It was hard to tell if he was awake or asleep. One arm was crooked behind his head, the other hanging limp over the edge of the lounger, a book barely held in his fingers. His eyes were concealed by sunglasses. His chest and stomach – firm and solid and hairy, not bad for a man in his fifties – not bad for a man of any age – rose and fell gently. A few drops of water clung to his tanned, oiled skin; Massimo laughed at Victoria’s arsenal of high-factor sunblock, and used only olive oil, tanning to a shockingly deep brown, shrugging off any concerns about skin cancer with his usual bravado. ‘If that bullet’s got my name on it, then no overpriced crap in a bottle is going to make a difference,’ he’d say, before handing Victoria the olive oil to ‘do my back’, which usually ended up with her straddling him and slipping and sliding her way to glory.

‘Yoo-hoo!’ she trilled from the balcony. Massimo stirred, scratched his stomach, looked up. She leaned forward, letting her breasts swing like bells over the railing. ‘Ciao, bello,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it time you started getting ready?’

‘Maybe I cancel everyone,’ he said, his hand going down to his groin, where something was stirring under the towel.

‘But darling, all the catering! All the booze!’

‘We can have a party, just the two of us.’ He parted the towel, giving her a bird’s-eye view of his rapidly lengthening cock. She loved it like that, when it was stirring, not yet fully hard. Anticipation, for Christine, was often nine tenths of the pleasure – of a party, of a lover. ‘Look,’ he said, making it jump. ‘There’s plenty to eat. Come and get it.’

‘Oh, Massimo, I just had a shower. I don’t want to get all sweaty and oily again.’ She knew this would drive him wild; he liked it when she played the proper English Miss. In truth, she could feel herself getting wet between the legs, and was tempted to take a flying jump from the balcony and land straight on his now-upstanding prick – if she didn’t break her neck instead.

She turned around, making sure he got a good view of her white, creamy arse, and went back into the bedroom, threw the towel into a damp pile in the corner of the room – the maid would pick it up later – and started drying her hair.

‘Ten.’

She knew in her head exactly how long it would take Massimo to get from the side of the pool up the stairs and into the bedroom. He was a fast mover, especially when his dick was leading the way.

‘Nine.’

He was still eager, even after banging her for all these years. She was little more than a girl when he first met her – fresh out of university, struggling to make her mark as a journalist, full of ambition and dreams, with a taste for the high life that her meagre earnings could never satisfy. And then along came Massimo Rivelli, the up-and-coming name in the Italian garment industry, now the head of one of the most prestigious manufacturing companies in Milan, powerful, rich, respected – and married. That sad fact had not changed, despite her promptings. But Victoria was still there, still desired as much in her mid thirties as she was in her twenties, still – she hoped – loved.