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  ‘Oh God.’ I break into a sweat. ‘Oh flip. Oh bloody hell, God.’

  I’m sure I hear a quiet chuckle. But I’m incapable of listening carefully now. In one mad, deep, exhilarating rush, I climax around his fingers.

  He gives me no time to gather my senses.

  Before I’ve even begun to come down from the high, he adjusts his position between my legs, takes hold of my thighs and brings his mouth to my crotch. Obviously determined to rob me of all sanity, he sets about working me up to another climax with his tongue. And seeing as I’m already alive with a thousand watts of sexual energy, it takes no time at all for the second orgasm to hit with a vengeance, wave after wave of contractions sweeping through my core. Not content to leave it there, he keeps on massaging me with his tongue, keeps those waves coming until I can’t take any more.

  ‘Wreck!’ I cry out, and then I moan incoherently.

  It does the job.

  Immediately, he’s gone from the bed, and I’m hoping I haven’t put an end to the shenanigans with my ridiculous safe word. Because even though he’s just taken me to the limits of endurance, I still want this to go all the way.

  ‘I need...’ I gasp. ‘I need you inside me.’ And then, for good measure, ‘Please!’

  There’s a movement; a drawer opening; the rustle of packaging. Silence.

  ‘Oh, thank God.’

  He’s putting on a condom. I’m sure of it.

  I take in a few deep breaths and focus on steadying my heart rate, my pulse – the lot. By the time he’s back between my legs, I’m good to go. A few seconds pass before he moves again. Placing a hand either side of my shoulders, he gets into position, stirring up a palpable energy in the air as his body closes in on mine. His cock nudges against me. He leans slightly to one side, guides himself inside with his left hand, probes little by little, giving me time to get used to his size. And while he does, I take in one jittery breath after another – because I’m feeling him now with an intensity I’ve never known before, quivering at each new movement. At last, when he’s filled me completely, he pauses, adjusts his position slightly, and sends a flurry of warmth throughout my vagina.

  ‘You feel so good,’ I tell him. An understatement, if ever there was one. In fact, he feels perfect, custom-made. Tugging on the manacles, I silently give thanks to the god of insane decisions, and brace myself for the ride of my life.

  It’s not long in coming...

  Propping himself on his right elbow, he slides his left hand under me, holds me at the small of my back and withdraws slowly – almost to the hilt – before filling me again. And then, at a slow, steady pace, he repeats the process, over and over again, causing endless ripples to tumble through my core. Suspended in time and lapping up every new divine sensation, I’m beginning to wonder if he’s got the self-control of a saint when he finally picks up the tempo. Gradually, his thrusts become faster, growing in force until he’s pounding hard, relentlessly hitting the depths of my vagina each time and nudging me relentlessly towards the edge. Muscles tighten around him. I struggle to take in a single breath of air. And that’s when his lips latch on to my right nipple, sucking hard and creating a whole host of new sensations. I have no option but to let go, contracting round him while he continues to drive into me.

  ‘Jesus!’ I cry out. ‘What the fuck?’

  His breathing becomes ragged. Releasing the nipple, he tightens his grip on my back and digs his face into my neck. And the pounding continues, giving me no chance at all to recover. Instead, I’m pulsating inside, riding high on a buzz of electricity that refuses to abate. With a few more animalistic thrusts, he stiffens and finally comes, emptying himself inside me while I implode yet again, washed away by an orgasm that’s even deeper and richer than the first. Engulfing me completely, it leaves me drunk on pleasure and utterly incoherent, able to do nothing but moan as he lowers the weight of his body and pins me in place.

  Still twitching inside, he grinds his crotch against mine, slowly bringing us both down from the heights. And then it happens...the one thing I’ve been told not to expect. Seeming to forget his own ground rules, he raises his head, brushes his mouth across my cheek and closes his lips around mine. A brief shock gives way to delight, and I can’t help responding – because those lips are so warm, so soft, so wonderfully sensitive. And while the kiss deepens, tongues touching and dancing against each other, his grip on my body loosens a little, becomes almost tender. It’s sublime, exquisite, intensely personal contact that goes on for an age until he draws back his head. With his face right in front of mine, I feel his breath against my mouth, minty fresh.

  ‘I thought you didn’t kiss,’ I smile.

  Caught up in the moment, I’m half-expecting him to lift the blindfold and reveal his identity. But he doesn’t. Instead, he claims a second kiss, this one even longer than the first, mesmerising me into oblivion before he leaves me to swoon while he gets on with the business of withdrawing.

  As soon as he’s off the bed, I want him back. I want his warmth, his gentleness, his understanding, his strength.

  Listening to the sounds of him getting dressed, and totally at ease – even though I’m still splayed out on the bed, on full view in all my post-sexual fug – I let out a contented sigh.

  ‘Please don’t let this be the end of it. I need more.’

  The bed dips again. Back at my side, he rests a hand on the pillow and leans over. Again, his lips smooth against mine, then lock in for a third kiss, just as wonderful as the first two. When he’s finished, he releases my hands, one by one, manoeuvring them into position above my head and pressing them against the pillow: a clear sign not to remove the blindfold. And then he takes hold of my chin, tilting my face upwards.

  ‘Thank you,’ I whisper.

  With a quick, chaste peck on the lips, he gets up from the bed.

  I hear the door open and shut. Three knocks, and I know he’s gone. It’s time to return to reality.

  Slowly, I lift the blindfold, blink in the dim light and glance round the room. Struggling to believe what’s just happened, I stretch out on the sheet, luxuriating in total satisfaction, and feeling somehow different. When I finally heave myself up from the bed, I pull on my clothes and stand in front of the mirror, wondering who the hell I’m looking at. And then I laugh.

  ‘Boring old Ella Fairbrother,’ I tell my own reflection, ‘you’ve just been a very naughty girl!’

  ***

  At last, I emerge back into the corridor, relieved to find it’s deserted. Although no one here would bat an eyelid at what I’ve just done, I can’t help feeling a little embarrassed. I sneak back to the lobby where I find Celine at the desk, busy poring over a pile of paperwork.

  Hearing the clatter of heels against marble, she raises her head. ‘You seem satisfied,’ she beams.

  ‘Certainly am,’ I beam back.

  ‘There. I told you.’ She lays a hand on the pile of paper and lowers her voice. ‘I have a message for you.’

  ‘A message?’

  Her eyes glitter, and then she floors me. ‘X would like to see you again.’

  ‘What?’ My mouth falls open. ‘I didn’t think he came back for more.’

  ‘Normally he doesn’t.’ Her eyes widen in mock surprise. ‘But you appear to have had an effect.’

  ‘Me?’ I can barely believe it. As far as I’m aware, I just lay there and sucked up the joy. What on earth did I do to impress him? Putting a finger to my lips, I think of those kisses, and fizzle with excitement.

  ‘Tuesday evening,’ Celine says. ‘Eight o’clock. Room two again. What shall I tell him?’

  I look round at the stone-white walls, the clean lines, the intriguing portraits. I can’t believe I ever thought I’d be spending the evening in a seedy shed on an industrial estate. Because this isn’t seedy at all. Far from it. In fact, it’s as close to heaven as I’ve ever come...and I’m hooked.

  ‘Tell him yes.’

  ‘Good.’ She hands me a business card. ‘In case you can’t make it, or need to get in contact for reassurance.’

  I gaze down at a small, black card. On one side, there’s a phone number in a delicate silver font. On the other, the same inscription I saw at the gate.

  ‘Latin,’ I note. ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘Nosce te ipsum?’ Celine arches an eyebrow. ‘Know thyself.’

  Chapter Five

  Eyelids rise and darkness melts. For a short time, I have no idea where I am. And then it all comes into focus: I’m in bed – my own bed. And I’m exhausted and stiff because last night...

  ‘Oh, fuck.’

  I lie still, listen to cars pass by in the street, allow myself time to wince, and finally spend a few pleasurable minutes luxuriating in recollections of my weird and wonderful experience with X. At last, I squint at the alarm clock and sit bolt upright.

  ‘Shit.’ Almost one in the afternoon. ‘Get up, woman. Work to be done.’

  With a superhuman effort, I heave myself out of bed and shiver at a sharp chill in the air. It’s definitely time to fire up the boiler. And with that in mind, I wrap myself in a big, cosy dressing gown and head downstairs, pausing in the living room to pull back the curtains and watch the light flood in over a scene of squalor. I groan in despair, because it’s long past time to rescue my cosy, shabby-chic living room from the detritus of the last few months. Alongside the dust, everywhere I look I can’t avoid the sight of an empty wine bottle, a pile of discarded papers, a used mug or a dirty plate. But for now, I turn a blind eye to the mess and go through the archway to the kitchen-diner where I flick on the boiler, ignore the unwashed pots and pans, and make myself a mug of coffee.

  With a yawn, I collapse onto a chair and stare at my work bag. Still lounging on the table where I drop
ped it in the early hours of the morning, it’s quietly reminding me I’ve got a manuscript to finish. I’m sorely tempted to pass on the reading, curl up on the sofa and do nothing more than fantasise about X for the rest of the day. But that’s out of the question. Tomorrow’s deadline is looming. And besides, now that I’m waking up to the cold light of day, last night’s adventure seems to be mutating from totally logical to utterly insane – the maddest thing I’ve ever done, a complete aberration – and something I’d rather forget. Slugging back the coffee, I decide a quick walk’s in order, a little head-clearing before I attempt anything else. And so, half an hour later, freshly showered and dressed in leggings and a sweatshirt, I head downstairs, locate my trainers and keys, shrug on a mac and leave the house.

  It doesn’t take long to reach Regents’ Park Road, and as ever it’s teeming with Sunday lunchtime activity: restaurants and pubs in full swing, a few boutique shops open, pavements thronging with humanity. But I’m in no mood for any of it. Determined to get through the masses as quickly as possible, I march forwards, head down, only slowing the pace when I finally reach the gates of Primrose Hill Park, where I’m relieved to find the cold’s managed to deter most people from taking a stroll. In relative peace, with a clear blue sky above and a sharp wind whipping in from the South, I make my way across the park to my favourite bench. I breathe deeply before gazing out over London’s skyline, scanning slowly from the dome of St Paul’s all the way to the London Eye.

  Watching a lone cockapoo bounce across the field below, I wonder if last night’s adventure was an act of rebellion, or whether I’m heading into breakdown territory. It’s the second alternative that seems a distinct possibility. After all, over the past few months I’ve been flailing about in a muddle of emotions, making very little effort to understand any of them. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they’d finally agreed to stage a coup. But then again, if I was having a breakdown, surely the world would look different...feel different...but somehow it all looks and feels exactly the same.

  The cockapoo comes to a halt, whizzing round in circles just like my thoughts. I watch it hunch over to do its business, and laugh. Because prompted by a dog, I’m reminded now of Celine’s thoughts on submission – ‘It’s a release.’ And it most certainly was. At the time. In fact, it was the most intense release ever. But the trouble is, it didn’t last. And worse than that, the entire episode has left me confused, seeing as I don’t know why I did it.

  ‘Fuck.’

  Shaking my head, I get to my feet and decide I might as well go home because I’m cold and tired, and I’ve cleared nothing up at all. But by the time I’m back at the park gates, I’ve at least managed to reach one major conclusion: I should never have listened to Celine in the first place, because what I need right now is strength, and strength can only come from staying in control, not giving it up. Retracing my path through the crowds on Regent’s Park Road, I resolve to take back every last bit of control in my life – big time – starting with sorting out my disaster-zone of a house and reading that fucking manuscript. And while I’m at it, I take a silent, solemn vow to knock the wine on the head for once and for all...and stick submission where the sun don’t shine.

  And so, after a quick lunch and more coffee, I finally dig into the cleaning. Within an hour the kitchen’s cleared of dirty pots and pans, the entire ground floor stripped of rubbish, and the lounge has been given a cursory going-over with the duster and hoover. I’m about to make a start on the bathroom when I come to a halt at the top of the stairs, suddenly transfixed by the door to the smallest of three bedrooms – the one that’s not been opened for months now, not since I cleared out Mum’s flat and stashed her belongings behind it. In all these months, they’ve never once begged for my attention. But for some reason, they’re begging for it now.

  ‘I’m not ready,’ I murmur, as if they’re listening.

  Reluctant to be anywhere near that door, I return downstairs, make another coffee and snuggle up on the sofa with my iPad. And then, the rest of Sunday disappears the way many a Sunday has disappeared before, lost in a romance, buried in a world that simply doesn’t exist.

  ***

  After a good night’s sleep, Monday morning arrives with its usual haste. But after a sober night, I have no trouble launching myself into the weekday routine. Shower. Dry hair. Don the armour for the day ahead: a grey suit-dress and jacket; hair pulled into an up-do and ruthlessly pinned into place; small silver stud earrings and a simple silver necklace; a smattering of make-up, just enough to add to the shield. When I’m finally ready, I make my way downstairs, choose a pair of black heels and check my bag – iPad, mobile, purse and keys. It’s almost an after-thought, taking a quick peek in the side pocket and making sure I’ve still got that little black card; I’ll need it today, so I can call Celine and tell her I’ve changed my mind.

  It doesn’t take long to reach Chalk Farm Tube Station. In no time at all, I’ve taken the lift from the tiny Victorian entrance hall down to the platform and I’m installed on a train. Pulling out my iPad, I dig into the task of flipping through emails and firing off the occasional reply. It’s enough to keep me busy all the way down to Waterloo, and ward off all thoughts of Saturday night. By the time I change onto the Jubilee line, I’ve managed to deal with most of the correspondence. Grabbing a seat, I flip open the iPad again, position it on my knee and call up a new manuscript. But I read nothing. Because I can’t help getting distracted – just like I always do – by the way Victorian London loses its fight with modernity. The further East we move, the fewer bricks and tiles I see. At last, it’s nothing but metal and concrete. And my heart sinks into its customary swamp of despair.

  ‘Looks interesting.’

  I glance to the right, at a man in the next seat to me. Not bad-looking, I suppose. About my age, suited and booted, obviously on his way to work in some bland Docklands monolith, and clearly determined to foil my plan to keep the world at bay.

  ‘It is.’ I give him my ‘don’t say another word’ smile, and retreat behind the façade.

  ‘Work or pleasure?’ he presses on, oblivious to the warning signs.

  I don’t bother looking up. ‘Work.’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘Wouldn’t interest you.’

  He’s silent for a few seconds, and I’m the verge of relief when he speaks again.

  ‘Clitoris.’

  This time, I do look up. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘It says clitoris.’ He points at the screen. ‘Right there.’

  I check what I’m pretending to read, only to find it’s a particularly graphic sex scene. Flipping the iPad cover back into place, I stare at the woman in the opposite seat.

  ‘I saw a nipple too,’ my companion says under his breath.

  A couple of dirty words is all it takes. Any effort invested in forgetting X is rendered completely pointless, because now I’m thinking about him again.

  ‘Thank you so fucking much,’ I grumble.

  ‘No problem. Fancy going out for a drink?’

  In no uncertain terms, I’m about to tell him to go away when the train pulls in at Canary Wharf. I’m out of the carriage like a shot, scurrying through the industrial starkness of the station and riding the escalator up to Jubilee Plaza. Once outside, I head straight for my favourite coffee outlet – a little pink wagon positioned just to the right of the station. A quick exchange of morning pleasantries and I’m in possession of a steaming hot Americano. And then I check the time. Only eight-thirty. No need to face the soulless wasteland of the new offices yet. Instead, I approach the edge of the wharf and lean against a concrete balustrade. Shoving all memories of X out of my head, I take a sip of coffee and spend the next few minutes watching the world go by.

  Ahead of me, the bottle-green waters of Middle Wharf shimmer in the morning sunlight, a network of cranes at the far end coaxing a mishmash of half-finished buildings into life. At this end, everything’s already complete, vast office blocks crowding in around the wharf, offering up nothing but clean lines and perfect finishes, a world of concrete, glass, stone and steel. To the right, the curved exterior of the Reuters building looms over Mackenzie Walk, a pedestrian promenade lined with restaurants – most of which I’ve tried over the past month. And while sunlight bathes the walkway, it hardly seems to touch the opposite side of the wharf, where the tallest buildings reach high over Bank Street. I turn to them now, homing in on the tallest block of all, my new workplace: sixty storeys of grey-green glass, criss-crossed by steel framing, the top thirty storeys of which guard the various interests of the Delaney Empire – interests that now include Phillips Publishing, recently transferred, lock, stock and barrel, to the thirty-fifth floor.