I stop writing and drum my fingers against the desk. What next? Even though this is pure invention, my breathing is getting a little laboured. My heart is pounding, and my right hand is creeping away from my keyboard, down towards the crotch of my jeans. Looking down, I can clearly see the outline of my nipples through the wool of my jumper—even though I’m wearing a T-shirt underneath, and a very solid bra…Michelle’s whole body is shaking, and she moves against me, wanting more. Still on my hands and knees, I’m aware of two warm hands behind me, against my bare skin, and I moan into Michelle as Paul pushes his cock—Harri will probably change it to penis anyway but I can’t do it, it’s just too clinical—inside me. He’s gripping my hips so tightly that I think his fingertips are going to leave marks against my skin, he bites my neck and murmurs my name—did I even introduce myself to him? Never mind—and thrusts, and thrusts, and I start coming and can’t stop. Every cell of my skin is singing with desire, with lust, I’m crying out, I don’t know what I’m saying, I can only feel Paul inside me as Michelle quakes against me. Paul cries out and leans back, and Michelle and I fall to the floor. For a moment we lie there, panting and gasping. Seeing my silk slip, I give Michelle one last, lingering kiss, and shake the dress back over my head. ‘Enjoy the rest of the party,’ I smile. ‘Maybe I’ll see you again some time.’ Without looking behind me, I know they’re watching me walk out of the room. Collecting my coat, I find myself welcoming the chill of the evening air, cooling my flushed skin. It’s late, but London is still full of tourists, revellers, explorers, people who are only just finishing their work and people who are only just arriving. I wonder if any of them have been on adventures like mine—and whether they’d be shocked to discover my sexy secret.

I’m not sure about the last line. Fallen Bloody Angels could use that as promotional copy in their brochure, but it’s purple prose, definitely a little bit flowery, too slick. Still, it’s what she asked for. If I copy over my original closing paragraph, it sounds slightly less saccharine. It was deliciously fun to write. I was so angry and anxious when I sat down. Now I feel calm, strangely sated. I could experience pleasure, but at a safe remove. It was as though I was using a completely different part of my brain when I allowed myself to fantasise fully. I feel almost…cleansed. My breath is getting slower, deeper.