‘Eight.’

And she’d done well out of him. She had the lifestyle she’d dreamed of, the money and the leisure, the beautiful clothes, the holidays when his wife thought Massimo was on a business trip, here at Le Mûrier, or skiing in Aspen, or in the beautiful seaside cottage in the Highlands of Scotland – but never yet in Italy, which Massimo still regarded as home, for all that he’d married an English wife and settled her and his son in Surrey.

‘Seven.’

Victoria had a home of her own, a gorgeous penthouse in Kensington, two floors at the top of a perfect stucco-fronted townhouse, with views across London and a key to the private gardens in the middle of the square. She had friends – good friends, she believed, however much they bitched about each other – and even, when Massimo was out of town, lovers of her own.

‘Six.’

She had a job that allowed her to indulge her passion for fashion, combing the couture houses, her wardrobes bursting with samples and freebies. As an ambassador for Rivelli Srl – a cross between a talent scout and a PA – Victoria had an entrée to every show in London, Paris and New York. But never Milan . . .

‘Five.’

He would be here any minute; she could hear his footsteps on the stairs. Her hand went to her pussy and started gently stroking. He liked her to be wet and ready for him.

‘Four.’

And the job that gave her a salary and a company credit card was anything but full time. She had leisure to develop her creative and cultural interests – to write the book she’d always meant to write, to practise her painting – all those things that you dream of doing when you don’t have time to do them, and never get around to when you do.

‘Three.’

Pound pound pound went his feet on the stairs. He must be taking them two or three at a time. She closed her eyes and imagined his huge, thick, upcurved cock bouncing between his thick, hairy thighs, slapping up on his belly, his balls swinging . . .

‘Two.’

And yet, for all that he had provided, what did she really have? What could she put her hand on and say ‘This is mine, I earned it, I paid for it, I deserve it’? The flat? The job? The wardrobe? The jewellery? It could all disappear tomorrow, like a feast in a fairy tale . . .

‘One.’

She felt her stomach turning over, half in fear, half in anticipation. She had this strange, falling sensation more and more now – as if everything she tried to hold on to was slipping through her fingers, greasy with olive oil and expensive moisturiser and sweat and her own juices . . .

‘Baby . . .’

He stood framed in the doorway, his cock harder than ever. Victoria moaned, as he liked her to, and opened her legs to let him in. Well, if that’s what stood between her and penury, she’d better make it a good one – every time.