Page 26 of Untether

Not that a single person here would spare them a second of pity. Not with their much hotter, much younger girlfriends.

Maybe that’s unfair. Both my mates are decent looking.

The tantalising prospect of having drinks with Aida tonight really has brought out the crowds. Gen’s here too, with her boyfriend, Anton. Or should I call him her partner?He’s getting on a bit—fifty-two, I think—though I suspect he could have any woman he wanted in this place. Is fifty-two too old to be called someone’s boyfriend?

I’d be horrified at the thought of turning fifty if Anton Wolff wasn’t a poster boy for how fucking good life can be in one’s sixth decade. Tall, outrageously good-looking, seemingly in rude health, a billionaire God knows how many times over, fuck knows how many homes and yachts, and a kinky fuckboy until he fell hopelessly, irrevocably in love with our beautiful friend.

I have to admit, he’s nailed this aging thing.

Several women come over to say hi, introduce themselves or wave their tits in his face, which is equally rude and stupid given he’s quite clearly with the woman who could revoke their membership with a wave of her hand. But, to his credit, Anton treats each of his unwelcome admirers with a brusqueness bordering on rudeness.

Gen’s the only woman he’s got eyes for. Tonight she looks as flawless as ever, in a golden dress that makes her look like a goddess and a choker around her neck that glitters with diamonds—a choker that’s a gift from her besotted Anton.

I sigh and subtly check my watch. Aida said she’d be here at nine, and it’s ten past. Not that I’m keeping track.

‘He’s pining.’ Zach nudges Maddy, who has to smack a hand over her mouth to stop herself from spitting out her champagne. ‘Do you think she’s stood him up?’

‘Grow a pair,’ I growl at him. I don’t give a shit if she turns up on time, or late, or not at all. It just seemed like a convenient time to get her to meet the rest of the Alchemy crew, given the documentary team will do some filming inside the club when empty and she’ll eventually be interviewing all four of us co-founders.

‘She’s here,’ Gen says a moment later, the warning to us all to behave evident in the pointed tone of her voice.

‘Yes she is,’ I mutter, shooting to my feet, because even in a club that houses the elite of London’s financial and political sectors, Aida Russell stands apart.

Her dress is long. Cream. Floaty. I couldn’t tell you much about it except that it has a high collar that lies flat around her neck, while the armholes are cut all the way up to intersect with it. The pleasing effect of this cutaway design is that her toned, bronzed shoulders are fully on display, as are her bare arms, cuffed halfway up each forearm with a huge gold bangle thingy.

It’s perfect. She’s perfect, her posture statuesque, her poise faultless. That mouth I sucked on last week is its trademark scarlet. Full. Glossy. The kind of highly pigmented fire-engine red that I just know would leave a gratifying ring around my cock.

Several seconds pass before I notice she has her friend with her, seconds during which I hasten over to her so she’s not left standing on the periphery of the merry-making. Her friend, Simone, needs no introduction. She’s another household name, a newsreader I’ve watched since my uni days.

Gen reaches them before me. Of course she does. The three women exchange noisy greetings and effusive kisses before Aida turns to Anton, who’s also beaten me to it, kissing him with what looks like genuine pleasure and affection.

I roll my eyes. Of course all these heavy-hitters, these grownups, know each other. And, even though Gen and I are the same age, I have the uncomfortable feeling that she belongs effortlessly at the grownups’ table by virtue not only of her relationship with The Big Bad Wolff but of her innate, undeniable gravitas.

I’ll probably spend the evening at the equivalent of the kiddies’ table, lobbing metaphorical cocktail sausages and Hula Hoops at Maddy and Belle while the grownups chat nicely in the corner, discussing Ukraine and The Booker Prize and rising mortgage rates.

For some reason, the thought pisses me off, which is probably why I call, more loudly than I mean to,Aida,while, behind me, Rafe openly sniggers.

17

AIDA

Simone seems as happy as a pig in shit.

‘It’s such a shame I’m completely in love with my husband,’ she mutters, while shooting some guy a flirtatious grin. ‘The guys here are hot as fuck.’

We’ve had a few smiles, and nods, and whisky tumblers raised in greeting. I guess it tickles guys to see two newsreaders in a sex club, even if we’re just in the bar area. I take another peek at the heavy wooden double doors I’m told lead through to The Playroom.

It’s a horrifying thought, and I can’t stop craning my neck every time someone walks in their direction, because there’s no escaping the fact that they’re sauntering in there, casual as you like, tofuck.

We’re standing in little clusters around the table Cal and Gen and their friends were at when we walked in. It seems more sociable than everyone sitting around on stools. Easier to mix conversations. The reporter in me is loving it. I’m observing. Analysing. Interpreting. Drinking in the well-heeled patrons and their dynamics.

It’s a fabulous atmosphere—buzzing and super fun—and I remind myself I’m in a sex club. There’s no room here for inhibitions. So why do I feel almost bashful that the gorgeous guy standing next to me is the same guy who finger-fucked me to a messy, moaning climax last week?

He looks fine. So fine. Tall and broad-shouldered in a black dress shirt and black pants that showcase what great shape he’s in. He’s a slightly bigger build than his cofounders, Zach and Rafe, who are leaner, rangier, and it’s clear he works out. A lot. Those pants highlight his trim, tapered waist and his fantastic ass.

His dark hair is raked off his face a little messily, a look that absolutely works for me. His skin is fucking gorgeous. Golden and flawless and glowing with health. Beard immaculate. But it’s his eyes that really get me, because they’re warm and dark and molten, and they crinkle whenever he smiles at me, which is a lot.

He stays close while we all chat. Like, shoulder to shoulder close, the heavy cotton of his dress shirt brushing the bare skin of my arm. And when he’s explaining something about how the club works, or pointing someone out to me, he inclines his head and touches me lightly with his fingertips on my low back.

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