When I get back to the table, Will looks up at me, his expression worried.

‘I’m sorry, Maggie. I shouldn’t have said that. Forget I—’

‘The rain’s not stopping,’ I say, still standing.

‘Maggie …’

I think of the thump thump of my heart just because he touched the back of my hand in the space between our seats where no one else could see.

‘The receptionist just told me the weather’s getting much worse in the west. Better to play it safe, you said.’

Will briefly closes his eyes. ‘Right.’ He gets up, lifts his coat from the back of his chair.

I pick up my own, look at Will until finally he looks back at me.

‘So I booked us a room,’ I say.

*

‘Jesus, you’re shaking,’ Will says.

‘So are you.’

He laughs, perhaps nervous. ‘I guess I am.’

We’re standing facing each other in the middle of a tiny hotel room decorated in various shades of brown. Our hands are clasped tight together. I can see tiny red threads in the whites of his eyes, the big black of his pupils. He leans closer still, touches his lips against mine, draws back.

‘Are you sure?’

And there’s no hesitation at all in my nod. Because although it seems incredible that I should be sure, and although there are a thousand reasons why this a terrible, terrible idea, I’m not going to change my mind. It’s been a long time since I trusted myself, since I’ve been sure about anything, but here and now, I suddenly am.

I touch his face, and another shiver goes through me when he closes his eyes; when I hear his quick intake of breath. And I kiss him with none of his gentleness, clumsy and urgent enough that he loses the last of his hesitation and pulls me hard against him. Kisses me back just the same.

We stumble towards the bed, and Will lets me go long enough to sit down on its edge. He yanks off my jumper and T-shirt, presses his face, his mouth, against the hot skin of my stomach while I wrestle with my bra. When he closes his hands over my breasts, I kick off my jeans while unzipping his. He traces words against my skin, whispers them, but I reach forwards and push him back onto the mattress. I don’t want foreplay. I don’t want kindness. I don’t need them. I just need him.

I straddle him and he swears, arches up against me, grabs me by the hips. His face is flushed; I can see the pulse beating in his neck. I yank and pull at his clothes until he’s as naked as I need him to be, tear the condom out of his hands, put it on with impatient fingers. And then I sink back down on him hard enough that it hurts. He groans, pulls me closer to kiss and kiss me, and we move against each other gracelessly; too quick, too fast. It feels like the first time I’ve had sex in my life, and I become almost panicky with my need to touch him, to fuck him, to be as close as I can be to him. He yells, pushes up into me one last time, and when I start to come, I nearly sob with the relief of it, the release of it. The absolute rightness.