Bloody hell, he’s got a temper. I press my lips together to hold in my shocked laughter as they stammer out their apologies.

‘Give me that,’ he spits. A moment later, he reappears in the changing area holding a dove-grey silk dress that looks even more high-maintenance than the white one and a matching grey lace lingerie set so exquisite I’d rather frame it than wear it. He gives me a cheeky wink, and I allow myself a silent giggle.

‘Let me help you with this, madam,’ he murmurs, hanging the lingerie and dress on the hook before unzipping me the rest of the way. The silk lining of the dress slithers sensually over my hips before falling to the floor and pooling around my heels, leaving me in just my underwear.

I may have been naked with the guy a couple of weeks ago, but it’s mid-morning on a Monday, and standing here like this for him while he openly checks me out feels as confronting as it does salacious.

‘Part one of your onboarding process,’ he whispers, his emphasis making the term sound filthy. He finds the hooks of my cheap bra and slides it down my arms. My nipples have hardened—they’re no more immune to Brendan’s charms than the rest of me—and believe me, he’s noticed.

His gaze rakes over my bare breasts in the mirror, dark and filthy, before he takes the beautiful grey lace bra off its hanger and holds it by its straps in front of me. I slide my arms through it and he pulls it up, fastening it behind my back.

‘That’s more like it,’ he murmurs. He reaches around and cups my breasts through the lace, his thumbs strumming over my nipples. My eyes stay locked on the sight of his big hands caressing me as I stand here in this exquisite lingerie he’s insisting on buying me. It’s such a decadent, taboo concept—that he’s paying for my body and I’m selling it to him—that it has my heart thumping behind my rib cage.

Abruptly, he pulls away. ‘I’m very invested in getting this shopping trip over with quickly,’ he says. He bends his head to nip me on the shoulder before reaching for the grey dress. ‘Come on, let’s give this one a whirl.’

One hour, a dozen speedy outfit changes and tens of thousands of pounds later, we leave the palatial changing room and its toxic sales assistants and emerge through a side entrance of Selfridges to where Brendan’s driver is waiting. At my new boss’s insistence, I’m wearing the off-white dress and heels while, behind us, three smartly dressed porters carry an array of distinctive yellow carrier bags and garment bags to complete my Pretty Woman moment.