Gavin and I arranged to meet once, in May, after agreeing we were ready to take things to the next level. Then he had to cancel; he didn’t say why. After that, neither of us mentioned rearranging. I didn’t mind. Secretly, I was relieved. If we didn’t meet, that meant that what I was doing wasn’t as bad. If I thought of him as unreal, one-dimensional, a computer program generating words designed to elicit a specific physical response, then I could almost persuade myself that I didn’t really have another man in my life, one who wasn’t my husband.

Still wrong.

Not as grievously wrong as a physical affair, though. Maybe. And the emails were enough. God, they were so much more than enough: endless, detailed, graphically descriptive orders from a man I’d never met, whose face I’d never seen, not even in a photograph. None of my real-life lovers has ever been so uninhibited in the words he used or the things he asked and expected me to do—and nor was I ever so . . . pornographic, for want of a better word, with any of them. Gavin swept away all my inhibitions by ignoring them completely, refusing to acknowledge they existed and simply repeating his demands. Eventually, I stopped bothering to mention that I was too shy and simply did as I was told.

And loved it. Craved more and more of it.

All I know about Gavin is that he’s English, in his midforties, married with no children and works from home. That’s what he’s told me, anyway. I suppose any or all of it might not be true. I didn’t and don’t really care. All I cared about was the way he made me feel. On two occasions, his insistent explicit words alone were enough to push me over the edge—just the words and my imagination, and not even a brush of a fingertip. No other man has ever had that effect on me.

Not even King Edward.

Whom I swore I wouldn’t allow into my mind again. That’s why Gavin: to block out King Edward. Amazing, really, how well it worked.

Until now.

I am gasping for breath, though I’ve done nothing physically strenuous. I grip the desk to steady myself.

Think about Gavin. Not . . . anybody else. Gavin.

The blank tonelessness of his words was an important part of the attraction. So different. And yet three of the four new messages from him that I’ve just read—all but the first one—don’t sound like him at all. Did my abandonment panic him so much that his online persona slipped?

I promise you no one but me will ever see it . . .

I won’t make a habit of it, I promise . . .

I’ll go back to talking mainly about your nipples, I promise . . .

Feelings, eh?