A stunned silence falls. His hand tightens around the cherry-red lace until his knuckles turn white.

I bite my lip. “Erm–”

“Am I to believe that my boyfriend at the time showed you these knickers just before you informed him that he was my ex-boyfriend? And then you kept the knickers in your bedside table and never said a bloody word to me in all this time?”

His cheeks are red and his eyes stormy, and I decide immediately to go on the defensive.

“And when were we supposed to have that conversation? When you were having the turns or while you were with your mum?”

“How about in the last couple of weeks that we’ve been together?” he shouts. Charlie rarely shouts.

“Are you angry with me?” I say tentatively. “I’m sorry, Charlie. I never knew how to bring it up.”

“What? That I’m a freak?”

“You’re not a fucking freak,” I say, anger seizing me. “Who the fuck told you that?” My vision darkens. “It was that wanker Harry, wasn’t it?” I hurl myself off the bed. “Oh my God, he made you ashamed when it’s the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. All the times I’ve wanked over them, and you think I’d call you names?” I grab my jeans. “I’m going to fucking kill him. I’m going to take those knickers and push them down his bloody throat and–”

“Misha.” Charlie’s voice intrudes on my rant.

He’s kneeling naked on the side of the bed, the knickers clenched in his hand. His cheeks match the cherry-red of the lace and his eyes are low-lidded. His cock is hard, but I tear my gaze away before I get distracted.

“You thought it was sexy? You wanked over them?” he says huskily.

I stand absolutely still. “It depends,” I say cautiously. “On whether that’s sexy or perverted.”

“Both,” he offers.

“Oh well, then, I definitely wanked over them.” I nod a couple of times. “All the time. Every night.”

“Come here,” he says hoarsely.

I trip over my jeans trying to get to him. “Shut up,” I say direly, and he forces his smile away. I climb on the bed next to him and draw him to me. I’m cautious at first but when he hugs me back, I grab him fiercely. I kiss the side of his head and then his lips, feeling the soft fullness and nipping it gently. He moans, and I slide my hands down to cup his backside. “It’s so sexy,” I whisper. “Makes me hard to think of you in them.”

“Really?” He pulls back. “Some men don’t like it.”

“I’m not some bloke,” I say harshly. “I’m your bloke.”

“I know,” he whispers. “And you really like it?” he asks again.