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He’s still shuddering when I ease his cock free.

I lick my lips in the aftermath.

“That was unbelievable, Jack. Seriously, unbelievable. Is it my go now, winner? I want a taste of yours.” He grins, heady.

“No. Not yet, BT. You’ll get yours when I give it to you, and not a drop before.”

“BT?” He rolls his eyes, one of his most common mannerisms. “That name better not stick.”

“Too late, it already has. You’d better get used to it.”

I realise what I’ve said once I’ve said it.

He’d better get used to it.

Because this isn’t a one-nighter and I’ll see you around. I look up at him as he looks down at me, and he’s clocked it too. He grins, and strokes my hair, and there’s something in it, something unspoken.

Something I’m not used to.

I try to play it down, getting up to my feet and ruffling his hair like a joker.

We sit together on his sofa amidst the mess, and the neat freak side of him doesn’t jump into action. He just sits there, staring at the upcycling bollocks on TV.

“We’d better be watching something more riveting than this tonight.” My laugh is more shallow. Uncharacteristically nervous. “They’ve done three chairs already. I can’t take much more.”

“You’ll have to watch it on your own, unfortunately,” Bryce tells me, and his laugh isn’t shallow in the slightest. “Maybe you can check out some rappers on the music channels until I get back.”

I shift against the cushions.

“Get back from where?”

“A charity art exhibition. I’m going with work. Clients are going to be there, and their associates.”

“Right.” I watch someone lining garish funky fabric up against a mahogany stool for a few seconds. “And this charity gig, is it a closed-door affair, or open to the public?”

I don’t meet his eyes as he stares at me. My poker face is at the fore.

“Well, it’s open to the public. It’s a charity event. Tickets are expensive, though. It’s at Hammersmith. One of the regal exhibition rooms.”

I reach down the side of the sofa for my phone. Hammersmith art exhibition. Tonight.

There it is.

Tickets are a charity donation of £1500, to look at some art you might want to buy. Riveting.

Yet still, I click to purchase.

“I’m coming,” I say to Bryce.

“What?” His eyebrows are raised. “You’re coming to the exhibition? Do you like art?”

“Nah, I don’t like art.”

“Why are you coming, then?”

He already knows the answer, it’s written all over his face. He’s so shit at playing dumb, it’s unreal.

“Because it’s better than upcycling TV shows, and I don’t fancy watching TV,” I say, then laugh. “Why do you think I’m coming?”