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“I’ve been close before, once or twice, but never managed to…you know…finish.”
    He lifts my hand, kisses it, quirks his lip, has the grace to look slightly awkward as he regards me over my clenched knuckles. “Your first orgasm? I didn’t realise that. I wasn’t very kind to you, was I?”
    I shake my head, my face flaming with humiliation. No doubt he’ll notice me blushing again, be keen to fuck me at his earliest convenience. That should be nice…
    “And I was none too gentle the first time I fucked you either. I didn’t realise then that you were a virgin, but all the same, I could have been more considerate.” That wry smile is back, his lip curling up at one side as he grins at me wickedly. “There was no real need to tie you up, I suppose, thinking back. You did say you weren’t going anywhere.”
    More gallows humour, just at the right time to lighten my mood, restore my confidence. And re-establish that easy rapport from earlier. I grin back at him. “Well that’s just you, isn’t it, Nathan? I bet you can’t even get it up without the handcuffs and ropes. Without all your fancy props.”
    He laughs out loud, his face split by a huge grin, broad, fun-filled. “Miss Byrne, are you angling for some hands-free fucking? You’ve only to ask, I’d be delighted to demonstrate.”
    “Thank you, that will be most pleasant, I’m sure.”
    “Pleasant! Miss Byrne, have a care for my ego. Your sweet little bottom is going to pay for that last remark. But first, we’ve an opera to catch. Time to go.”
    As suddenly as it started the navel-gazing is over. For now. He throws both our empty Costa cups in a bin before grabbing my hand tightly and pulling me to my feet. Draping an arm round my shoulders, he kisses me soundly before tugging me off down the waterfront towards Leeds city centre.
     
    * * * *
     
    The opera was wonderful. James did well for us. We had seats in the circle, near the front. Don Giovanni has always been one of my absolute favourite operas, one of Mozart’s finest pieces. The performance was exquisite, passionate, humorous and engaging. And in the original Italian, one of my favourite languages. My Italian is fluent. I spent most of the three hours with tears streaming down my face. Opera invariably moves me, the passion, the musicality, the drama. And with my own Dom Juan sitting next to me, just waiting to seduce me again the first opportunity he gets, I could empathise with the infatuated conquests and victims. And I’m sure my mother would have found much common cause with the vengeful families.
    Afterwards we caught a late supper at an old bank, now converted into a trendy wine and noodle bar. We giggled over chopsticks and chicken chow mein, washed down with a crisp, chilled Chardonnay. Then we strolled back across the dark, deserted city centre, Nathan’s jacket over my shoulders, holding hands again and snogging like teenagers in shop doorways. Me making up for lost time and missed opportunities in my far-from-misspent youth, and Nathan just having fun.
    Nathan kept dropping change in the outstretched hands of homeless people, wrapped in an assortment of tatty coats and pullovers, as often as not accompanied by skinny little mongrel dogs on bits of string. And as often as not we found ourselves sharing the doorways with them. He was very generous, much to my surprise really. My mother always warned me not to give money to beggars. “It just encourages them,” she’d say, and in London I always scuttle past, not meeting their eyes.
    “Maybe some of them are trying it on, scroungers like you say, but I always think you’d have to be pretty bloody desperate to want to make your living that way,” Nathan says, in answer to my query. “I’m just glad I’ve somewhere to go tonight. And a beautiful woman to go there with.” He hugs me closer. “If one or two of them have cheated me, I’ll survive it. I think most are genuine, though, and I know that life can be