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happy for him to try.
    His mouth met with my vulva, juices mingling. His tongue squirmed into every crevice, probed at my entrance. He nibbled, sucked and lapped at my clit. He took it all so slowly, indulging me in luxury rather than striving to make me come. And at any moment, he could so easily have made me come. Technique, in the absence of much, was one thing we’d worked on. He knew how I liked it; he knew how to push me over the edge.
    But that afternoon he chose not to. Every time my orgasm began to gather Martin would shift his focus and his pressure. He would kiss my inner thigh or skim his tongue over my labia, just when I needed him elsewhere. My nearness would subside then he’d lunge in again, drenching me in heat and teasing me back to the brink.
    Sprawled on the sofa, I clutched at his hair, smothering his face in hot cunt. I massaged my breasts. I beat and squeezed at cushions.
    I begged him: ‘Make me come, Martin. Oh Christ, make me come.’
    But he refused me, over and over, until I could barely speak. I could only wail incoherently and snatch gasps of ‘oh fuck’ ‘oh please’ ‘Jesus fuck’ ‘please’.
    Then, finally, Martin released me from the torture, not by making me come, but by stopping. He knelt back and looked at me, slack-jawed and hungry. His lips and the skin around them glistened damply. It was my cue.
    I lurched forward, urging him to lie back on the floor. He obliged, his pelvis lifting, his cock upright, searching for my lush, irresistible hole.
    ‘Just a sec,’ I said, and scurried to get a condom from my desk drawer. That had been a real treat for me when I’d first moved in: hiding little condom stashes here and there, making every room in the flat a potential fuckzone. No more having to worry about other people. The whole place was mine.
    Returning to Martin, I knelt astride him, rolled the sheath down his shaft, then, so slow and so deep, I sank myself to his root. I groaned loudly as the bliss of penetration filled me and spread through my veins. For a long moment I didn’t move. I simply sat there, stuffed with his flesh, gasping with delight.
    Then I started to ride him. My tits swayed as I rose and fell. I sucked my muscles round his cock, pacing myself so I wouldn’t peak too soon or too often – I didn’t want him to think I was having a whale of a time. When I sensed Martin was close, I rested my hands on his pubic bone, knuckled into my clit and surrendered to my need. I bucked hard and fast, letting the joints of my thumbs chafe me to ecstasy.
    My orgasm was prolonged – cartwheels of bliss on the edge of collapse. Martin followed, his body curving like a bow, his prick pushing into my convulsions. Then we slumped together, heaving for breath.
    Regret, as always, was slow to catch up.
    In our post-coital stupor, we basked happily. We lay side by side, easy with each other’s body, sipping wine and murmuring bits of nothing. I brought in cheeses and crackers, and we ate, still naked, and talked – about some book Martin was reading, a thing I’d heard on the radio, getting out of Brighton for a day, perhaps Sunday, to remind ourselves what cows looked like.
    We didn’t discuss the biggie: Us. We weren’t awkwardly skirting around the issue; it just wasn’t relevant. We’d slipped into lovers’ familiarity and it was nice. To hell with ‘us’; to hell with analysis.
    But when the glow wore off and the bottle was empty, something had to change.
    ‘So,’ began Martin, toying with my hair, ‘is this a one-off, then? Or is it the restart of something beautiful?’ He smiled, faint and hopeful.
    ‘It’s a one-off,’ I replied, hoping my voice wasn’t too firm or too kind. ‘A very pleasant and very stupid one-off.’
    Martin gave a resigned ‘I see’ nod and fell silent.
    I watched him staring at his finger as it swirled patterns in the pale-grey carpet. I felt thoroughly miserable, leaden inside. But I didn’t want to talk about it. I was in