The Widow

"It was the same for me."

"I so, so needed that." She hugged me close, eliciting an inevitable response. Christina looped her fingers around the tip of my cock and I gasped.

"You're such a naughty man."

"You should stop doing that."

"Really?"

"Maybe not."

Somehow I found myself on top of her. Her deep, deep eyes were locked onto mine.

"One last time," she said.

We had both known from the beginning that this would be a one-night affair. I didn't belong in her world, and neither did she in mine, and it would have meant the end of my career if it became public knowledge. She had granted me admission to the magic kingdom; there are always terms and conditions attached to such things. God knows I was grateful enough. But I knew only too well that this truly was the last time for us.

Therefore I took it slowly. I wanted to remember every sigh, every sensation, for the rest of my life, because I couldn't imagine it would ever get any better than this.

I think it was the same for her. She held me so tightly, as if she would never let go, knowing at the same time that she would, that she must. Her breaths were desperate, longing for what could never be. I wanted so much to make the impossible real. Of course, inevitably, I couldn't.

It was as if we had always been lovers. When I entered her, it felt like coming home: she was so smooth and open and welcoming. Her beautiful moan of greeting almost had me over the edge.

"So good," she murmured.

I kissed her deeply, and she sucked on my tongue, hard. That was the end of my good intentions. I fucked her without restraint, as I had wanted to do so badly the first time I saw her. And she took everything I could give her, bucking up against me, clawing at my shoulders, my back. It was a volcanic onrush of passion and despair that neither of us could stop or wanted to stop. I have never experienced anything like it before or since.

When it was over, I slid off her, exhausted, breathless, bathed in sweat.

"I need a shower."

"I'd join you," she said, "but I don't think I could walk that far."

When I came back from the shower, she was standing by the window in a lilac bathrobe, gazing out.

"I've ordered breakfast," she said. "I hope you don't mind."

It meant the end, of course, and I did mind. And when she looked back at me I could see that she'd been crying. I went to embrace her and she pushed me away.

"You mustn't. We mustn't." Christina wiped her eyes on her sleeve. "I'm sorry. I never expected this to be so hard."

"It's for the best. There'll be someone for you out there."

"Someone suitable," she said bitterly. "You're like a married man who won't leave his wife."

"Married to the job... perhaps I am. But it's what I do."

"I know. And it's wonderful."

I felt oddly shy about dressing in front of her, so I took my clothes into the bathroom. When I came out again, she was gone. In the dining-room where we had eaten the night before a continental breakfast had been set for one. There was no sign of Christina.

I never heard from her again. All I have of her is that formal little note and these memories.

And then this morning I saw her face in a glossy magazine, making up the numbers at some charity do. The main focus of the picture was the power couple who had organized the thing, but Christina's face leapt at out at me. She still looks incredible.

It's been a few years; good years for me, mostly. I'm now a full partner at the practice in west London. I'm married; we're trying for a child. My work sometimes takes me overseas, to conferences and so forth, but I never stay in the kind of hotel where Mrs Rose might be a guest. Although I'm sometimes tempted to ask, just in case.

From the picture it's impossible to say if she's with someone, not that it would be any of my business. I hope she's found happiness. But I know that when I make love to my wife tonight I'll be thinking of Christina.