I had decided, having held up for as long as I could, that the toilet was the best place to cry, and so I set about to find one. Sure the alcohol had been somewhat useful in keeping it classy, except for the constant agitation to throw champagne in Luna's face each time she pressed on about how she inspired me. I was heartbroken love, but that didn't mean I wanted to feature in some reality show, Love and Architecture, London. I was in the toilet, crying my eyes out and texting back and forth with my mum about it; I say back and forth but she hadn't even seen my first text and I was on my fifteenth; when someone tried to open the door.

I took that as a sign, maybe, that I'd been in here too long so I only cried for five more minutes before heading to the mirror with my bag, trying to set my face back right. My lash was dangling so I just took them both off and then tried, shaky and slightly drunk, to put some blush and lippie back on, then I set about trying to fix my hair and then I tried to look so good Luna would regret ever having bet against me. When my attempt to put myself back together failed, I called a cab and considered waiting in the toilet until it came. By this time another three people had banged against the toilet's door. It's not my fault this was someone's house and not a hotel! Surely there must be other toilets in this damn castle!

I had, finally and quite innocently, stepped out of the toilet, estimating that by the time I had located my coat the taxi should be here, when Lucas Roland appeared out of nowhere, pinned me to the wall and growled

"Get in my car now Funke!"

He was gearing for a fight.

I understand that this man was currently still my boss. What I don't understand is what pinning me to a wall will do for anyone if the point was for me to get into his car. Was I supposed to sublimate through him and into his car like I was Casper the friendly ghost? And why was his fucking hand on my waist, his other just above my head? This, your honour, is the evidence I present to you that manz was lying! The crown Lothario of Whitlam, angry at me for some reason, ordering me around for no reason and imprisoning me because someone hadn't told him we're free now!

I roll my eyes at him, to his face.

"Listen bruv... I already called an uber yeah? I didn't come here with you either so I amen't...amentonite...amen't not.. about to leave with you. I'm not fucking leaving! Do yourself a favour yeah? Get your fucking hands off my waist and get in your own bloody car." I softly say, sucking my teeth at him too for good measure

Fine, my words had refused to work slightly and everything around me had swayed to the left as I was speaking, but let it be known that I'm not drunk! Lothario Whitlam needs to stop lurking about trying to save and order me around. I gasp when his hand pushes against my waist, forcing my body against his. His eyes were darkening and I was starting to see that I'd fucked up. I also want to point out that I had been right all along and this man had no intention of letting me get into a car, his or otherwise!

"You want my fucking hands off your waist mo ghran?" He whispers darkly to me

I could feel his strong body pressed against mine and I was trying to think about what Hervé said I should call him back when he calls me that. I mean clearly the alcohol was attracted to Lucas Roland but as for me and my house all I was trying to do was beat him at his own gaelic game of merks.

"Get your fucking hands off my waist mo chridhe" I whispers back tightly.

Was that what Hervé had told me to say back? Had I said it right? Had I pronounced it well enough for the little monster here to get the message?

I watch his eyes darken dramatically, first there had been a kind of shock as he recognized the word and then a deeper reckoning. Should I have said that? He seems to be taking in a deep breath as if to fight for his own control, instead his hand dips lower, down my waist and to my ass, grabbing a chunk of it possessively.

Was possessively the right word, or was it possessed? My eyes widen in disbelief, my breath catching at the possessed action. He licks his lips, staring me right in my eyes as his dark commanding voice states

"You'll take whatever the fuck my hands and I doll out to you morgan, now get in my fucking car... Unless you'd rather have me rip you off that sinful dress and have you in this bloody toilet. Is that how you'd prefer to let Luna know she's right?"

I.

I...

I couldn't speak. All the words coming to my head weren't the right words at all. My body, clearly in shock, had suddenly sent a flashflood to my nethers and I was speechless, utterly speechless! First of all there was nothing wrong with my dress! It was perfectly decent even with the high slit and low cut bodice! There were plenty of women here with dresses more questionable than my silk gold number! Second of all I worked really hard to put that fenty trophy wife body lava on my thighs and tits so I can glow in this dress and I'll be damned if a raging lothario ruined it for me! Do you know how hard Rihanna worked on body lava?! And she did it for ME! Most of all I'd rather chew period-blood stained denim than say "Yes sir." To this man, so I say nothing.

"There's nothing wrong with my dress... pervert." I mumble, trying to reign in the flash flood

"I don't think you've ever heard of a bra or clothes that your tits weren't constantly trying to escape from!" He hisses back, which is completely uncalled for

My tits were small enough that I went braless often, I didn't think much of it, or that anyone would notice let alone be so offended as to bring it up!

"Bras...you know what those are right? They were invented in 1889, I looked it up!" He growls at me, which again is uncalled for

"My tits are perfectly good girls and they always stay in my clothes!" I protest, which wasn't my finest point, it might not have been the most poignant point of his rant, I could've accused him of trying to sex traffic me and maybe I was working my way towards it but as for now how dare he bring up my itty bitty ethnititties that I'd drowned in body lava for this lewk!

"Name three formal occasions when you haven't almost had a nipslip and I'll give you my car!" He challenges me and I consider that I may just be getting a car

I smile triumphantly, the fact that I could be walking out of here with my ass back in my possession and the keys to a Maserrati Alfieri... this would go some way in curing my heartbreak

"Name three formal occasions when I had a nipslip and I'll get into your car." I challenge back because there was no way he could

"Remember when I took a sixteen hour flight to find you were secretly meeting with Angus about commissions?" He pries and I remember that day.

I was in the tuxedo dress and no bra and I hadn't even come close to a nipslip. Manz not honest, he's a liar.

"Your left tit slipped out of your dress when you tripped outside the restaurant. It slipped right back in when I pulled you up." He reveals, which can only be a fucking lie

"Even if that happened..." I challenge drunkenly, because that didn't happen. Did it?

"Two weeks ago we were in my office and you'd leaned over the plans because you were thinking about something, your left nipple, again, slipped out of your shirt and got caught on its way back in so it was just out there, hanging out with us until you went to sit down and it slipped back into your shirt." He adds, rudely interrupting me

OK, fine, that one's a bit more credible because I realized she was out and had actually gone to sit down to fix her back in, but that was a one time outing, not a lifetime of it...and I didn't think he'd noticed! I'd forgotten how dangerous that sweetheart neckline off-shoulder t-shirt was and I hadn't planned on being at the office on that day anyway!

"You have no proof!" I hiss at him before he can say anything bad about my ethnititties

"Oh... Don't I?!" He hisses grabbing me by my elbow and shaking me a little bit, just one jarring jiggle and my right tit pops out of my dress, stiff aroused nipple and all

The audacity of my tits to betray me like this at my hour of need! He smirks, darkly, licking his lips at me like some bargain store white LL Cool J impersonator. I can't believe my own body got in the way of my winning a Maserati Alfieri! I pull my dress back over my nipple and glare at him. Fine, I'll get in his car but I'll pout all the way home!

"Now be a good little girl mo ghran and do as I say." He whispers intimately.

The fact that I was aroused by all this bollocks is proof that my ovaries were terrorists! Why? Why did I suddenly want this mad man to pin me against this wall proper and make me scream his name?

I swallow hard, mumbling "Yes boss" with a soft nod before turning around to tipsily walk to his car. He whispers a soft triumphant whoop that he thinks I can't hear, smacking my ass.

"Good girl." He whispers, deciding to help me walk now that it wasn't coming as easily as it usually did.

I slide into the matte black concept car that would've been mine, ready to cross my arms and pout all the way to my apartment. He slips into the driver's seat and I for one am glad that the flash floods in my pants will leave some DNA in his car seat in case he murders me or something. He starts the car and then places his hand on my Fenty lava'd thigh, which I suppose should've been my first clue that we weren't heading to my apartment at all.

"Open your legs for me mo ghran." He commands and we both watch my legs part as far as the dress allows.

I want to state categorically that I wasn't the one who did that! I don't know who did it but it wasn't me! It wasn't Funke Obatunde! My theory is that all the wine and champagne I'd drunk tonight had gone straight to my clit and now she was in charge and obviously running mad!

HELP ME!

His hand lands on my bare thigh, sliding slowly up my thigh, pushing the dress as it goes. My breath catches, my spine straightening at this advancement. My hands lift to the roof of his Maserati Alfieri as if attempting to lift it off so I can fly away. I don't know what kind of poison his touch was potent in but it was sending waves through my skin that I didn't want to enjoy as much as I was. He chuckles darkly as his hand reaches my warm soft hairs, it felt like a shock wave of pleasure and I did my best to not throw my head back and moan his name. I grunt in disbelief as his fingers brush against my soft moist swollen clit, rubbing it once then twice then one more time.

Ok, some points have been made here.

"Fucking hell!" I hiss at him when he dips a probing finger in, my waist flexing to allow his finger deep into my wetness.

Fucking hell indeed.

He pulls his finger out and into this mouth, navigating the corner to the gate of his home. He couldn't get me in there fast enough! I want to cry from how badly I want more than a finger inside me right now. He turns to me, his gaze dark as he pulls his finger out of his mouth.

"Leave that dress in the car." he instructs darkly

"What?" I cry softly in disbelief

"Do not step out of the car with that dress still on Funke!" he commands, propping my chin up and pressing his finger against my lips.

He keeps his eyes on me as I reluctantly shimmy and slide out of the dress, doing what must be done. He knew his home well enough to get to the parking without having to look at anything else. So he watches me unzip the dress, watches the revelation of my ethnitities the traitors who'd lost me this car, gasps softly as the dress slides off my body and then bites his lips because effectively, save for the shoes, I was naked now.

"You're a mad man." I whisper as I step out of the car in nothing but the heels

He doesn't bother to refute my claim as he shuts and locks the car doors, opening the door that led from his garage to the house for me.