Page 16 of Unstitch

‘Well, it looks amazing,’ I tell her.

‘Chic as fuck,’ Maddy pronounces. ‘And look at these photos.’

She puts her phone down on the lectern. I crane my neck so I can see as she swipes. Yeah, these are great. Natalie’s standing beside the lectern, one elbow resting on it and the other hand on her hip.

‘You look like a model,’ I say. ‘You’re the perfect ambassador for your brand. I suspect your main issue tonight will be keeping the members’ hands off you—they’ll go crazy for you.’

‘I don’t fraternise, actually,’ she tells me.

‘Really? I didn’t know that,’ I say. ‘That makes two of us. So you’re there to fluff them, just like me?’

She goes bright red. For someone who comes over as poised and seemingly assured, clearly sex-talk is way outside her comfort zone. It makes her an even more interesting hire by my sister.

‘Haha, definitely not like you,’ she says, fiddling with the simple bangle on her wrist. ‘I’ve heard your dancing is amazing. I’m here to greet, and welcome, and flirt gently, and cross absolutely no lines. I’m a totally different type of host from the hosts in the club. It’s my choice—I honestly feel more comfortable that way.’

I get it. The hosts in the main bar and in The Playroom are salaried members, but they have carte blanche to have whatever fun they want to have with the members, if you get my meaning, and most of them go for it. Gladly. The female hosts wear white to help them stand out more easily among the patrons.

Meanwhile, the angel in black is untouchable, by her own choice.

Unlike yours truly.

12

MAX

Wanting something badly and not being able to have it is a new and deeply unpleasant experience for me.

If I’m completely honest, wanting something badly full stop is pretty rare. I suppose it makes me entitled beyond belief to conclude that I never want for anything sufficiently to actually want it.

Even the top job at Wolff Holdings came to me seemingly effortlessly, in the end. I’ve had my beady little eye on that glittering prize for the two decades that I’ve worked for Anton, and, sure, I wanted it like an aggressive little Jack Russell who’s always nipping at his master’s heels.

But did I think Anton would step aside and free up this most coveted of roles? Not on your life.

Not until a certain glacial blonde stepped into his life in those elegant heels of hers and blew every other ambition, every desire he’d ever had, right out of the water.

The job is mine: CEO of Wolff Holdings, the largest privately owned corporation in Europe in terms of enterprise value and turnover. Some might say timing has poisoned the chalice—I know Anton views it as such. Crystallising the value we’ve created in the form of an initial public offering is the next obvious step, and Anton feels like he’s dodged a bullet there.

He’s always adored the work itself. The nuts and bolts. The empire building. He’s great at the limelight, but he doesn’t need it. And, having found his true love later in life, he’d rather be off fucking his beautiful bride poolside than enduring what is undeniably the total and utter circus an IPO entails: endless roadshows and hoop-jumping and investor-courting.

That’s why he’s found the perfect successor. I’m that circus dog. Stick a plastic bow-tie on me and I’ll cavort through every hoop there is. I love being the centre of attention. I fucking thrive on this stuff.

What I don’t thrive on is being kept waiting. Nobody holds off on me—not in business, and definitely not in my sex life. Which is why the conundrum of the woman moving so beautifully on stage is making my head ache as much as my balls.

She’s in a bodystocking again. It’s similar to the one she wore in Cannes, adorned with strategically placed diamanté, only tonight’s version is sheer black.

It conceals nothing.

The way they’ve lit her is perfection. A chrome pole is centre stage, and boy is she working it, but the way Darcy moves isn’t like any pole dance I’ve seen before. It’s almost like… she’s edging it. She sways onstage, her body a sensual silhouette, backlit so it appears to glow, her loose hair a red halo.

She caresses the pole.

Abandons it.

Sways some more.

Hooks a knee around it and lets herself glide slowly, weightlessly, in a full turn to the hypnotic opera-techno mix playing before sinking to the floor.

Perhaps it’s my extreme state of arousal that has me over-identifying with the pole. Poor fucker. It’s like a giant cock, and she will not get the fuck on it and ride it properly. It’s driving me insane.

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