"You'll have to forgive my staring," Ravenscroft rumbles – the way he speaks sounds exactly like a coffee machine dispensing your first cup of the morning. "But you see, you two are precisely the sort of contrast I want to capture."

He gestures towards a large print of someone's hindquarters and – potentially someone else's – croup. It's hard to tell, there's a lot of overlapping going on in the black‑and‑white image.

"His quiet power. Your lived‑in warmth," Ravenscroft continues his narration. "You two make a story." He gives Emilia a slow blink, the one that cat owners covet so ardently. "And I would love to slide in right between these two opposite forces. To capture the current."

Emilia feels heat rise to her cheeks but keeps her face neutral. After all, she hasn't got the foggiest how one is supposed to react to what could be interpreted as an invitation to a three‑way rendezvous.

"You look alarmed, darling. Don't worry, Emilia," Max says, mouth tilting. "I don't bite." And then, after a pause, he predictably starts drawing it out, "Well, that is unless—"

"Unless I ask, yeah. That's a cliché that even I wouldn't put in my books."

She's not sure what prompted her to speak up just now: the overwhelming tiredness of the line, the cringe‑inducing banality of it – or the fact that Ravenscroft's antics are affecting Oates. She might be the only one to see it, but he's tense.

"Ah, good, you bite, I see. That's excellent! Someone needs to look after this one." The mask of a vaudeville Lothario drops, and he gives Oates's shoulder a hearty smack. "He's one of the good ones. They're a rare breed."

Sincere warmth splashes in Ravenscroft's eyes that suddenly don't look so discombobulating.

"I imagine he doesn't share much," the photographer continues and gives Oates a pointed look from under a raised eyebrow. "But he's been through a lot. It's nice to see someone... real next to him."

One would expect Kate to chime in here that 'real' is a euphemism for 'common' or 'humdrum' – but Emilia's hand is in Oates's firm hold, and Kate's silent.

"Please enjoy the evening." Something in the host's tone sets an innocuous alarm; and to confirm her suspicion Ravenscroft tilts his head and says to Oates, "I've booked the upstairs as well. You know the arrangement."

He gives them a wink and saunters towards a small group of guests standing to the side.

Emilia's mind, naturally, gallops straight into the gutter. Not even the gutter, but some subterranean Roman bathhouse of indecency. She imagines velvet drapes, candlelight, and a small orchestra of gasps, moans, and soft cries; a circle of masked hedonists in silk dressing gowns passing around oysters and impropriety. Ravenscroft at the centre, like a cult leader, declaring 'artistic communion' as limbs tangle and reputations perish. Wine shared CPR‑style. Food consumed off flesh. Grapes, staining lips with crimson; indecently soft clotted cream; chocolate dripping off fingers...

That's when Emilia realises that she's starving.

Daniel's voice cuts through the vision like a damp tea towel on a grease fire.

"He's just larking. Upstairs is just a collectors' meeting," he dismisses, his eyes scanning the room. "There'll be food, but mostly business. I'm not buying anything tonight, we don't have to go."

"Pity," Emilia mutters.

Oates's gaze zones in on her. "Why? Would you like one?"

Emilia snorts a surprised laugh. "I love how you're asking like it's a cream horn." Right, nothing but food‑related metaphors in stock, apparently. "I meant that it would be nice to have something to eat. I'm sort of hungry. And you can't just casually offer me a piece by the Max Ravenscroft." Hesitant flirtation is creeping into her tone. "I might think you're spoiling me. How much are they anyway?"

She takes a sip of her bubbly and surveys a three‑metre‑high image of five hands, probably a shoulder blade, and what one would assume is an ankle. But the jury's still out.

"That one's just a regular print," Daniel deadpans, scanning the corner of the frame with numbers 3/10 on it. "So, probably not more than twenty grand."

Were Emilia still drinking, she'd be in real danger of finding out if 'spray spit' was an unrealistic gag from a cartoon.

"Twenty thousand pounds?" she hisses. "For a photo of someone's buttocks?"

He nods, obvious amusement in his eyes.

"Blimey," Emilia shakes her head and downs her champagne. "I must be too chavvy to understand this."

"I don't understand it either. They are just shapes to me."

"Really?" Emilia glances at another print. There are two hands on it, a smaller one pinning a large, square, masculine hand to the rumpled sheets, delicate fingers curled like the claws of a bird of prey. That surely wakes a small stirring sensation in her. "But do you have one?"

"I have three. They are in specialised storage."

"What? You aren't even displaying them?" She chuckles. "Shouldn't they be proudly hanging over your bed, to set the mood, so to speak."

He's quiet for a second, studying her. "You saw my bedroom. And I don't need any special mood there. It's just for sleeping." Is he teasing her? "I can take them out if you want. To help your mood." Oh yeah, he's definitely messing about. The cheek!

"My mood around you doesn't need any help," she quips back – and discreetly pokes him between his ribs with her index finger.

It's childish, undignified – and is apparently working for him! Shocker! Small laughing crinkles near the corners of his eyes make her heart flutter. He responds with a gentle nudge back, his finger pressing lightly into the corset of her dress – and then his palm heavily lies on her lower back.

"Shouldn't have touched you," he mutters, wistfully. "Now I'm distracted."

"Should you stop touching me then?" Emilia asks – and then grabs his wrist when he starts removing his hand. "That wasn't a command, Daniel. I'm just— This is just banter."

Doubt flashes across his face; and Emilia remembers her domme responsibilities.

"I'm enjoying this," she says firmly. "I like you touching me. And it is distracting, but in a good way." She smiles at him. "So keep those words coming, yeah?"

He hums low in his throat and rubs her back with his thumb, pressing just enough for her to feel it through the fabric – and suddenly he leans down, closer to her ear, his breath first brushing her bare shoulder.

"I want to taste you." And before she has a moment to fully appreciate the raspy voice, and the heat, and the directness, he adds, "Under the skirt."

Emilia was hungry a few seconds ago; and there is a daft pun about 'eating' and 'gobbling' somewhere there – but instead she's just locked onto one singular important goal for the evening.

"Should we, maybe, go?" she asks, in a hackneyed breathy voice.

Oates, still arched over her, exhales sharply into her shoulder, and another shiver bolts down her spine. There's a full‑blown stampede of goosebumps charging across the plains of her back.

"I need to speak with a few investors," Daniel says, in a husky, gravelly, rough‑hewn voice that she described when her Marquess was one removed pair of breeches away from his first night with his new wife. "It shouldn't take more than twenty minutes. Then we'll go and find some place to eat."

Emilia jolts, the often‑described coil of heat tightly winding inside.

"Wouldn't it be easier to... um, 'eat' at mine?"

Oates pauses for a moment, and then – astonishingly – he lets out a quiet, soft laugh.

"I meant actual food," he says, the corners of his mouth pressed. "You said you were hungry."

Oh, right. She did – but in passing, mid‑sexy flirting and discussing the outrageous prices on modern art. And he noticed and remembered.

Emilia picks up the bottom of his sleeve and gently pulls. Oates eagerly obliges. His bright blue eyes are right in front of her.

"Finish with your investors, and then let's go to my place." She hopes he can guess all her intentions spelled out in her gaze. And just in case, she adds, "I think I want to be the one doing the 'eating' tonight."

It's not the most graceful wording – but he clearly gets it. He swallows, his strong neck moves; and, sending a silent apology to Marigold, Emilia rocks forward and presses her lips to his.

She is aiming for a quick peck – she can't help it! – instead, Oates performs the move that she's described a couple of times, never believed realistic, and doubted would feel nice.

His hand slides to the back of her head, cupping it, controlling it, overwhelming her with his strength and his heat. He leans closer, a living shadow above her, and she drops her head back as if gravity itself conspires with him in the moment. The kiss deepens, urgent and shattering. His arms frame her, sculpting her body into his, subjugating her, claiming her, and utterly conceding to her in return.

Firstly, it does feel nice. The words that actually pop up in her head wouldn't work in her sort of fiction. Daniel Oates' kiss hits like a good pint – steady and solid, with a warmth that seeps through, leaving a pleasant, lingering buzz without knocking one sideways. There's a proper weight to it, a certainty that makes one forget the world for a second, and a hint of something heady that makes one want another.

The kiss is simply perfect.