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me a wary glance. ‘We broke up soon after that.’
    â€˜Mutual agreement?’
    â€˜I guess technically speaking, she got in there first. But to be honest, my cock had already left the relationship.’
    â€˜You couldn’t get it up for her?’
    â€˜Could you? I mean, not that you have a dick, obviously. But could you perform for someone you knew thought you were weird?’
    My mind rushes back to those last few sexless months of my marriage. ‘No,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘My ex-husband…I…he said I was bossy. A nagging cow who didn’t know when to shut up. I couldn’t…’
    Lucas Brady is watching me with those dark, dark eyes, and something in the way he looks at me sends warmth cascading over my skin. ‘I don’t think you’re bossy,’ he says.
    â€˜Liar,’ I retort. ‘I’m bossy as fuck.’
    â€˜Well, yes,’ he says. ‘But I like it. I like it when you boss me around.’
    â€˜I like bossing you around.’
    And there, right there, is a confession that leaves both of us silent for a moment.
    â€˜I’ve never met anyone like you before,’ I say eventually, when the silence has expanded and filled me. ‘I didn’t know men like you existed.’
    â€˜I knew bossy women existed,’ Lucas tells me. He folds his arms and crosses his legs at the ankle, leaning back against the work top. ‘The problem has been trying to find one.’
    I blink. ‘How could you possibly have had any problem? Have you
seen
you?’
    â€˜It’s not that easy,’ he says. ‘I met someone I thought might be into it, but it turned out that she had a thing for another guy. And she was too young for me, if I’m honest. Anyway, it’s hardly a topic you can bring up in the middle of a first date. “Oh, by the way, I really want to be bent over the end of the bed and spanked, would you be up for that?” It’s OKwhen women say it,’ he continues. ‘Then it’s kind of kinky, you know? Naughty. But when a man says it, women think it’s weird. And then they tell all their friends, and before you know it they’re posting it on Facebook and your mother has found out and is refusing to speak to you.’
    He sounds angry. Bitter, almost. ‘Stop whining,’ I say sharply. His head jerks up. For a moment he looks shocked, and then that small smile curves up the edges of his mouth, and just like that, we move smoothly into play.
    I dip my fingers into my glass and flick juice at him. It spatters his chest, his belly. ‘You’re dirty,’ I inform him. ‘You need to clean yourself up. I won’t tolerate poor personal hygiene, Lucas.’
    I’ve never used his first name before. Never said it out loud. It feels soft and delicious on my tongue.
    â€˜No, of course not,’ he says hastily. ‘What do you want me to do?’
    â€˜Do you have a bath? Or a shower?’
    â€˜A shower,’ he says.
    â€˜Show me.’
    He leads me through into a small bathroom, even smaller than my own. It’s reasonably clean, although not pristine. I picture him wearing nothing but a pair of Marigolds and think about making him scrub it out, but decide to leave that for another day. I check the assortment of shower gels and soaps, the aftershave that sits on the windowsill. Then I lean into the shower and turn it on. A blast of cold water thunders down into the tray.
    I look at Lucas and gesture to it. And like the true gentleman that he is, he climbs under the spray without a single complaint. I watch as he lathers himself from head to toe with soap that smells of mint. He rinses his hair as goose bumps rise on his perfect skin and his nipples tighten into dark little discs and his penis thickens and lengthens, standing proudly away from his body.
    He says nothing when I turn off the water, when I order him to get out of the shower and stand,