.’
Around me, Rafe’s entire body shakes with laughter. ‘That wouldn’t be
good.’
‘No.’ I rub my cheek against his chest.
‘So it’s just you and me?’ he asks.
I pull on every ounce of strength I have to ease myself up onto one
chafed elbow and look into his beautiful brown eyes.
‘It’s just you and me.’ I glance around at the room, its hundreds of
candles and the scent of wax and incense exuding an atmosphere so timely,
so evocative, it makes me shiver. The Alchemy team surpassed itself for my
Adieu. ‘That doesn’t mean we can’t come back here and have fun, or do
scenes like this again, just the two of us. Right?’
‘Right,’ he agrees. His face is serious. His dark eyes blaze with love and
admiration, and I see possession there too.
‘I don’t want anyone else,’ I say. ‘Tonight was incredible, but the only
man I want between my legs is my hot bishop.’
He laughs and kisses me. ‘Spoken like a true bride of Christ.’
‘Let’s have a bath,’ I say, ‘and then take me back to your bishop’s
palace.’
 He shakes his head at me in mock exasperation. ‘Let’s get you cleaned
up, Sister Belina. Then back to the palace we shall go.’

THE END

If that didn’t finish you off, then my ARC team made me write an
equally girthy, almost as filthy Bonus EPIC-logue featuring Belle
and Fr Rafe in the confessional. Get it here!
While you await Zach and Maddy’s book, check out my Love in
London boxset under my real name, Sara Madderson. It’s
glamorous, escapist, and spicy!
 A NOTE FROM SARA
(ELODIE)

Thank you for reading my little rebellion!

When I finished Unfurl and started to read through it from the beginning, it
struck me how timid Belle was at first. How unsure. How apologetic. I
don’t think I really understood how far she’d come in her journey until I
reacquainted myself with that initial, closed-up, unfurled version of her, and
I couldn’t have been more proud of her for taking what she wanted and
putting her own needs above those of everyone around her.
This was my journey as much as Belle’s. I don’t think I could have written
that epilogue scene at the start of this book. By the end I was writing as
shamelessly as Belle was behaving!

A lot of this book hits close to home for me (not the sexy times!).
Everything that Belle has grappled with, I have grappled with. Making
Unfurl so overtly anti-Catholicism is not a decision I've taken lightly, and
it's deliberate, as was the decision to write this series under a pen name.

You see, I was brought up in an intensely Catholic family, in an

overwhelmingly Catholic country (divorce was still illegal in Ireland when I
left) and attended convent schools for my entire education. Not one adult or
authority figure ever told me that Catholicism was a belief system that i
could choose to accept or reject. It was presented to me as hard fact, as
indisputable as gravity.

At school, we were never allowed to debate theology (outside of history

class). Any attempt to question Catholic doctrine was blasphemous. The
onus, therefore, fell to me to work out for myself that I was allowed to
choose my beliefs. I'm embarrassed to tell you how long it took me to give
myself permission to do this - almost four decades to forgive myself and
applaud myself for finding a set of beliefs that serve me better and aren't
founded in organised religion. I pulled away from Catholicism years earlier,
but it took a long time for me to get over my guilt and shame at 'failing' to
have the faith needed.
I resent how much my particular spiritual upbringing has messed me up,
and this book is my little rebellion. It's about a girl half my age, who works
out far earlier than I did that her body is her own and her mind is her own
and she can do and think as she likes. I'm SO proud of how far Belle comes
in this book!

I wanted to give you some background. The criticism in the book isn't a
smut device; it's therapy for me! And my way of working things out and
redressing the balance. That said, I know how much joy and purpose
religion brings to so many of us, and I would never want to offend or make
anyone feel attacked or unseen.

If anything, the main message from the book is that we are all free to think
for ourselves and choose our own moral compass.

Thank you for reading.

Sara (Elodie!)
PS. Fawning is an all-too-real trauma response. If you’d like to read more
about it, I highly recommend the work of Dr Nicole Le Pera, who’s The
Holistic Psychologist on Instagram.

Come and join the amazing gang of readers in my FB group, Sara

Madderson’s Book Nerds. They get no end of insight secrets and sneak
previews and exclusive stories. It’s a warm, hilarious corner of the internet!
(This is the group for both my author names.)
 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book was scary to write! I couldn’t have done it without lots of hand-
holding and encouragement as I pole-vaulted out of my comfort zone.
A massive thank you to my gorgeous author friend, Lyndsey Gallagher, for
encouraging me to go for it when Unfurl was the smallest, smuttiest kernel
of an idea in my brain. Thank you for our regular chats and for your
excellent advice and perspective and for having my back. I’m so pleased we
are friends! (Read her books! They are HOT.)
Thank you to my FB group, my amazing Nerds, who’ve cheerleaded
(cheer-led? cheered?!) me through this process, getting excited at all the
right times when I’ve teased them with Unfurl and turning my lonely echo-
chamber into a writing cocoon of supportive women. Thank you for
showing up every day with your own special brand of positivity and
vulnerability and naughtiness. I feel honoured to get to spend my days with
you.
A particular thank you to those of you who gave me such great advice on
overhauling my ARC team into a shiny new version of readers who I know
have my back. Your advice was invaluable! Which brings me to…

Thank you to my amazing ARC team! It’s our first book in this format and I
love you already! The outpouring of support before and during the ARC
reading process has transformed my writing experience. You’ve been so
generous with your praise (yes, I have a praise kink) and your feedback and
eagle-eyed typo spots and loving suggestions. Your wisdom makes me a
better writer.

Thank you to Lori for entrusting me with your horrid Catholic memory and
allowing me to share it in the book. I hope this brings us all a little closure
and validation.

Thank you to my family. I’m not sure if I’ll let my husband Chris read this
yet!! But I’m so grateful to them for putting up with my space-cadet-ness
and ADHD hyper focus which means ALL I care about is my stories and
not making dinner or tidying up or packing PE bags in a timely fashion.
And finally, thank you to my readers, who’ve supported me through eleven
Sara Madderson books and now this very new, very naughty one with
loyalty and enthusiasm. I’m so relieved I’m not the only depraved one
here… Thank you for showing up and borrowing and buying my books and
shouting about them and me. You are the best!
Sara / Elodie xx
MY SARA MADDERSON
BOOKS:
All my books can be read as standalones.

LOVE IN LONDON
Parents and Teachers
A Fair Affair
A Very London Christmas
Falling Stars
Wilder at Heart

SORREL FARM
Food for Thought
Heaven on Earth
Make Me Sweat (related material)
A Manny for Christmas

STANDALONE
The Winter’s Fail
The Rest is History