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Zoe arrived in nine minutes with a bottle of prosecco in each hand and a tote bag over her shoulder, looking delighted.
She’s twenty-eight, small and curvy, with black curls, a dusting of freckles and a laugh you can hear through two walls. She kissed Elena on the mouth, a quick, familiar peck, and looked me up and down. I was in my boxers on the rug. I wanted to die.
“Hello, Mark,” she said. “You look nervous. That’s nice.”
“Zoe,” I said.
“Safeword?”
“Marmalade,” Elena and I said together.
“Brilliant. I’ll keep it in mind.” She poured three glasses and handed me mine without taking her eyes off my chest. “So Elena tells me you got the Tigris wrong.”
“Euphrates.”
“Idiot.” She said it fondly. She curled into the armchair, and Elena sat on the arm beside her, one hand resting on Zoe’s shoulder. The two of them looked down at me, flushed and fond and wicked, like cats with a mouse. “Elena says you’re going to be good tonight.”
“I’m going to try.”
“Good. We’d like to see you try.” Zoe nudged me with a bare foot, and slid it slowly up my thigh, until her toes brushed the front of my boxers and found how hard I was. She smiled.
“Elena,” she said. “Do I get to touch?”
“That depends on him.” Elena’s eyes were on me, bright and steady. “Mark? Where do you want Zoe tonight? Hands on, or just a very good view?”