Before I’m aware I’ve made up my mind, I’m moving, taking hold of him. I kiss him thoroughly, before pulling back. His eyes are surprised. “I think that sounds epic,” I say.

We plough through the crowd at a fast pace. Misha holds my hand, tugging me along, and I follow like he’s an enchanted piper. My thoughts are murky and unformed, and my cock is completely in charge. There’s no time to worry if it’s made the right decision, because we’re suddenly out of the club and Misha’s pushing me into a taxi.

I don’t remember much about the drive home, just snapshots—his profile against the bright lights that sweep through the cab, the feel of his hand on my knee, and the distant sound of music from the radio. His breathing is heavy in the quiet stillness of the car. His hand is warm when he helps me out of the taxi, and I’m gratified to feel the faint tremor there. I need this to be as high stakes for him as it is for me.

We walk silently into the lift, and he presses the button for our floor. As the door starts to close, a couple in evening dress calls out to hold the lift. Misha hesitates, but his good manners make him press the button to keep the door open. They crowd in next to us on a tide of expensive perfume and alcohol, and we dutifully move to the back of the car.

Misha pulls me to stand against him, and I inhale sharply at the feel of his cock against my arse. It’s hot through the thin material of my shorts.

The woman looks at us curiously, her eyes sweeping us up and down. I rejoice at the fact that my sweater is long enough to cover my crotch. Her eyes light in amusement. “Fancy dress, boys?”

“Oh, yes.” I stop and clear my throat. “Eighties night.”

“Well, you’re obviously George Michael.” She looks at what she can see of Misha behind me. “Is he Andrew Ridgeley?” she says doubtfully.

“Marty McFly,” I offer.

“Where’s his gilet, then?”

Misha’s hand tightens on my hip and for a second I feel the hot wet press of his mouth on the back of my neck. I shudder and his hand tightens almost too hard. “Marty McFly in the summer,” he says hoarsely. “It was a heatwave that year.” The lift stops to let more people in, and before I can say anything he pulls me out. The doors close, and I stare at him.

“We got off two flights early.”

“We’ll take the stairs.”