Page 14 of Unstitch

He looks disgustingly debonair in his white tie, if a little too alpha for my tastes, but at least I don’t need to worry about Darcy making a beeline for him. The whole world knows he’s hopelessly smitten with his father’s former chef.

When the happy couple swayed their way through their first dance to Santiago’s sultry arrangement of The Best is Yet to Come, even I grew misty-eyed. Told you this entire setup was romantic.

Verbal foreplay may be my jam, but I’m not particularly in the mood for sparring tonight. Besides, I don’t feel like giving Darcy the satisfaction. I’ll let my body do the talking—let’s see how she likes that. I tug her closer against me, my palm splayed across the soft skin of her bare lower back.

While her sister changed out of her wedding dress for the reception and into some gloriously sexy white beaded mini-dress reminiscent of the Roaring Twenties, Darcy’s stayed in her bridesmaid gown, and I approve of it just as much as I did when I watched her slink down the aisle earlier.

I don’t miss her slight shiver as I slide my palm slowly up her back. She sighs softly, resting her head on my shoulder in what feels gratifyingly like surrender, her arms staying loosely around my neck. One of the photographers for the event pads around us, stance crouched, seeking out the perfect shot, and I think to myself, good.

I’m glad this moment is being immortalised, and not only because having a photographic record that Darcy will undoubtedly see may help my case, but because I suspect we look pretty fucking good together. There’s me in my shirt, top button open and white tie hanging loose and cuffs rolled up—because, come on, it’s Antibes in July and it’s still pretty fucking warm—and this sensual redhead swaying barefoot in my arms, her curves swathed in reams of the palest sea-foam silk.

I’d go so far as to wager that we look like a Gatsby still or a Vettriano painting: a fleeting moment, but a timeless image. Even if I suspect the reason she’s slumped against me so willingly has more to do with the amount of Krug she’s consumed and less to do with her willingness to submit to this “crusty old Brit”.

Whatever her reason, I’ll take it. And if the alcohol has tempered her suspicions of me slightly, I’m not above using that advantage. Although if she gets much more drunk than this, I’ll obviously step away. I’m not a total monster. Even so, my fingertips are grazing the little bumps along her spinal column of their own accord.

‘I’m not having sex with you tonight,’ she mutters, shifting her head slightly on my shoulder. ‘Although, why do you have to smell so fucking good?’

The unexpected compliment excites me less than her use of a qualifier. She’s not having sex with me tonight.

Hmm.

Interesting.

‘Le Labo,’ I tell her. ‘And, obviously, my own lethal sex hormones.’

She pokes me in the shoulder with a finger. ‘You’re so arrogant. That’s one of the reasons I won’t have sex with you. I won’t give you the satisfaction.’

‘But arrogance turns you on, yes?’ I ask her, dipping my head so she can hear me above Santiago Vale’s exuberant take on Mack the Knife. This is not the right song to slow-dance to, but I couldn’t give a shit.

She groans into my shirt. ‘Ugh, yes, and I despise myself.’

I laugh. ‘Resistance is futile, darling. Just surrender to it.’ My hand has found its way to the base of her spine, and I can’t resist copping a little feel of the silk standing between me and that gloriously peachy arse of hers.

‘Fuck me, your arse is spectacular,’ I murmur into her hair. It really is. I slide my hand over its sleek curves. It is the arse of champions: toned and taut, but ample, you know? Grabbable.

I am most definitely taking this arse in the not-too-distant future. I bet she’d look so fucking perfect bent over for me. And I bet she’d love it, too. An image of her draped over the back of the very expensive sofa in my new flat comes to mind, her long limbs tensed in anticipation, and her red hair tumbling everywhere, and that tight little hole on full display, just waiting for my cock to breach it.

‘You’re imagining fucking it right now, aren’t you?’ she asks, and I bark out a shocked laugh in response, because she is a piece of fucking work.

‘That’s not an answer,’ she points out.

‘I am, as a matter of fact,’ I tell her. Both my hands are all over her arse now, taking their fill on this dim dance floor. ‘I’m imagining how tight you’d be, and how much you’d love it, and, of course, how utterly exquisite you’d look, naked and bent over for me. But the real question is, are you imagining it?’

She moves against my body like I’ve made her restless, her perfect tits brushing against my front as she does. ‘I’m not not imagining it, if you catch my drift.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ I groan. I’m the finest sliver of self-control away from getting a full-on boner here. ‘I have a very pleasant suite back at the hotel. Why don’t we slip out of here and put each other out of our misery?’ I reluctantly remove one hand from her arse and trail it up the length of her back before I burrow under all that gorgeous hair and clasp her neck. I kiss her hair, too. I’m definitely not the only one who smells indecently good this evening.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she huffs. ‘I’m the fucking bridesmaid. I can’t just disappear and then miss breakfast here tomorrow. Even if some very old but weirdly sexy guy is trying to coax me back to his insane suite to pop my anal cherry, Hôtel du Cap style.’

That gets a laugh out of me, despite my frustration. I’m well aware she’s staying here with her parents. I’m well aware it would look dodgy as fuck if she did a no-show. And I’m also well aware that, all this being the case, I would have been far better off making a move on someone else tonight.

But, honestly, no one else here holds a fucking candle to Darcy.

I could get a cab over to Cannes for the Alchemy pop-up, which would still be going strong at this time of night, but that’s a dick move after spending the evening at my best mate’s wedding. Right now, though, I have a more pressing issue to deal with.

I subtly press my fingertips to the silk-covered cleft between her cheeks.

‘No one’s ever been in here?’

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