There’s a smattering of soft-looking dark hair on his chest that continues down over his flat stomach. His forearms are exactly the kind I tend to ogle on Instagram: not scarily corded but taut and tanned and hairy. His shoulders, as I already knew, are fucking huge, his pecs defined. He’s perfectly in proportion, built without being too beefy, and I suspect I’m staring like he’s an exotic creature in a zoo.

‘Why on earth does a guy like you have to pay for sex?’ I wonder aloud, raising myself up onto my elbows for a better look. His ensuing laugh is tinged with self-consciousness.

‘Convenience. Dependability.’ He wrestles his belt from its buckle and yanks his trousers open. Holy fuck. ‘Kink, I suppose. It’s hot to think of you being my little office fuck toy, baby. But mainly convenience. I don’t want to have to go out on the pull or take women out for dinner or have to deal with them falling in love with me and fucking stalking me.’

He kicks his shoes off, pushing his trousers down and stepping out of them. As he tugs off his socks, he looks up at me and finds me shamelessly perving over the sight of tanned, muscular thighs and what looks like a four-seater car parked in his stretchy black boxer briefs. The waistband says Chanel.

Of course it does.

‘You’re not going to fall in love with me and stalk me, are you?’

I manage, by the skin of my teeth, to avoid an eye roll. The last thing I need in my life as a single mother to a child with a chronic health condition is to fall for a vapid, charming playboy like this guy. Seriously. ‘I am not. You’re perfectly safe.’

‘Glad to hear it.’ He shoves his boxer briefs down and Jesus fucking Christ, I have bitten off more than I can chew, because that’s not a dick.

It’s a monster.

Even Athena would struggle to accommodate that thing. It’s insane. Physiologically indecent. Red and angry and leaking precum. He palms it lasciviously and inhales sharply through his teeth.

‘How’s my sales pitch working?’ he asks me with a grin that tells me he caught me ogling. His dick may be intimidating as hell, but he’s so ridiculous that I’m relaxing despite myself.

‘It’s… effective,’ I tell him. ‘Well-practised, clearly.’

His smile turns self-deprecating. ‘It’s nowhere near over yet. Now, where were we?’

He crawls onto the sofa, which is wide enough that the designers must have intended it to accommodate lots of shagging, and I lower myself fully onto my back so he can range over me. He’s a big, dark, hairy bear, and despite his grin, a thrill of something courses through me.

This guy could eat me for dinner. And he probably will.