‘So many.’ He met her gaze, wondering whether he’d find hurt or confusion, anger or disgust. She grinned at him. ‘No wonder you’re good.’ She prodded him in the ribs teasingly and their lips found each other’s again.

He glowed under the compliment. He wanted to ask her if he was her best. He didn’t need to ask how many. He knew – she’d already trusted him with that – but he didn’t know how it had been with them. Had she enjoyed Nathaniel Thorpe? Did the cold Aubrey Owens come alive at night? It seemed unlikely, but it was possible. Their union was fruitful, that meant something. Jealousy flared around his body, and then shame that he was jealous and curious swamped him too; both undignified, irrelevant emotions. He could not ask. Must not.

‘I can’t remember the other women now,’ he muttered. He wanted to tell her she was unique, satiating in a way he could not have imagined. Variety held no challenge or lure for him any more. He just wanted her. Over and over and over again. Her. He hoped she’d answer his compliment with one of her own, that she’d reassure him that he was her best. That she’d . . . not died a small death with him – he’d never thought that was what it was to come, he didn’t like that description; the opposite: that she’d lived a little more brilliantly. A little more deeply. She didn’t respond. ‘Tell me something else,’ he murmured.

She looked pensive and then replied, ‘I have an insatiable sweet tooth.’

‘You don’t look as though you have.’ His eyes swept over her trim body appreciatively.

‘I keep it in check, but if ever you examine my handbag, you’ll always find a quarter of something lovely. Jellies, boiled sweets or toffee. There’s nothing I like more than dipping my finger in the honey pot and sucking it clean.’ He wondered whether she’d deliberately chosen that image to disturb him. ‘I’ll turn to fat if I’m ever content.’

He didn’t comment. He’d always known she wasn’t content; there was no point in pretending to be surprised by her admitting as much. He had no answer for her, now less than ever. It seemed unlikely that what they’d just done would lead to contentment or satisfaction. Delight, bliss, ecstasy he hoped for; guilt, fear, shame he didn’t doubt. Satisfaction was impossible.

‘I like liquorice,’ he muttered.

‘I can’t abide liquorice,’ she declared as she wiggled on top of him and started to kiss his jaw.

As they made love for a second time, he whispered previously unknown facts to her. ‘My first dog was called Pepper,’ he murmured as he kissed her thighs.

‘Oh, really, what sort?’ She spluttered the words through minute gasps of pleasure.

‘A Labrador crossed with something hairy. You?’ His voice was muffled because he didn’t want his lips to leave her body.

‘I had a white rabbit that I cared for poorly; a fox got it.’ She placed her hands on the top of his head and ran her fingers through his hair, gently guiding him to where she instinctively knew she wanted him most. ‘My favourite colour is green.’