Undulate (Alchemy, #2)

by Elodie Hart

A year on, it still feels like the most tasteless kind of joke. These days, my only sources of intimacy and hugs and comfort, and my only reasons for putting one foot in front of the other, are my daughters, Stella and Nancy. At least I don’t have to sleep alone. They find their way into their parents’ bed every night. These days, they form the bread of our family sandwich and I’m the grief-stricken, silently weeping filling.

Because the idea of doing anything akin to the things I did with my late wife is horrifying to me. I can’t imagine wanting to touch, or be touched by, a woman other than her. That’s the line I’ve been feeding them, anyway. And I think they’ve bought it. It was true up until a few weeks ago. Laughably true. And in the part of my mind that I actually entertain, the part that controls my executive function and basic adulting, it still holds. But in the base, reptilian part of my brain? It’s a fucking joke. She’s sitting across from me right now in one of our team meetings. Madeleine. This girl who’s engaged my lizard brain. And girl is the correct term, because she’s barely even a woman. Twenty-fucking-three. I mean, for fuck’s sake.

If anyone’s going to get on board with Slave Night, it’ll be Cal. And if anyone’s going to look like the mere mention of it gives them constipation, it’s Mr Pearl Clutcher in the corner. Zach.

Not only does he not complain or seek out sympathy or do anything except underplay his troubles, he also looks fucking good while he’s being all strong and stoic.

Norm thumps his tail on the rug in approval. What a clever doggy he is.

‘Do you need volunteers?’ I ask Cal, trying to make my voice sound supportive rather than enthusiastic. ‘Like, to be auctioned off?’ He smiles wolfishly. ‘You bet we do. You game?’ ‘Hell, yeah,’ I say, and he laughs. ‘Nice one. I’ll put you down.’ ‘I bet Belle would do it, too,’ I muse aloud. I’m amused beyond belief when Rafe practically shoots off the sofa. ‘Over my dead body,’ he growls which, you know, doesn’t seem like the most diplomatic thing to say given the circumstances.

A side he keeps very carefully hidden. A side he’d rather die than surrender to. Hmm. We’ll see about that. I’ve always known it’s the quiet ones you have to watch.

‘I take it back,’ he says, grinning. ‘Come on through. The girls are out on the terrace. How’s my gorgeous goddaughter?’ ‘I’m excellent, thank you,’ Stella says at the same time alarm bells ring in my head. ‘Girls?’ He jerks his head to the wall of glass doors, all of which are open. ‘Maddy’s here, shamelessly exploiting my roof terrace. They’re sunbathing.’ Oh fuck. That’s not good.

I follow him out onto his terrace, from which emanates much squealing of the female variety, and oh fuck. Holy motherfucking shit. Belle and Maddy are both in string fucking bikinis, and they’re unfolding themselves sinuously from their loungers and making a beeline for me. Oh, Jesus.

‘There are a lot of furtive glances being exchanged between you two,’ Belle mumbles out of the corner of her mouth as she leans over to refill my glass of rosé. On this sunny afternoon, it’s slipping down very nicely indeed. I lift the glass to my lips. ‘Shut up. Though, really?’ I’ve caught Zach looking over this way more than a couple of times, but I’ve told myself he’s watching his girls. ‘Yup.’ She nods decisively.

And, much to my delight, it looks like Zach has decided to join him. He sits upright, sets his glass of rosé down on the ground next to his lounger, pulls his sunglasses off his shirt and, arching his back, tugs his polo up and over his head in one fell swoop before swiping it over his forehead like a towel and chucking it on the end of his lounger. Bloody hell. I only get a side view, sadly, but that’s enough to tell me that Rafe is not the only oldie who keeps himself in superior shape. The guy’s a knockout. In profile, his pecs are perfectly defined and just as bronzed as I figured they’d be. This man was not sunbathing in a t-shirt in Italy. As I suspected, his tan is flawless. Even. Deep.

He’s not my type. My type is kinky and insatiable. I’m looking for Christian Grey—or a whole roomful of Christian Greys on rotation, if you please—and this guy is Gilbert fucking Blythe.

Before Belle can placate her, Zach is sitting up straight and lowering his sunglasses so he can peer over them at her. ‘You know we don’t use that word,’ he tells her firmly. ‘Don’t make me take you girls home.’ ‘Sorry, Daddy,’ she says meekly, and with that, he nods his approval, shoves his glasses back on and lies back. Holy fuck. What the hell was that, and why is my pussy clenching beneath these skimpy AF bottoms? It was his sternness, I decide. He was unequivocally stern just then, and it makes me want to earn a delicious scolding from him.

I take back the Gilbert Blythe comparison. This guy could definitely be a spankier version of Captain von Trapp.

‘Daddy kink activated,’ I mutter out of the corner of my mouth, and Belle snorts so hard that she leans forward, coughing out her wine and escaping the hands of poor little Stella and her ‘slidey’ hairbrush.

Oh hooooly fuck. I’ve always prided myself on having a high-maintenance pussy but low-maintenance ovaries. I mean, who the fuck has a ticking biological clock aged twenty-three? Not me, that’s for sure. But as I watch Mr Stern Nerdy Sex God stand there in all

his bronzed glory as he holds his little girls tight, I get it. I mean, I really, really get it. It’s like my Neanderthal cave-dwelling ancestors just served me up a winsome dollop of the most primal, age-old fantasy of all time. In case you need me to spell it out for you, that’s the he whips out that big cock and puts lots of babies in me fantasy.

I could really do without being happy-trail level with and, like, a foot away from, Daddy Spanky.

Getting my tongue on that skin. The things I could do to cheer this poor man up. He has no fucking clue. To make the situation even more interesting, every instinct I have tells me I’m not the only one up to no good. Despite the opacity of his sunglasses, I’d put a great deal of money on the fact that he’s standing there fantasising about coming all over my tits right now.

She was unhappy with her circumstances, and she was unhappy with the person those circumstances made her, and she took action to change those circumstances.

Nobody gets to tell you what to believe. Nobody gets to own your mind, your heart or your body. You own them. You get to decide.

‘Get a room,’ I drawl idly. Rafe releases Belle and cups her face in his hands, searching her gorgeous, green-y hazel eyes with his big brown ones

like he’ll find the answers to the universe’s greatest mysteries in their depths.

Claire’s gorgeous brown eyes are shining with the light of love. A light so powerful it still knocks me sideways. She has her arms around the girls, but they’re all over the place. Nancy’s mouth and chin are covered in chocolate ice cream, and she’s making some stupidly adorable face. Stella’s teeth are actually brown, and it should be revolting, but it’s not. Not really.

My wife’s shoulders are a little pink. She fell asleep in the sun that afternoon after a long rosé-heavy lunch. We were on holiday in the Dordogne, and it was heavenly. I probably rubbed Nivea into her shoulders later that night like the lovesick fool that I was. One thing probably led to another. I wish I could remember the specifics. I wish I could remember every single time. Every moment. Behind the three of them is me, grinning like a fucking idiot, my face the stupid, oblivious kind of happy that only a man who has no idea what the future holds can feel.

Maddy spots me first. She’s on the far side of the table, but she stands and waves excitedly—I suspect I’m not the only one who had a sharpener before coming here—and leans forward to greet me. Jesus Christ.

‘You came!’ she sing-songs, beaming at me as she pulls away. I shoot her a wry grin. ‘I did.’ ‘I’m so happy!’ I frown and look at Belle, who’s tucked into the crook of Rafe’s arm and stifling a giggle.

‘She’s not drunk, I promise,’ she says. ‘I think she’s just happy to see you.’

I should probably let him down gently. Disappointing Cal’s a bit like kicking a puppy. ‘Not tonight, mate. Maybe next time.’ ‘Saving yourself for Slave Night next week?’ From across the table, Maddy treats me to a saucy grin and a raised eyebrow. I manage a weak laugh. ‘Let’s see.’ Highly fucking unlikely.

I should hit him. God knows, I want to. But I also know everything Rafe and Cal do is for me. They are permanently, unequivocally Team Zach. And Cal’s hit squarely on one of my most lethal self-saboteurs, according to my therapist. That’s my insistence on beating myself up, as he puts it, for missing standards to which no one else holds me accountable. His practical advice is also not awful, even if it is uncomfortably akin to that boiling-a-frog analogy. Or a lobster. Whatever it is. One little peek.

Twenty steps and a look. I can do that. I down the rest of my wine and slap Cal manfully on the thigh. ‘You’re on.’ He splutters. ‘I’m—what?’ ‘Come on.’ I jerk my head in the direction of The Playroom, a giddying sense of fatalism running through my veins. ‘I hate to admit it, but you’re right. A look won’t kill me. I need to get over myself. You going to hold my hand?’ I may have called his bluff, but he comes to his senses quickly and jumps up. ‘No fucking way. I’m not holding your hand, you fucking cockblocker.’ I spit out a genuine laugh. ‘Come on, dickhead,’ I repeat. ‘Show me what all the fuss is about.’ His face lights up, and he slaps a hand on my shoulder. ‘Fucking yes. That’s my man. Let’s go.’

There’s a volley of barking from inside before Zach answers the door, and all thoughts of jogging bottoms and trouser anacondas go plain out of my head, because he is in a tux.

Holy Fucking Christ Almighty. His brand of sharp, nerdy, conservative dressing does it for me at work, I have to admit. Even if my type is usually more overtly playboy. I’m a sucker for a hot European in Gucci loafers and no socks. What can I say? I’m deeply fucked up. But Zach French in a tux is quite simply breathtaking.

Because as soon as Zach’s girls saw the logo and identified me as a fellow Swiftie, we were instant besties.

And Zach refusing to finish the job and fuck me afterwards. Honestly? That last part is the only bit that makes sense. Nope. I’m most definitely Not Okay. Her eyes widen. ‘You can’t send me a text like that and then not answer. I was worried.’ My text may have said something like I AM DYING. UNALIVE ME NOW. It was also peppered with plentiful Edvard Munch screaming face emojis.

‘It’s specific. To you. No matter how fucked up my home life still is—and believe me, it’s a total shit show, no matter what it looks like from the outside—my brain is so fucking full of you I can barely hold it together. All I can think about is doing unspeakable things to you. The whole. Fucking. Time. So for the love of God, please stop fiddling with your hem, because I can’t look away.’

‘Jesus Christ, Zach. I’ve been at work for five minutes and I’ve already soaked my thong.’ Holy fucking shit. I am so out of my depth with this woman. I pant out a shocked laugh and wipe my hand over my face. ‘You can’t say things like that. Seriously.’ ‘Um, hello? You’re the one who’s sitting there looking all conflicted and tortured and Hot Widower-y and telling me you can’t stop thinking about doing unspeakable things to me! How the hell else is my body supposed to react?’ We stare at each other. I suppose she has a point. Good God. I bury my head in my hands and groan.

‘Zach. Look at me.’ She throws her head back and holds her arms out wide. I look. Believe me, I look. She’s fucking gorgeous. And if she opens her legs an inch wider I’ll probably get an eyeful. ‘I’m going to spell this out for you. You can do whatever you want to me. Honestly. Just fucking use me. If you’re feeling shitty, or stressed, just come and find me and I’ll do whatever you want. Like, anything.’

‘Why?’ I ask uselessly. ‘Because,’ she says, ‘that’s my kink. I get off on being someone’s plaything. And we’ve established how fucking hot you are, and you’re like an unexploded bomb. I want to be the one you unleash all that angst and repression on.’ She says that last sentence with a touch of a whimper, and fuck, I believe her. Her beautiful eyes are growing glassy. Hooded. She nods at my hard-on. ‘I want you to make that my problem. I want to take care of it. I didn’t get anywhere near enough of your dick on Friday night.’ Jesus Christ. ‘This sounds like a great deal for me,’ I grit out. She smiles. ‘If Alchemy was anything to go by, you’ll make it worth my while.’

I’ve had his kisses, and his tongue on me, and his dick grinding against me. I’ve shattered the surface he tries so hard to keep pristine, and I’ve had the briefest glimpse beneath, and I want far, far more. So help me God, I want to be the one who undoes him, and I want to make it more worth his while than he can begin to imagine.

‘What’s up?’ I say. ‘Come here,’ he repeats, gesturing for me to go around. I do, and he pats his desk beside where he’s sitting. I raise my eyebrows and perch my bum on the edge of the desk. ‘Well?’ ‘I’ve been wondering,’ he begins, his voice tentative.

And I melt. At the sensation of his touch, and at the implications. My lips part, and he stares up at me. ‘I’ve been wondering how your thong is doing,’ he says, his voice steadier now. ‘Still wet,’ I manage. Truth. ‘Really.’

He tugs on my thong. ‘Take it off. I want you bare so I can finger-fuck you on my desk.’ My jaw drops open. I knew it. I knew Mr Spreadsheet could dirty up nicely if he was properly incentivised. Turns out all he needed was some indecent propositioning from me and a swipe through my pussy.

And then he’s removing his hand and wiping it down my thigh in a move that’s demeaning and arousing in equal measure and muttering so fucking wet as he gets to his feet. I look up, and every ounce of praise and admiration and need I could want to see on a man’s face is reflected there in his eyes. ‘I want to suck your dick,’ I blurt out before he can move, and he makes a face like he’s in pain before shaking his head. ‘Next time,’ he tells me. He pushes his chair back and makes for the side door to the loos. He looks back at me. ‘But I’m going to fucking bid for you on Slave Night, and that’s where the really unspeakable stuff starts.’

I didn’t know an experience that dirty could yield such purity of thought.

She’s already given me her express permission to take my roiling mess of emotion and frustration and grief and exhaustion and resentment and use her as my very own flesh-and-blood method of catharsis, but I think I needed to hear Cal confirm for me what I already knew. It’s okay for me to channel the very darkness inside me for my own pleasure, and for Maddy’s. It’s what she wants from me. And it’s what I need from her.

Slave Night’s drawn a good crowd, and it’s all for a worthy cause. I haven’t seen The Playroom this full before. Not that I’ve frequented it often, but it’s far more full than it was last week.

I recall Maddy’s seductive voice in my ear earlier, when we had a moment alone at work. ‘I hope you can afford me tonight,’ she whispered.

‘What if I can’t?’ I asked, just to see how she responded. She shrugged and looked me in the eye. ‘I’ll have a good night no matter who wins me,’ she said matter-of-factly. The real fucker was that I knew she was right. What a way to galvanise a guy.

Because this is a seventy-five-grand blowjob. The reminder that he’s paid for this service, he’s paid for me, has my whore kink taking over and me clenching everywhere, because that’s what it feels like. A client putting his whore through the wringer. Milking every last drop of value from her.