I groan in despair. The first time I wanked over them was entirely accidental. Okay, not accidental. I didn’t slip and end up with them wrapped around my dick. But it had started out innocently. I’d been lying in bed, and, after deciding to take care of my hard cock in the usual way, I’d reached for the lube in the drawer. However, my fingers had encountered lace, and before I knew it, I’d drawn out the knickers. Sniffing them was probably a bit perverted and wrapping the lace around the length of my dick while I masturbated and thought of my best friend riding me was definitely wrong. It hadn’t stopped me though, and I came so hard I saw stars. I snort. Of course, it’s also entirely innocent that I called Charlie’s name at that moment and that I’ve done the same every night since.

“It’s a dry spell,” I say out loud.

I wasn’t joking when I told Charlie I hadn’t shagged anyone while he was gone. My libido has flipped a switch. It’s no longer on the Target Everyone setting, and has been firmly notched onto the Shag Your Best Friend setting, instead.

The last week has been difficult, to say the least. I’ve tried so hard to behave like normal, but fail constantly. Last night we sat on the sofa having a conversation about a film we wanted to see. He leaned into me and I inhaled his vanilla scent and my brain went completely offline to the extent that I couldn’t even remember my own name. It’s happening all the time. I keep looking at his mouth and forgetting my words. It’s full and looks so soft and…

“A dry spell,” I mutter again desperately.

“They say that talking to yourself is a bit of a bad sign,” comes a voice from the door.

I swivel my chair around and find Rupert watching me, a smile tugging at his lips.

“It’s not a bad sign when you consider the standard of conversation around here,” I say quickly. “It’s actually the sensible option.”

He laughs and wanders into the office, throwing himself into the chair opposite my desk.

I eye him. “Can I help you?”

“Why?”

“Well, you spend so long sitting in that chair, the fabric is conforming to the shape of your arse.”

He smiles good-naturedly. “Just checking that we’re still on for tomorrow night?” He groans when I narrow my eyes. “Misha, have you forgotten?”

I snap my fingers. “The club.”

He nods happily. “Eighties night.”

“How smashing,” I say wryly. “Loads of pissed-up people wearing far too much neon and bad music to accompany the experience.”

“And is Bethany still coming?” he asks in a woeful attempt at an offhand manner.