Unfurl: Chapter 12

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