Unfurl: A Hot Age Gap Romance
Unfurl: Chapter 11

It’s a short and pleasant walk from the club to Dover Street, where Belle’s gallery is situated. I looked up the closing time before I left. Six o’clock, and it’s five-fifty now. Hopefully she’ll be able to get away.

I tell myself it’s an easy way to convey the message that she’s been accepted onto the Unfurl programme. That Gen’s reviewed her questionnaire and given her the green light.

I tell myself that, as her sponsor on the programme, I’m responsible for her pastoral care and that checking in to see how she feels before it, er, unfurls, is the right thing to do.

But really, I want to see her. Need to see her. Need to soak her up in the flesh, remind myself that the woman whose hungry words are replaying in my mind on a constant fucking loop is in fact a real person and not some figment of my filthy imagination.

I push the brass handle on huge glass doors. Liebermann’s is etched on both doors in tasteful serifs. The massive space is painted palest green in honour of the current exhibition, which is how Monet would probably have painted on acid. It’s a whirl of pastels and textures and appears, at first glance, to be an exploration of the effect of light on water.

It’s ultra-feminine but stunning, and I can instantly see why Belle would be at home here.

A woman whose level of subcutaneous body fat I’d estimate at zero greets me with obvious interest. I’m not sure if it’s my face or the unmistakable price tag of my Savile Row suit that’s got her looking so cheery.

I’d guess the latter.

‘Good evening,’ she purrs. ‘Please. Take a look around.’ She gestures with a limp hand.

‘Evening,’ I say. ‘I’m looking for Belle Scott. Is she here?’

She visibly deflates. ‘One moment, please.’

Off she click-clacks to the rear of the space, and a moment later, I get my wish.

Because there she is, in a pale pink dress with a short, flared skirt that complements the hues of her surroundings in a way my not-so-creative brain can’t dissect but can most certainly appreciate. She emerges from behind a wall dedicated to one massive piece, and I watch with a sense of satisfaction as her confident stride falters once she clocks it’s me waiting for her.

I stick my hands in my pockets and smile, enjoying the view. She’s all honeyed limbs and golden hair. She’s polished and sleek and feminine. She screams good breeding. I can’t imagine how many fuckers who come in here to throw their money around attempt to hit on her.

Exactly as I’m in danger of doing.

She closes the gap between us. ‘Rafe,’ she says breathlessly with a backwards look at the colleague who’s followed her out. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Thought I’d take a look at the exhibit,’ I lie smoothly. ‘I still need a few pieces for the flat.’ I lean down and kiss her on both cheeks. ‘And I have an update for you on Unfurl,’ I whisper against her ear. The telltale flush is spreading up her neck even as I draw back.

She squirms.

I smirk.

‘Oh.’ She stares at me, flustered. ‘Right.’

Jesus Christ. She’s so innocent. So easily ruffled. And yet…

Yes. Exactly this. Please.

I love that these two sides coexist within her.

I fucking love it.

I jerk my head at the paintings behind us. ‘You want to show me around? Maybe we can do a drink afterwards, if you’re closing up shortly?’

‘Okay.’ She blinks, taken aback by my suggestion. ‘You’re just in time, actually. We close at six.’

Well, fancy that.

***

I’m genuinely impressed by the thoughtfulness and intelligence with which Belle talks me through the exhibition. The painter is a Belgian woman, and while the pieces are at first glance too feminine for my tastes, they grow on me as we circle the room. Belle knows her stuff, but she responds to art the same way I do, with her heart. Her consciousness.

It’s not about how we’re supposed to feel. It’s about how art really does make us feel, and for a brief moment I consider painting my flat this exact shade and covering its walls in paintings like this that are trippy and luminescent and make me feel like anything’s possible.

God knows, they’re not to my usual taste, but my ten minutes in the gallery has me feeling almost giddy.

Or maybe it’s sliding Belle’s gauzy white cardigan over her shoulders as we exit the building that has me feeling giddy.

By silent agreement, we take a right on Piccadilly and begin to walk west, crossing over into Green Park, which is certainly living up to its name at this time of year in all its verdant glory. It’s another warm evening, and office workers are losing their socks and shoes and pouring rosé into plastic cups on the grassy verges around us.

‘How are you finding the job?’ I ask her as we stroll. She’s changed into flats and seems to be navigating the path well, but I’m more than ready to give her my arm if she needs it.

‘I’m enjoying it.’ She shrugs. ‘I love being surrounded by art all day. The paintings feel like friends. I’m getting to know them, getting to know how they look in different light. How I respond to them depending on my mood. How they respond to me. They may look like static images, but I assure you, they’re not. Especially not Renée’s paintings. They’re as mercurial as we are.’

I like this considered articulation of something I’ve always felt to be true but have never voiced.

I like it more than I can say.

‘Glad the paintings are keeping you company,’ I tell her in lieu of divulging anything more heartfelt. ’Because it didn’t look like your colleague would be much fun.’

Belle laughs. ‘Marie’s okay. She’s the manager. She takes it all very seriously, but it’s a serious business. She’s fair, in her own way.’

‘Just not a barrel of laughs.’

‘Nope,’ she admits, and covers her mouth like she’s let an indiscretion slip.

I wink at her. ‘Your secret is safe with me. Not sure anyone goes into the art world for its sense of humour.’

‘The art is better company than the humans are,’ she agrees.

***

I take her to the Library Bar at the Lanesborough on Hyde Park Corner. It’s not the most obvious venue for an evening this warm, but it’s elegant and discreet. The staff here are friendly, and they make an excellent Old Fashioned. That’s good enough for me.

I order a bottle of champagne after establishing that she does indeed want bubbles. I’ll let her enjoy a glass before I bring up the topic I know will raise a flush to the surface of that slim, golden neck.

But she beats me to it, in a roundabout way, when she asks me what I actually do for a living.

‘I know about one bit, obviously.’ She looks down at her glass. ‘But I’m sure Mummy told me you were in finance.’

‘Yeah. I definitely didn’t tell your mum I owned a sex club,’ I deadpan, and she giggles.

‘So what else do you do?’

‘I started out in M&A. Worked my arse off. Learnt how to model a company from scratch. Then I went to a hedge fund for a while. Ran some long-short funds.’ I take a sip of champagne. ‘A few years ago, I left with some mates and we struck out on our own. Now we run our own money and we provide leverage for other people who want to do the same.’

She scrunches up her nose. ‘You mean you lend them money?’

‘Exactly. So they can take riskier positions. We also provide their infrastructure. Trading systems. Compliance. That sort of thing.’

‘And what do you trade?’

‘A bit of everything. The way my mates and I have organised things, everyone has their own expertise. Mine’s equity and corporate debt. That’s what I learnt in M&A. Some of the others are better on macro stuff—interest rates, commodities. FX. We worked out a while ago that it was easier to pool our money than all try to trade stuff we didn’t have a clue about. But we all take an interest in everyone’s positions. Keeps things more interesting, and keeps everyone on their toes. We’re getting into more and more markets. NFTs especially.’

She’s smiling at me, and it’s a smile more unguarded than I’ve come to expect from her. That face of hers is alight. I can’t help but grin back.

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’ She shakes her head and takes a sip of her drink. ‘You sound passionate about it, that’s all. It’s a world away from… you know. Your club.’

I shrug. ‘Not really. I just make markets. Sex is the oldest market in the world.’

‘You mean prostitution.’

‘Nope. I mean two people wanting what each other has. One offers, the other bids. That’s a market. Doesn’t matter what commodity you’re trading—bonds. Bananas. Sex.’ I lean in slightly, lowering my voice. ‘Take you and the Unfurl programme. You want something from our members. And believe me, they want something from you, too. There’s your market, right there.’

She blinks. I sit back.

‘How did you… I mean, what’s the story behind Alchemy?’

A server arrives to top up our glasses. I wait till he’s poured, returned the bottle to its bucket, and laid the white napkin over the top.

‘A group of us had the idea three or four years ago. You met Gen—I was at uni with her, Callum, and Zach, our other co-founders. I went to school with Cal and Zach too. There were so many flash members’ clubs opening up around Mayfair. We joined a few, and they were fun. Predictable. Total meat markets, obviously. They got formulaic pretty quickly. Just posh people looking to get fucked and fuck. We felt that, for the amount of money they were charging, we should get more bang for our buck. Stupid pun intended.’

She rewards my lame joke with a little smile.

‘Anyway, there were some pop-up sex clubs around that were killing it. We thought it would be fun to try something more permanent. Somewhere with rules and vetting that meant you were far safer than in any of those other places, but where you could also try out things that maybe you’d just fantasised about.’

She nods. ‘Makes sense. Maddy never goes home alone from Annabel’s. I worry sometimes, because a lot of these guys are super-entitled, and God knows what they might think they’re entitled to. It freaks me out.’

‘Exactly. The safety and the freedom go hand in hand. You can’t let go if you don’t feel safe. That’s at the heart of everything we do.’

‘So why the name Alchemy?’

I grin. ‘Gen came up with it. But we all agreed. We wanted something discreet. Classy. Kinky fuck club wasn’t going to cut it.’

She giggles again, and my grin widens.

‘The more research we did, the more it seemed the perfect name. It has gravitas. It suggests all manner of possibilities, and we loved that. We wanted our members to feel like they could arrive as one person and leave as another, that they’d been through something transformational.

‘What did the original alchemists do? They tried to turn one material into another. They looked at matter, and they didn’t buy into the idea that its fate was necessarily to remain that way for evermore. I’d like to think we take that approach to humans. Alchemists tried to create an elixir of immortality. Why should we not attempt to uncover a greater meaning in life than the one we have served up to us by polite society?’

I have her full attention. Those huge tiger eyes are on me, her lips slightly parted. One hand holds her champagne flute. The other clutches a bare knee that I am categorically not allowed to look at.

She exhales. ‘When you put it like that, it actually sounds quite romantic.’

That has me huffing out an amused laugh. ‘I don’t think anyone would describe what goes down at Alchemy as romantic. But what it is… is transcendent.’ I hold her gaze. ‘Because I know you don’t know this for yourself yet, Belle, but trust me when I tell you there’s nothing more transcendent than really great sex.’

That look in her eyes. That one right there. It’s desire warring with embarrassment, and right now, desire is winning. I’d hazard a guess that it’s winning to such an extent that she’s almost forgetting she should feel bashful.

Nope. I’m wrong. Dammit. She jerks her head downwards, away from me.

‘Belle.’

She glances up.

‘You don’t need to be embarrassed around me. I’ve seen it all, sweetheart. And it takes serious balls to do what you’re doing. Honestly, I’m impressed.’

‘I’m not embarrassed that you’re talking about sex.’ She picks at something on her skirt. ‘I’m embarrassed that I’m sitting here, aged twenty-two, and I have nothing to contribute to the conversation. It’s mortifying.’

‘Hey. It’s not mortifying. You’re dealing with it, remember? And there is nothing wrong with being your age and being inexperienced. The important thing is you’re taking it at your own pace. And you have the rest of your life to make up for lost time, if you want to.’

Even saying that to her creates a weird buzzing in my ears. There’s a shameful, patriarchal part of me that doesn’t want her liberated. A part of me that goes against everything we stand for with Alchemy and yet a part I can’t deny.

What would it be like if she wasn’t choosing to open herself up to the world of possibilities she’s been missing out on, in the most liberated environment we could possibly have created?

What would it be like if she took a different route? Dated a guy like me? Chose me to show her how transformative things could be between us?

How two people can become bona fide alchemists with nothing at all but their flesh?

I swallow.

Thank fuck Genevieve is on the case. Because she saw right through me. And this isn’t about me, or my desire to consume Belle. It’s about Belle, and awakening her desires in a way that goes far beyond me.

The last thing she needs is to get out of her fucked-up father’s clutches and straight into the controlling hands of another man who wants her all for himself.

A man like me.

‘How did you come up with the name Unfurl, then?’ she asks in a low voice.

I shake off my instinct to go full caveman levels of territorial around this woman and consider her question.

‘Callum wanted Deflower,’ I remember with a grin.

‘Oh no!’ She recoils. ‘That’s horrific.’

‘Seriously.’ I take a decent slug of champagne. ‘He’s such a twisted fucker.’

‘It’s so… Dangerous Liaisons. I can’t bear it.’

‘Exactly. It felt patronising, too, and not a little creepy.’

She laughs. ‘Definitely creepy.’

‘But, you know, he also suggested Fresh Meat.’

She shudders. ‘Bloody hell. I hope he was joking.’

‘I’m pretty sure he was. He likes to spout shit, but he’s a good guy underneath it all. And Zach’s suggestion was Explore, or something equally lame. That’s why we keep him to strictly spreadsheets only. My suggestion was Defile.’ I smile wolfishly, and she practically spits out her drink.

‘Oh my God,’ she splutters through her fingers.

‘A bit aggressive?’

She cocks her head, considering. ‘It’s hot.’

‘Hot?’ Now it’s my turn to practically choke. What the actual fuck?

‘Yeah. That’s what every virgin wants, really. Right? To be defiled. It’s the ultimate fantasy. Especially for those of us who are Catholic and messed up.’

Good grief.

I thought this girl was done surprising me.

Clearly not.

‘But it’s a bit on the nose,’ she continues blithely. ‘And yeah, it might scare off some potential participants, I suppose.’

I recover myself, but I’m reeling. ‘Yeah. So our branding company came up with Unfurl, and we all liked it. Again, it’s classy. Discreet. And the act of unfurling feels noble. Positive. And also natural. For a flower to unfurl its petals and showcase its full beauty is an inevitable act of nature and a wonderful thing. That’s its destiny, and it’s something we should be celebrating. Not curtailing.’

She smiles dreamily. ‘I love it. It’s a gorgeous word. I’ve never really thought about it.’

Conversely, the prospect of having a front-row seat to the miracle that is seeing Belina Scott unfurled, seeing her mind and body opened up to the sheer force of the full power they possess, is something I cannot stop thinking about.

Not for one second.

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