....It was dark. Then later it was light, the soft glow of a lamp casting its warm pink spot onto our lovemaking. I think Maximilian turned it on at some point. I can't quite recall when he did although I do remember him saying something about needing to see me.

I call him Maximilian in my head, instead of Skinner or Max as I did at first, because it seems to be a more serious name, nothing to do with the brash, arrogant smug man I had met earlier in the day. My Maximilian had been romantic and gentle, tender and loving, manly and virile. Absolutely nothing like the other Max Skinner.

He covered me with kisses, revealing a deep and abiding knowledge of a woman's lips which was hard for me to credit. I have never known such sensuous stimulation, a mouth to mouth resuscitation of the sex organs. We kissed for the longest time, struggling out of clothes and rolling over and over on his bed. For ages he seemed content purely with a lingual exploration. By the time his hands travelled to more intimate places, I was completely and utterly beguiled by him, ready to do anything he asked.

Max's expertise did not just extend to my mouth. I think he is generally a very oral person. There is something about his lips and his tongue - which often peeps out unbidden as he is talking - that suggests he uses his mouth to savour every thing he cares about in life. He traced a path down my body, covering every inch of my flesh with warm wet kisses, his tongue lolling and teasing each crevice and plane. Already my body was writhing helplessly beneath him, at the brink of coming even before he engaged my sexuality in the foreplay. But when he burrowed his head between my legs, lapping and flickering, feather-like flicks one minute and long slow licks with the flat of his tongue at another, I truly died and went to heaven in that famous 'little death'.

I opened my eyes some time later to find him contemplating my naked sex, smiling and making little moués of content as he did so. I muttered something incomprehensible in response; he slithered back up to join me, kissing me again, the taste of my own essence on his tongue.

"You have a singularly beautiful pussy..." he informed me in that authoritative way of his. 

"I have?" I purred, stretching my sated limbs like a satisfied kitten. 

"Indeed you have. Which is very fortunate for us both as I happen to have a gloriously handsome cock..."

"You do?" I giggled.

"I certainly do, young lady... do you mind?"

He rolled over onto his back and lay nestled on the pile of cushions, watching me as I settled between his thighs. He's a sight to behold, leonine and pleasantly hairy. He was right about his penis. It really is a very good-looking fellow indeed. Even the thick pulsing engorged vein running down its length seemed to have been sculpted by Rodin.

Max is a very indulgent sort of man who gives himself over to pleasure completely. As he lay there, head flung back, moaning soft and low, he let me play with his splendid member, learning his little peculiarities. All men have them, those certain preferences (or predilections more like) which you need to work out for yourself because they never tell you what they are. I suspect most aren't even aware of what it is that most rocks their boat. Men rarely listen to their own bodies, I have found.

His thing seems to be his foreskin. He's obviously very sensitive in that region and friction back and forth seems to really loosen him up. He loved it when I used my hands but even more so when I sucked hard and drew the skin back quickly and then pushed it down his shaft again equally fast. When he goes in, he has a rhythm like that too, keeping the pace but in rather staccato fashion, milking that action the best he can obviously savouring that rubbing of his skin against lubricated flesh. It was adorable to make him groan and mutter colourfully obscene comments under his breath every time I really hit the spot.

The first time we made love I was on top, lowering myself down onto him in a very delicate operation, indeed. He is strong and he supported me so that we made the descent in steady stages. I think I would have done damage had I gone down in one. But he's gentle, oh so very gentle, and appreciative and extremely loving at that moment, almost as if he's in awe of a woman wanting him. There is something inexplicably poignant about Maximilian Skinner that he obviously keeps well hidden in his public life under a brash exterior.

The other times - we did it three times in relatively quick succession which was extraordinary really. He told me he hadn't had much for a while, but I was still pretty impressed. And fairly surprised. He seems the type of man who is cruising all the time to get laid. Apparently it would seem that he is more selective than he appears. Or perhaps less predatory. I doubt that he's looking for love in his own head - but I suspect that is what he should be doing. This man needs a woman to care for him.

The other times we made love were even more inventive, trying to find different positions to get the maximum pleasure for both of us. He's a generous lover, constantly asking if his partner is alright, if he is hurting her, what can he do to make it better? He talks a lot, streams of consciousness, obscenities entwined with endearments, an appealing litany of oral eroticism in that deep gruff voice of his. It was a wonderful, wonderful night, full of surprises and delights.

I could hardly explain it all to myself. Were we quite mad? How could I feel so moved by a man I hardly knew and hadn't much liked when I had first met him? I am I love with another man. Yet, I felt real love for Maximilian that night - and I swear that for that time we were together, he felt it for me also. Perhaps we just have hearts wide enough to love freely in the moment - or is because we both hide so much in our real lives that we can only show our true need to a stranger?

He was the fantasy lover that one never really expects to meet- the perfect sexual partner who frees one's inhibition and offers unconditional emotional attachment - but that we know we will probably never meet again. That knowledge seems to heighten the sensitivity and passion  bringing us to another level untrammelled by the usual considerations that bind us to the earth. I reached my Nirvana tonight with Max Skinner, grasping at the bed sheets and his back in my clawed fingers. He was my personal Shangri La - for one night only. Who would have believed it possible?

I think I need to back up a little to explain how it transpired. I was on a case, a very sensitive one which required me going undercover in the City. I had to attract the attention of an important figure in the financial world and do everything I could in as short a time as possible to get inside his private papers and reveal if he was involved with what was a very serious currency theft indeed.

In my business there are really very strict rules about this sort of operation. It isn't exactly that you aren't allowed to get physically involved with the mark; the bosses rub their sweaty little hands with glee if you take it to the next level as it offers so much more opportunities for pillow talk - and for the listeners to get their rocks off on the surveillance tapes and pictures at your expense. But the received wisdom is usually quite clear on the fact that it is often not a good idea to allow too much intimacy unless you are a very heartless bitch. Or bastard. There have been too many times when such sorties have led to conflicts of interest and the sudden twinge of an uneasy conscience. Issues of ethical morality or emotional involvement are often the last things that are wanted in the world of intelligence.

For that is my game, I'm afraid. I'm a spook, one of the few thousand or more people in Britain these days who live a life largely undercover - and I wasn't referring to bed sheets there. Obviously there are many levels of operative and the vast majority are just watchers, listeners or sleepers, doing fairly mundane day jobs while keeping their eyes open in their place of work or community, or waiting for the nod to go active. But amongst our number there are field agents who are often in deep and dangerous cover, intelligence officers who monitor, support and coordinate their actions and the super-spies who exist on a plain far above the rest of us, live on expense accounts, dicing with death on a daily basis - and rarely claiming their retirement pension.

I am one of the second group, a case officer working for MI5 in the department of counterterrorism and organised crime GCW 1, (Government Command Wing 1) commonly known as Gangs, Crazies and Wackjobs. That obviously refers to the bad guys, not us, I must admit, but you would be hard pressed to tell the difference at times. Jemmy belongs to the rarefied atmosphere of the third group. He's MI6. They speak of him in whispered tones in the halls of power.

Fraternisation between the different wings of the Intelligence service is frowned upon almost as much as would me shacking up with Osama bin Laden. There is great inter-service rivalry, not to mention the fact that we generally do the bulk of the donkey work while they invariably sail in to claim the glory. Ergo, we like to confound them at every available opportunity. So you usually don't find much love lost between our members. We often are reluctant to piddle on our rival department officers even when on fire. So swapping bodily fluids is not common.

But we are talking Jeremy Blonde here. Let me just show you what I mean. Here's a photo of him. Classified, but we're all girls here, aren't we? I'm only human. The girl just can't help it...

I met Jemmy a while back when we were all involved in this joint operation in a casino. It was to do with dodgy gangs from Turkey - and that's all I can say. They needed a beautiful agent for a bit of distraction during a sting operation - and I was asked to step in. When the case was over, Jemmy turned up on my doorstep one night without an explanation - come to think of it, I never actually asked for one - and since then we have been lovers. Secret lovers. Undercover lovers.

It's a hard life but someone's got to do it, as they say. We are often apart, he spends time with other alluring women, we have an open relationship which is not exclusive etc., etc. And I bloody hate it. Not the being with him, of course. That is just beyond words. What I hate most is that I love him so much while he keeps me firmly at arm's length where emotions are concerned. I simply do not know where I stand. Although I have to say, I know where I lie. He keeps coming back, so that must mean something - but he never gives anything away. His lips are sealed.

Anyway, I haven't seem properly him in ages even though we are working together again at the moment on a particularly hairy case. Let me explain. A massive loan - one billion US dollars - which was secretly given to the Russian government by the US government with various strings attached - has gone missing. Someone transferred the money out within minutes of it clearing the Russian treasury. The dollars spent the next few hours crisscrossing cyber space from one fake account to another until they were offered for deposit at a certain private trading house in London that has a rep for not asking too many questions. The chairman, however, is hoping for a knighthood and must have thought this opportunity an eminently good bargaining chip so he contacted the government. MI5 stepped in and told him to accept the deposit - but divert it to them. It was only expected to be in the company account for a few minutes.

Unfortunately, it then disappeared. No one could find out where it went from that point on. I mean, imagine that? Losing a billion US dollars? The Cousins were having a fit. Some smart bastard on the floor must have observed the deposit coming in and worked it out, immediately transferring it elsewhere. Jemmy was over in Switzerland checking out the Gnomes to see if it had finally landed in one of their super-secret accounts. I was put on it at home to investigate suspects in the trading house. The most likely candidate was a certain well known trader called Maximilian Skinner who is smart, quick as a rat up a drainpipe - and totally immoral. Naturally, he is regarded as some sort of wunderkind in the City which values devious unethical greed much as the Catholic Church views Mother Theresa. Skinner's name had been mentioned by both the chairman and some other lowly ranked officers when some preliminary sniffing was done. Thus I was sent in to find out where he had put it.

To cut a long story short, I accepted a dinner invitation from said Skinner which ended up in his apartment, in one of those disgustingly expensive glass and concrete developments on the Thames. I did not go there to sleep with him but ostensibly to see his view. I imagined that I could feed him a few more glasses of cognac, get him plastered and then, when he keeled over, it would be comparatively simple to search his apartment and hack into his laptop. What follows was not strictly to plan....

"Fabulous view..." I murmured as I sipped a glass of Hennessy on the balcony. It was very late, a cool spring night, but the city never sleeps. Even then there was traffic on the Thames and cars moving across the bridge. A brisk wind blew across the water, blowing back my hair and ruffling my flimsy dress. I felt his arms slip around my waist as he drew me close, nuzzling his lips against my ear. Max felt big and warm: his breath was hot on my skin. He smelt of fine cognac and expensive aftershave.

"S'better in the morning..." he whispered, his tongue finding the delicate whorls of my ear and tracing an erotically charged path. "You're cold. I need to keep you warm..."

I couldn't help but purr, leaning back against him as he dropped his lips to my neck and rocked me gently from side to side. It was an unexpected tenderness from this man I had dismissed as shallow and arrogant. There was almost an affection in his touch, a dreamy romanticism, a heady sensation of living in the moment. It took a great deal of self control to drag myself mentally back to the job in hand.

"You must be very rich to live here..." I began. "These apartments must cost about five million..."

"Seven...although I bought it at a very good price from a friend who had unfortunately fallen on hard times and needed a quick sale..." He continued to pay lip service to the sensitive skin on my throat while his hands began a tentative journey upwards to unbutton my blouse and cup a breast.

"You City boys earn obscene amounts of money...but then what you do has got to be illegal half the time, hasn't it? I've heard that dealing is just legalised theft..."

He laughed a deep rumble that resonated against my skin and seemed to send erotic signals down to the increasingly warm and wet place at the juncture of my thighs. I squirmed. He chuckled again and one hand began to drop south, finding the hem of my skimpy skirt and easing it up my legs. "Do you get off on talking about big bucks?"

He was falling for this. I played up to his lead. "It's so sexy...power is so sexy...and there's something about crime that sort of turns me on as well...I think it's the flouting of authority and the disregard for the usual social norms..."

That made him snort. He raised his head - and his hands, which by then were exploring the sensitive skin of my upper thighs - "I'm not a criminal...you make me sound like a sociopath..."

I turned slowly in his arms to face him eye to eye. Max was observing me with wry amusement, his eyes crinkling and inexplicably fond, as if I was a wayward child who had just said something rather unacceptable but very appealing all the same. It was patronising but somehow endearing. I was beginning to feel some very oddly conflicting emotions for this man. "I don't mean criminal per se... but you are stealing in point of fact a lot of the time, aren't you? Insider dealing, money laundering, transferring funds...and the rest..."

Max shrugged, his large hands slipping down my waist to cup my buttocks and pull them against his groin, rocking me into his erection. It was very large and it took all my efforts not to gasp and look down. "I won't pretend that I don't bend the law about as far as it can go at times, but to be perfectly honest, I'm not interested in making money by illegal means. It's too easy and not the behaviour of a gentleman. You might find it hard to believe but there is a code of honour on the floor..."

He paused, beginning to enjoy boasting about his professional abilities, which were in some curious way wrapped up in his sexual prowess. This is the moment I was waiting for when men can't resist saying more than they should to impress a woman. I held my breath and hoped the recording device I was wearing was both working and well secured inside one of the buttons of my dress.

"My profession is all about thrill seeking and proving whose balls are biggest. It takes a steady nerve and a lot of courage to do well. The fun is in the danger and the possibility of failure. It's a very delicate business to sense the exact right moment to buy and sell. It takes a lot of chutzpah to buy, push up stock and then pull out leaving everyone else to lose millions - because any second someone could gazump you and turn the tables. Now, where would be the fun in simply going in and taking something? That would be like hobnailed boots and I prefer an iron hand in a velvet glove..." His hand inserted itself between my thighs; I pressed them together, increasing the heat on his trapped palm. He let out a soft murmur... "So hot...so wet...!"

I shivered but it wasn't from the cold. It was the low register that his voice had sunk to, an even deeper timbre than his usual rich bass. It made me whimper, a helpless sound that only intensified when he found the edge of my lace knickers and slipped one of his large fingers under the soft fabric to glide along the moist opening and tickle the soft flesh. "Christ...!" was all he said.

I found myself gasping for air. "So...!" I squeaked, my word coming out about two octaves higher than intended. I stopped, cleared my throat and tried to escape his piercing gaze and the lips that were getting steadily closer to mine. "So..." I continued in a voice approximating normal. "So....if, say, just for an example, an insanely huge sum of money came across your screen which you knew had to be a dodgy transaction that you could easily transfer out to one of your personal accounts, preferably one that is secret - and I'm sure you have one or two in false names here and there - without anyone ever being the wiser or being able to trace the path of the money...you wouldn't do it?"

I could almost hear the groans of the listeners who had just heard the most ham-fisted piece of undercover work in the history of the intelligence services. I could just imagine them exclaiming "She's almost bloody well told him she's MI5. What the fuck is up with her? If he's guilty he'll know straight away she's a plant..."

Max pulled back when his lips were so close that we were sharing the same breath. He contemplated me curiously for awhile before answering. "You have a very fertile imagination, Flora Dora. If I were a less trusting man, I would wonder if you weren't after something..."

I gulped and went for damage limitation. "I am after something..." I dropped my right hand from where it had been caressing his lower back just below the belt line and above the butt, that deliciously fuzzy and sensitive part of any man - and walked my fingers over the distorted bulge in the front of his pants. "...I'm after a market tip...any advice for a rookie...?"

Max Skinner closed his hand round mine, moved it to exactly where he wanted it to be and then let me go play. "Yeah, I've got some good advice. Put your money in the bank. Unless you want to take the trouble to learn the business. There is no quick fix. It isn't gambling. Only a fool plays the odds in the market...real traders never put money down unless they know they can win...and to answer your other question. No, I wouldn't. I would alert the chairman. Who would then decide whether or not to contact the authorities. If it was a suspicious transaction, that is....and now, I've had enough of small talk. I want you. And I want you now. And I want you naked in my bed now...I can assure you it's a much better bet than any stock you choose...what you might call a win, win, situation...?"

"They say it can go down as well as up..." I murmured huskily as he swept me into his arms and headed for the main room, kicking the balcony door closed behind him.

"Not this one...or at least not until after we've got what we came for..."

I had the presence of mind to surreptitiously rip off the button that concealed the bug and throw it over the balcony as we left. The case was closed as far as I was concerned. Skinner had told me the truth. Whoever ripped off the money, it wasn't him. And I most certainly did not want what was about to follow to be heard by half of my department. Thank God, Jemmy wouldn't ever find out. The chances of intelligence being passed between MI5 and MI6 were substantially less than between Mossad and the PLO. Jemmy...oh my God, Jemmy...! What the hell am I doing with Skinner?

To be perfectly honest I was doing the works. Maximilian Skinner is not a man ever to be satisfied with half measures. He puts 100% of effort into everything he does. Lovemaking is no exception. After carrying me dramatically into his bedroom, our lips locked and the most extraordinarily explorative kissing going on, we dragged each other's clothes off as if we were both on fire. We were both on fire. I was so consumed with lust for this man that I simply could not contain myself anymore. Clothes were just an annoyance. I wanted naked flesh and plenty of it.

Max obliged. He's a big boy in all the right places; it's like holding onto to a great big warm stubbly teddy bear. With an impressively large penis. As I wriggled out of my bra and he yanked off my knickers, we both fell to the bed and tumbled over and over in joyous abandon. He was just so playful as well as surprisingly emotional, whispering the most lovely sentiments about my beauty and charm, groaning orgasmically at my reciprocal attentions - and doling out some very skilful ones of his own.

But once the euphoria of actually getting down and dirty together passed, another Maximilian emerged, one who was devastatingly sexy and deeply passionate. And so I am back where I started. In bed with Maximilian Skinner.

I left him fast asleep slumped back exhausted with a pillow half over his head. It was difficult to drag myself away even though I knew I had to. I would be disciplined by my department chief over this one, I was sure, but even that  scary thought didn't bother me much at the time. Max Skinner was not involved in this scam, I was certain. And because of that, I had no intention of betraying his trust or searching his private papers for the truth that I already knew in my heart. Finally dressed again, I stood at the bedroom door and watched him sleep for a little while, before blowing him a soft kiss and whispering, "I'm sorry, Max, so very sorry,  but I just have to go....Oh, you were so amazing...I'm going to miss you..."

My own apartment was in darkness when I reached home. I was weary and dejected. I had probably ruined my career prospects in one horrendous act of bad judgment, my boyfriend was god knows where and I had just betrayed him, plus I was never going to meet Max Skinner again. My body was drained with physical and emotional exhaustion. I was also feeling very sore down there now that the euphoria of lovemaking had dissipated. All I wanted was a hot bath and a warm bed and to be left alone for a decent length of time to lick my wounds.

I opened the door and threw down my bag - then gasped. There was a low light on in the lounge and there sat Jemmy, bare-chested and staring into space, a glass of whisky in his hand and a half empty bottle in front of him. He looked low, as if he was upset. Something must have happened. This was so wrong. I just had no idea how I was going to deal with him at this moment.

"Jemmy! What're you doing here...!" It wasn't much of an opening line but then I wasn't exactly on top of my game that moment. He paused and then looked up at me, his blue eyes piercing through the shadows.

"I would presume everything went as planned? By the way... you missed a button on your blouse, love. Sloppy, are we all of a sudden?" 

Did he know or was he just trying to psych me out, make me uncomfortable enough to confess to what I had been up to? But why would he be interested anyway? Wasn't he the one who always kept a distance, reminded me that our relationship wasn't exclusive and that we had no real future so I was not to expect one? Why then was he making me now feel like I had somehow let him down?

Even if I had. I quickly dragged the two edges of my blouse top together protectively, tried unsuccessfully not to blush - and went for breezy nonchalance which I doubt I managed to carry off to Jeremy's trained ear. "I did? Must have come loose...too hot or something....rather like your shirt...I take it you came for the night then...?" He didn't answer, just holding up his tumbler as if to salute me or my pathetic answer before swallowing the remainder of the large measure down in one. I was nervous and continued to babble on, aware of little else but my need to buy time, compose myself - and remove the signs of Skinner as fast as I could.

"...If you could just give me five minutes to have a shower and freshen up...then I'm all yours..." I sailed on past him into the bathroom half expecting him to follow. He usually joins me in the shower. He likes sex in places where he can best express himself physically. He has very earthy tastes underneath that super-sleek veneer. But not this time. I was allowed some time to myself. In one sense this was a relief, but I was also concerned in another. He had to know - or why else was he behaving in this way?

But it did give me a breather during which I could soothe my aching body and gather my confused thoughts. I tended to my soreness, applying a cream and wincing. How was I going to be able to take another session with a man as vigorous as Jeremy? Two men in one night? What was I a call girl? It was a disgrace but I simply didn't know what else I was going to do. But whatever happened this was going to hurt. One word you wouldn't normally use to describe Jeremy's lovemaking was gentle. I was already feeling apprehensive before we began.

I decided that the best way to deal with this was give him what he wanted: sexy lingerie, black stockings, femme fatale and hope he was horny enough to be quick. I know that was shockingly cold-blooded of me but I was a desperate girl. The irony of it all was I had been longing for Jeremy for days. And now he is here with me - and I want him to hurry up and leave?

Back in my room, I found him already in bed, his clothes scattered over the chair. He's normally very meticulous; this suggested that he was not his usual controlled self. I felt the dart of concern, biting my lip as his steely gaze pierced through me. I often have the sensation that he can read my soul but never did that feeling seem so strong as at that moment with Jeremy lying, one arm thrown above his head, watching me impassively.

I took my time, rubbing a fragrant cream over my body and brushing out my hair, applying perfume and giving him the benefit of a sensual performance aimed at arousing a man's lust and deflecting his emotions. He quickly tired of the posturing charade. I was hoping he couldn't see the reddened patches of skin in various sensitive places of my body where Maximilian's stubble had scratched and irritated.

But I knew he would.

"Enough. Zoe ... come here. Come ...!" His voice was huskier than usual; he was terse and commanding.

I tried to steady my voice as I answered softly: "You're very impatient tonight, Jems...something up?"  I was beginning to shiver, and it wasn't the cool air on my exposed flesh that was causing it. I sensed that Jeremy's mood was dangerous. Was I just the pawn in some alpha male game of ownership?

He did not answer but reached out and caught my wrist, dragging me in towards him. I fell in beside him. We lay side by side.  Jeremy sighed, his eyes sweeping down my body and his hand touching my face. "No games, love. Not tonight, eh? How about a bit of TLC instead ...?" 

Jeremy wanted to make love tenderly? It was what I had always dreamed of. It was the last thing I wanted now.

"Jeremy...I..." I have no idea what I was going to say for his next interruption completely blindsided me. "You know how much I care about you, don't you? Or maybe you don't. That's my fault. I never say the things I should... I'm too damned afraid of anyone ever finding out my weaknesses..."

I reached out and stroked his face in return; he turned his head to brush a kiss over the palm of my hand. "Weaknesses? You have no weaknesses...you are the strongest man I have ever known..."

"...Oh, but I do. You are my weakness. My Achilles heel. Do you have any idea how much I love you? Do you think I normally keep coming back again and again to the same woman? The first time I feel the least spark of emotion for a woman, I am usually gone. But something brings me back to you, time and time again..." He laughed softly, rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling thoughtfully. "I'm a novice in the art of love even if I have had many women in my time. I don't know how to say the words that I should say to you...but I do love you, Zoe...I'm completely, hopelessly smitten by you..."

If you knew how long I had dreamed of this moment in my fantasies, of Jeremy one day realizing that I was the love of his life! Wasn't that just the way things always go, that what you secretly wish often comes to you at exactly the wrong time?  Or in this case, it happens on the same night that I had met another man, perhaps the only man in the world who could steer me away from Jeremy? The ludicrous juxtaposition of all this was too cruel. I burst into tears, a most un-Zoe Reynolds-like thing to do. Tears trickled down my cheeks as I struggled not to sob and blubber. Jeremy smiled fondly, rolling over towards me again, using his thumb to gather up the tracks of my weeping.

"Hey...I was hoping to make you smile, not cry. Is it such a bad prospect? Being loved by a man like me?"

"Oh Jemmy....!" Was all I could answer as he pulled me against him and I buried my face against his shoulder. He gentled me like a child, caressing my back tenderly and hushing me with soft words, in ways I have never heard him speak before. It made me cry all the more for how I had wounded him and for misunderstanding his feelings so badly. I had been so wrapped up in my own need that I had never stopped long enough to wonder what had been in it for him all the time. "I...love...you...so...much...!" I gasped out between sobs.

"You better. I'm only going to say that once in my life..." he replied in a teasing whisper, his lips breathy on my ear as he tilted up my face to his and kissed me. He has never done it like that before. His kisses are normally erotically-charged lightening rods of passion as we rip our clothes off and attack each other, rampant with desire. This time he kissed me as if he loved me, as he must have been wanting to for a long time. Afraid to let me see his need? How very sad. It was just as I thought. Jeremy and Maximilian were more alike than anyone would have imagined: two motherless boys who had been raised in a world of men and had each built their own fortifications around their fragile hearts. Maximilian Skinner could show me his emotions because I was a stranger; Jeremy had been unable to because he was not.

The love we made was like I have never shared before with Jeremy. I soon forgot my tender flesh, carried away with the utter joy of being the woman he wanted. He worshipped my body, using his attentions and his manhood to prove to me what his heart wanted to say but his tongue found so very hard to reveal. It was love sweeter than wine. And I gave him everything I was, the only way I knew how, to say how sorry I was for not believing in him and for seeking solace in the arms of another man.

Later, as we lay still joined, in the rapturous afterglow of pleasure, he whispered to me. "I know what happened tonight. It doesn't matter, Zoe. I understand how it is in our world. I haven't been faithful to you either. I'm not sure even now if I can promise you that....yet..."

'Yet' hovered in the air about us. It was a very significant word that carried with it all sorts of implications for the future. I whimpered slightly, suddenly conscious of the burning pain between my legs. Jeremy must have been so affected by the realisation that I had been with another man - one who just might make a lasting impression - that he had been shocked into making this amazing declaration of his feelings. I wasn't sure whether to be upset or relieved that he had suffered this painful epiphany.

"He isn't guilty of anything, Jemmy. I have no proof but I just feel that he's not the one..."

"He's not the one. I found the link in Switzerland and flew straight back. It was a guy in his department, some new young chancer. They just found his body on Hampstead Heath. Seems the Russians got to him first..."

"You knew even before I went to dinner with Skinner?"

Jeremy did not reply.

"Why did no one tell me? Why was I not told to stand down?"

He still didn't answer.

"Were they still listening even though they knew he wasn't involved?" That thought just came to me. I was disgusted. 

He sighed. "No...they weren't listening. Even before you tore off the button..."

"How did you know I did that? How could you know?" I began to understand what this was all about.

He shrugged. "Because I was listening. It was the second button, not the first..."

I sat up, pushing him away from me, staring at him accusingly. "You bastard! You sadistic bastard!" I threw the words at him, drawing the sheet around my nakedness in self defence.

He rolled to the edge of the bed, sat a moment with his head in his hands and then stood up, striding to his clothes and dressing. Light was just creeping in through my window. The dawn chorus was beginning its wake up serenade.

"I think the word you are searching for should be masochistic. It wasn't exactly a pleasure..." he rasped as he zipped up and thrust his arms into his shirt aggressively.

"But you did it anyway..." I shouted back.

He walked towards the door and then spun round, glowering darkly. "And then I told you. At least I had the guts to tell the truth...which is more than you did, darling..."

He strode away without another word. 

God knows when I'll see him again. Was tonight my punishment or my reward? I wasn't sure I could tell the difference anymore.

"Jemmy! Don't leave me...! Please don't leave me! Not now...!" The words were out of my mouth even before I could stop from debasing myself any further. But if he heard them, he certainly did not respond. I ran to the window and watched as he ran through the early morning drizzle to his Aston Martin, parked across the road. How the hell had I missed that when I had got out of the taxi earlier?

I watched as his supercharged sports car shot down the road and out of sight. I had just had the ultimate fantasy. Two amazing men in one unbelievable night.

Had I just lost them both? To paraphrase Oscar Wilde: 'To lose one lover, Miss Reynolds, may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness...'

Be careful of fantasies, ladies,...methinks they are better left in the realms of the imagination....