Between these two, in suite 38, Buttermere, an even more precious fluid was being coaxed from its cartridge. Prisha Roy, lying half-naked on a conference room table, was being serviced, her pelvis sliding forward to meet a pair of rapidly thrusting hips. She held her distaste in check for the familiar rhythm of the man standing trouserless at the table edge, in a crisp white shirt and, in good old porn movie style, still wearing socks. Only one part of him, piston-like, was connected to her, because his hands were busy with what they had learned from a previous disastrous experience was a vital task, steadying the cheap and flimsy table, whose legs were wobblier than his own. That meant he could not hold her outspread calves, but instead balanced her ankles on the backs of two carefully placed chairs to either side of him.

Comfortable, it was not.

It had been with the greatest reluctance that she had turned back to her ex. Deepak’s sleek self-regard and arrogance was bad enough when they were married. Her request for a discreet, purely physical dalliance he treated as the ultimate compliment. For her there was logic in it, of course. He had already fathered her daughter, who was now eleven, and any child with him would undoubtedly be dark. She had worried that a child with Simon might be fair-skinned. Beautiful, of course, but he had to be brought up Hindu, and questions would of course be asked. She had sought help casting a Vedic horoscope for an auspicious moment for conception. But now, well, any time would have to do. She just hoped it happened soon, as she wanted minimum contact with Deepak.

Once, seemingly many years ago, such a daring and low-rent coupling would have excited her. Now, even though now Deepak was still pretty good, she would not let him have the satisfaction of knowing it. Mind over matter was the crucial thing. Suppressing her own orgasm was hardly necessary given the circumstances. Meeting him here in the same bland hotel every Monday and Wednesday afternoon for a cheap one-hour conference multi-booking had been awkward enough. Unlike him, she was capable of remaining almost completely silent. As long as he ejaculated, that was the crucial thing. As copiously as possible, millions and millions of possibilities. She had suggested that on the twenty-five-minute drive over he should sit with a bag of ice between his legs to maximise the volume of ejaculate. His response had been unprintable.

From long practice, and knowledge of his vocalisation, she knew her ex-husband was within half a dozen thrusts of coming off. Fortunately, these particular sounds could easily be confused with the last gasps of a coffee percolator, and their neighbours would, hopefully, be none the wiser. The door, of course, was locked.

One thing she had not counted on was his phone, trilling noisily, at the crucial moment.

‘Don’t you dare stop,’ she hissed.

His head moved momentarily leftward, to where the device lay next to her on the table.