In November I bought two Advent calendars. One is for me, the respectable kind, thick card printed with snowflakes and twenty-four little doors, behind each one a chocolate, and the faint disappointment of adulthood.

The other is for Damian.

It comes in a plain box with a knowing little sticker on the seal, and inside are twenty-four envelopes, each one numbered in neat gold ink. It’s bespoke, and there are no chocolates, only instructions.

As I hand it over, and for the first twelve days in December, I watch him open those envelopes, and do exactly what they say.

Day three is “Text me something you want me to do later,” and I have to excuse myself from a meeting to breathe through his message.  Day seven “Wrap yourself in ribbon and wait,” where I learn the hard way the pain a careless knot in the wrong place can cause. Eleven is “Kiss me somewhere public where we should not,” and he does it in the queue at Pret, shameless. For day twelve I include an addition to the usual instruction, an invitation to our company Christmas party, but as the day draws closer I begin to question my judgement.

The party will be the usual corporate event: mediocre canapés and a terrible DJ playing Mariah remixes on repeat. Normally, I go alone, and now all I can picture is everyone’s judgment as they scan the perfection of his line-free face, and yet, as I smooth the satin dress over my hips, I think, why do I care?

Men on the board arrive every year with a new illegal-looking girlfriend, and nobody asks if the girl’s parents know where she is. Damian may be fifteen years younger than me, but at least he is not fifteen years old. He has his own flat, a job, and a talent for looking at me like he wants to drown in my eyes.

“Hello?” a voice calls.

Damian lets himself in with the key I gave him last week. It made sense—I am late from work too often, and I cannot keep leaving him in the cold lobby.

“Hi,” I call out. “I’ll be right there.”

As I walk along the corridor, I catch sight of him; clean, crisp suit, tie slightly loose, sandy hair pushed behind his ears. He looks like he has stepped out of a magazine. He flashes that smile, and I feel weak at the knees. I negotiate seven-figure contracts and watch grown men scramble, yet this gorgeous twenty-something turns me into a puddle. In the lift down, he takes my hand with a firm grip and I let myself lean into it.

- - - - - 

The venue is already busy when we arrive; fairy lights twine around old stonework, turning the converted church into something that looks far too holy. Damian’s hand tightens around mine as we step through the entrance, and he leans in, close enough that his breath warms my ear.

“I don’t know how I fit here.”

I look at him. The confidence and ease he has with me at home are wavering under the weight of my world.

“Don’t worry,” I say, “you look devastatingly gorgeous. Every man in there is going to wish he were you, and every woman is going to wish she could have you.”

His eyebrows shoot up.

“And,” I add, letting my fingers brush his lower back, “you’re mine tonight.”

I nudge him towards the cloakroom.

“Hannah,” he murmurs, but he follows. I rise onto my toes and kiss him as his hands slide to my waist, pulling me in, and for a second, the whole party blurs into background noise.

I break the kiss just long enough to whisper, “Day twelve.”

His eyes widen in recognition: steal a moment where you could be caught.

Damian’s smile turns wicked.

“I plan everything,” I say, and take his hand.

The cloakroom is narrow and lined with coats. I find an empty corner, tug him in, and pull the door closed behind us. He presses me back against the wall, his mouth finding mine again, then moving lower, as kisses flutter along the curve of my jaw, slow and deliberate. I clamp a hand over my mouth to stop the sound escaping as he presses the bulge in his trousers against me. He is hard and impatient as he rolls his hips once, twice, asking, testing how far he can take it.

I scoop up the hem of my dress, rocking my hips so my knickers slide down my thighs, and he releases his belt, lowering the zip of his trousers. He pauses just long enough to look at me, and I pull him closer, breath catching, giving him a wordless yes. There is no more hesitation as he pushes into me and I gasp, biting down on a nearby coat collar to stifle my moan. It is impatient and rough, the way he grips the fabric of my dress, dragging himself into me, hungry. I feel the surge building deep in the pit of my groin, the pulse moving outwards, and I grasp at it with my mind, focusing everything on that tiny ball of fire, holding on, holding, until it surges up through my pelvis, into my lungs, a stifled scream erupting from my mouth.

Back in the main room, the noise rushes over us again, and a familiar voice cuts through the chatter.

“Oh, Hannah. There you are. Not like you to be late.”

Giles, his gaze lands on Damian and pauses too long.

“And who is this gentleman?”

I smile brightly, corporate Hannah sliding into place. “Giles, this is Damian. My date.”

Damian steps forward and offers his hand, Giles takes it briefly and smiles thinly.

“Charming. Enjoy the evening.”

“We will,” I say, leading Damian towards the bar.

Damian reaches for his phone. “What do you want? I’ll get it.”

I lean closer, lowering my voice. “It’s free, company tab, let them bleed.”

His eyes widen as I hand him a glass of champagne. 

“This is dangerous information.”

We drift from group to group, and I force myself through conversations about business. Damian does his best, smiling, holding my hand under the table, his thumb rubbing circles on my skin, but the longer the night goes on, the more frequently he disappears. The free drinks flow, and I feel him loosening in a way that is not entirely good.

By the time I lose count of my own glasses, Damian is gone, and I find myself furiously circling the venue before I spot him on the dance floor with two of the girls from HR. He is laughing and one of them has her hands on his shoulders as he spins her, grinning. Heat rises through my chest as I walk over, each step measured, my smile tight.

Damian looks up with that gorgeous, careless grin. “Hannah!”

I lean in, close enough that my voice does not carry. “We’re leaving.”

His brows knit. “What? Why?”

“Because you are drunk,” I say, still smiling like I am enjoying the music. His eyes blink, slow, as I take his hand firmly and lead him through the crowd.

Outside, the cold air slaps me awake, and Damian stumbles on the steps. In the taxi, he slurs apologies, head tilted back with glazed eyes. When we get to the flat, he immediately collapses onto the sofa, and I stand over him, watching his chest rise and fall. What a state.

That night, I lie in bed alone, staring at the ceiling, listening to the distant city hum. If he is going to be in my life, he is going to learn how to behave.

- - - - - 

The next morning, he sits up on the sofa, pale and sheepish, holding his head.

I bring water, paracetamol, orange juice, and he grasps them with both hands. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I got carried away.”

“Mm,” I say, leaning against the doorway, robe tied tight. “You did.”

He looks up at me, eyes earnest now. “Tell me what you want. I’ll make it up to you.”

“You’ve been a very bad boy,” I say.

His cheeks flush. “Yes, ma’am.”

I reach for Advent 13, turning it between my fingers.

“I think,” I say, “we stick to the countdown.”

He swallows. “What’s today’s?”

I smile and unfold the paper. “Apologise properly.”

He lets out a breath as I take his hands and slide them up my thighs, tugging at the cord on my silk robe, and I let it fall open. 

“Last night you made me feel like the babysitter.”

He winces. “That’s fair.”

“Now, what are you going to do to make sure I forget that dance floor ever happened?”

“I think I have an idea,” he replies, moving his hand upwards with a mischievous grin.