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opening and a voice raised in fear.
    Her eyes fixed on his, she held her ground. She was a brawler too. He braced, his own breath forced out sharp, loud in his ears. She took two strides towards him. “This is madness.”
    “It stops the minute you don’t want it.”
    “What if I want it?”
    “Take it.”
    “No apologies. No explanations.”
    “Show me who you are.”
    She crashed into him and he caught her tight, crushing her close, bent to her. She took what she wanted; her lips hot and full, her mouth opening under his, her groan juddering through his chest. She was liquid silk on his tongue. She was speed of desire, slippery descent into sin. Her kiss was a pistol loaded with risk and fired with menace. It left a hole in his heart, where blood rushed to seal her in like pain, like fear, like life. Her hands on his face, in his hair, the sting of a bite, the soothe of a lick. He was solvent at her touch. All the independent parts of him concentrated on the feel of her; hands, body, wet mouth. The whimpers in her throat made his soul roar with rising need, testing sweet limits he’d forgotten existed.
    She took what she wanted and she gave back the promise of long summer nights with twisted sheets, satin sweat on velvety skin. She took what she wanted, and he was made a slave for it.

6. Collision Course
    “The cautious seldom err.” — Confucius
    In Cern, with the Large Hadron Collider, scientists recreated the conditions of the Big Bang by colliding two beams of particles at the speed of light head-on. The scientists Darcy interviewed believed the discovery of the Higgs boson subatomic particle would help explain how the universe came into being.
    In Pudong, in a freezing cold, ultra-bright room, Darcy collided with the man from Tara with such unexpected force and blistering energy, she was stunned by the discovery of how much she wanted him, and the belief this was meant to happen.
    He was solid and real under her hands. He let her have complete control of the kiss, but he wasn’t passive, not cruel stone she smashed against; he was accepting, accommodating, exciting. She couldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop. If kissing him proved she didn’t need to apologise for who she was, and what she wanted, she’d kiss him like this as long as he’d let her.
    He had his hands under the back of the jacket, on her backside, pressing her hips into his. If he let go she might spin out and break into elements of herself and never know how to stick back together again. He tasted of tea and spice and smelt of leather and cloves. He met her touch for stroke, lick for suck. She pawed at him, the roiling feeling inside her growing wilder and wilder the longer she took from him.
    This was madness; this was insane. This was her private Big Bang. She lost herself to pulsing, throbbing, grasping until he stopped her, his hands on her face.
    “Slow down, you’re killing me here.”
    She crash-landed. The reality of where she was, and what she was doing hitting her like a cutting laser, opening the way for waves of shame and regret to plough in. They didn’t come. She didn’t see condemnation in his eyes. She saw want, and it made her feel powerful.
    He kept hold of her face and kissed her tissue soft. “We’ve got hours. I’m an old man, I need to pace myself.”
    “This is…” she hesitated, and his hands fell to her shoulders, “acceptable to you?” If it wasn’t, frustration, not embarrassment, was going to rip her up.
    “It’s somehow essential to me. To you too, I think.”
    She nodded. How did he know what she felt, this stranger she was impatient to kiss again?
    He released her and went to the bathroom doorway, leant in, switched on the light and drew the door closed, leaving it a hand span short of latching. Then he flicked the main light switch off, making Darcy blink against the plunge into darkness. He took her hand and led her to the couch, sat and pulled her down beside him. He was doused in shadow,