He looks over at them again, but I can tell he isn’t seeing them. His eyes are busy, occupied with something that seems deep inside his head. I suddenly become aware of his hands on my back, the long fingers spanning my ribs. I inhale his familiar smell of bergamot and a deeper scent that’s just him. It makes me shiver inside, and I lower my head to his shoulder as he pulls me closer.

“Misha,” I whisper warningly.

He shudders, the movement easy to read because we’re so close. I glance up at his face, and he sways to a stop. We’re both frozen in the middle of the dancefloor, lights bouncing off our faces and bodies. We’re surrounded by men and women dancing and writhing against each other, and yet we could be alone. My senses are utterly absorbed by Misha.

He stares at me intently, and for the first time in twenty years, I can’t read the expression on his face. “Misha?” I say again, my throat suddenly thick.

The music changes to Duran Duran’s “Save a Prayer.” A cheer rises around us as the lights dim and couples pull each other closer. Still, we seem to be standing alone, an island in the centre of the heaving mass. Pink light paints his face in colour before dipping away, leaving him in shadow again. Enigmatic and alone.

He shakes his head, and with a quick snap of his wrist, he pulls me close. I automatically throw my arms around his neck, bringing our bodies even closer, and as he sways to the slow beat, we stare at each other in the dim light. His lips are parted, his eyes glazed. I’ve seen this expression on him before—always in clubs, always when he’s dancing with other men. I realise with a shock that it’s his turned-on face.

I grab his hips, bringing them flush against mine. I gasp at the steely length of his cock, unmistakably hard. “Misha?” I whisper, my breath hitting his mouth.

His hands come down to bracket my hips, and for a second I think he’s going to push me away. Instead, he pulls me impossibly closer as if trying to fuse our bodies together.

“What is going on?” I ask, shuddering at the feel of his dick rubbing against mine. I don’t want to stop. I can’t stop. It’s like an itch deep inside me that I can’t shake.

“I don’t know.” His voice sounds thick but sweet, as if he’s been gargling treacle. “I don’t bloody know, Charlie,” he repeats, his fingers flexing on my hips before sliding around and down, and I groan as he cups my arse.