He shrugs. “It wasn’t the best,” he says with typically British understatement. “But it’ll get better. I just need to keep doing the exercises that the physio advised, and it should go back to normal.”

He drinks from his water bottle, the strong muscles in his throat working. His skin is already damp with sweat, and I can smell his lemony soap scent.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask about his headaches, but if he banged his head in the accident, the migraines make sense. He’ll probably get them for a while, and if they’re as bad as I had after getting a concussion, his occasional grumpy mood is understandable. I settle for changing the subject.

“What was your first sexual experience?”

He promptly chokes on his water, and I smile evilly at him.

When he’s finished coughing, he glares at me. “Really? You want to discuss this while we’re naked and sitting in a hot room?”

“It’s the perfect time. We Danes are a social lot in the sauna.”

“I think you use the words ‘we Danes’ rather a lot to excuse bad behaviour.”

My evil smile doesn’t fade. “You might be right.” I nudge him. “You first.”

“You actually want to discuss this?”

I nod. “I get so bored of hearing about politics and recipes and the academic performance of private schools. Sometimes I need a little honesty.”

“That explains so much about why you’re the darling of the dinner parties.”

“Is that my title?” I ask, immediately distracted. “That’s rather fitting.”

“Well, it’s definitely not King of Modesty.”

“No fear. I wouldn’t get very far in life with that.” I eye him. “Go on, then. First experience?”

He settles back against the wooden bench, and I swallow as I watch his muscles move under his damp olive skin. I lean forward to pour more water on the coals and hide my cock, which appears to have a mind of his own today.

“Hmm,” he says, staring into space.

“You have to think about your first, Laurie? Have there been so many men, or are you just rather forgetful?”

“I love how you slut-shame me in one second, and sound concerned the next. I can remember it. I’m just contemplating why it merits remembrance.”

I laugh. “It was bad, yes?”

He scratches his eyebrow, looking thoughtful. “I expect it was the same as everyone else’s. He was my tennis coach, and he fucked me over the net bag of balls in our garden shed with a jockstrap in my mouth to keep me quiet. We got caught by my stepfather, who was so horrified he didn’t know where to look. He recovered his equilibrium enough to send me to my room and ground me for a month before sacking the coach. And there ended my possible run at Wimbledon.”