Recognising this because I felt the same, I smiled and pulled him upwards until the length of his body hovered over mine. I grabbed his hips, positioning myself. We shared one mutual glance of fire and desperate need before we met each other halfway and he plunged inside me, filling every inch of me.

He withdrew more slowly, teasing out the sensations, his eyes fixed on mine. I could feel his body trembling and I shook my head. Enough of slow ‒ I wanted fast and hard. I twisted, forcing him to move with me, flipping round until I was on top of him. I had to take charge or he’d feel guilty for losing control. His hands curved round my waist while I set the tempo, sliding up and down, almost purring as I built up to the inevitable crescendo. I’d never felt connected like this before, not just physically but on an almost telepathic level. I could feel him clinging on, still wanting to draw this out. No. I wanted it now. I increased the strokes and he rose to meet me every time, our bodies pounding together. Byron moaned, his eyes boring into mine one last time. Then I nodded, crying out as he thrust upwards in one final, fluid movement and we collapsed into each other, his heart hammering against mine as wave after wave of orgasm racked us both and the rest of the world fell away into meaningless ether.

I dropped my head against his chest. This was the way it was meant to be. This was what the poets wrote about. For one long moment, we lay together, my skin burning and my mind at rest.

I felt it the instant the atmosphere changed. Still slick with sweat, Byron yanked himself away from me and stood up, tension rolling across his shoulders. There was still passion in his eyes but now it was passion of a different sort. ‘You bitch,’ he said quietly.

I propped myself up on my elbows. ‘Excuse me?’

‘You let me believe you were dead.’

Uh-oh. I guessed the celebration was well and truly over. Bites aside, I’d known he was going to get angry sooner or later but I’d kind of hoped that what had just passed between us might delay it. I got to my feet, not bothering to cover myself. We faced each other, both as naked as the day we were born. ‘I had good reason,’ I said calmly.

‘After everything we’d been through, you really thought that the best way forward was to fake your own death?’ His voice remained low but there was a tremble to his words. If I thought he’d been angry before when he’d caught me flipping through the window, I was sadly mistaken. This muted rage was far scarier than any shouted admonition.

He wasn’t done yet. ‘Who else knows you’re alive?’ he demanded.

‘Hardly anyone. Taylor, of course. And Bob, Brochan, Speck, Lexie, the trolls…’

‘Angus MacQuarrie,’ he ground out. ‘He was there when you supposedly died. Does he know the truth?’