James was still waiting, the room key in his hand, watching me.

I let out a breath that I might have been holding for a few moments or several years and started back towards him.

My choice, then. My consequences.

He watched me coming all the way.

And I bought the ticket, Daddy.

4

Tara

Christian and I had shared a bed for ten years.

We were still young, and we were still crazy about each other, and the major problem that our sex life had was the eternal married challenge of scheduling. There were nights when the iced Prosecco did not flow as it perhaps should because there was a child or a dog in our bed, or because one of us – almost always me – had been exhausted by the day. And of course when you have been in a loving relationship for a few thousand nights, there is one thing that you know for certain – there is always tomorrow night. And, if it is really a frantic, energy-sapping week, the Prosecco will still be there at the weekend. And so will you.

But I loved the hard, muscled bulk of my good-looking husband, who had the kind of body that a grown man only gets when he works at it, and I loved that he knew what I wanted, and what I liked, and what I expected in bed. After those few thousand nights of sharing a bed, Christian had a PhD in my needs, preferences and what it took to make me sigh from the bottom of my soul. On the nights when Marlon was sound asleep and I was not worn out by work and we had the time and energy and appetite for each other, Christian knew exactly where the treasure was buried. And it worked the other way, of course, I knew exactly what drove him wild, although it is always far more simple with men to find the buried treasure. Christian and I had an adult life that was obliged to deal with the mundane chores of having a home and a family together. But we still had that old hunger for each other. The old hunger had not faded, not yet. Yes, it had changed but we were still at the stage where familiarity with each other’s bodies was nothing but a really good thing. Sex with my husband was loving, caring and reassuringly regular – to the envy of our friends we were still managing to slot it in, as it were, a few times a week.

But there is one thing that I will not deny.

Christian and I made love.

And in Tokyo, I was fucked.

There was no love in it with James Caine.

We kissed in the hallway of his hotel room, his hands moving all over me, his mouth on my lips as though he was starving for me. It was somewhere beyond desire, or hunger, or anything resembling the healthy appetites that I was accustomed too. It was on the edge of brutal. He quickly ripped off his running clothes and then he was clawing at the nice Stella McCartney summer dress that I had worn to that mad bar – stepping back for a moment and catching his breath with his fingertips still feeling me, as I negotiated the complicated zip and clip at the back.