My publicist Emily leads me to a table where several stacks of my books are piled like Jenga towers. My stomach stirs at the sight. I love book tours and this is the first stop on a two-week jaunt across the country to promote my second novel. Before the month is out, I’ll have done ten signings, two TV appearances and countless radio interviews.

I sit down and fix my hair as the bookshop manager prepares to unlock the front doors. People are already queuing outside, sheltering from the chilly Edinburgh wind under the store’s awning.

A few hours pass and the crowd thins out a little. The pile of paperbacks beside me is replenished every few minutes by Emily, so it’s hard to calculate how many we’ve sold. She’s smiling from ear to ear, though, so I presume it’s been a good day. She sweeps her phone around the room and records yet another Instagram story. I hate social media, but she assures me that it’s good for ‘my brand’ and she needs to show the publisher that she’s working. I like her, so I let her do what she needs to do.

“Hey, stranger.”

I look up, Sharpie marker in hand, ready to write another personalised message. It takes me a few minutes to realise who the tall, handsome man in front of me is. He’s wearing a dark sweater, jeans and an overcoat. Droplets of water cling to the wool like Swarovski crystals.

“Mark?” I get to my feet, a little unsteadily, and step around the table. Emily looks over at me and then down to her clipboard, like she’s wondering if he’s a journalist she missed from her list. I wave to let her know it’s okay.

“I heard you were doing a signing,” he says, flashing a wide smile. His mouth is generous and his teeth beautifully even. “The famous Catriona March on my doorstep... it was too good an opportunity to miss.”

He kisses my cheek and pulls me in for a hug, his hand firm and warm on the small of my back. He smells amazing, I think, as my nose brushes his collar.

I take a step backwards to soak him in. He’s in his late forties now but looks even better than I remember. When he smiles, his eyes shine and his left cheek dimples.

I know from my occasional LinkedIn stalking of him that he’s still an English professor at Edinburgh University, my old alma mater. It’s a position he’s held for over fifteen years. He sometimes appears as a panellist on my favourite radio show, but it’s been more than a decade since I’ve seen him in the flesh.

“I can’t believe it,” I say, my hand on the damp sleeve of his coat. “It’s great to see you.”

I’m suddenly grateful that Emily organised hair and make-up for this morning, despite my initial protestations that it was a waste of budget and sleep time. My long brown hair has been blow-dried into voluminous waves and my skin is glowing in a way I can never achieve on my own.

“I don’t want to hold you up,” Mark says, turning to acknowledge the queue behind him. “Here’s my card. Give me a ring later if you want to get a drink.”

“You mean you don’t want to buy a copy?” I laugh and tuck the card into the pocket of my dress.

“I already have one.”

---

It’s almost eight and I still haven’t called him. The rain is lashing against the windowpane of my top floor hotel room and steaking down the glass. In the distance, Edinburgh Castle looks as though it’s floating above the rest of the city, under-lit by powerful orange spotlights. It’s one of my favourite cities in the world, dark and mysterious, with a murderous history. There’s no place quite like it.

I turn his business card over in my hand: Professor Mark Loxley. I think of my husband then, alone at home, probably watching Netflix with the dog. He’s never met Mark Loxley and has no idea of the threat he represents.

Being so close to Mark for the first time in years is too much for me to resist. I take a deep breath and punch his number in. He answers quickly, before I can change my mind and hang up.

“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t call,” he says.

I take a sip of wine and run my fingers up and down the stem of the glass.

“Don’t lie,” I say, watching my own reflection in the glass.  “You knew I would.”

I can almost hear him smile. “Where are you staying?”

“The Balmoral.”

 “I’ll meet you in the bar. Give me half an hour.”

I rifle through the wardrobe and pull out a crisp white shirt. I tuck it into my high-waisted designer jeans and open the buttons low enough to reveal the dip between my breasts. From a certain angle, you can see the white lace of my bra. My skin is still tanned from the three weeks I spent in the south of France over the summer.

A chunky silver necklace and a smear of red lipstick finish things off. My hair still looks fresh from the blow-dry earlier. I pull it around so it frames my face and falls over my chest.

I slip my fingers down the waistband of my jeans and run them over the lips of my pussy. They glide easily between the skin and the damp fabric of my thong. I wipe them on the bedsheet and grab my handbag. It seems Mark Loxley hasn’t lost his touch; my body reacts at just the thought of seeing him.

--

Mark is sitting at the bar when I get down, wearing dark jeans, boots and a charcoal-coloured jumper. His hair is damp and tousled from the rain.

He greets me warmly and pulls a stool out for me. I pretend not to notice as he appraises my body and rests his eyes on my chest, where the silver necklace grazes my breasts. He orders a bottle of red and signals to the barman that we’re moving to a table in front of the fireplace.

I watch the flames lick the glass of the wood-burning stove a few minutes later as the waiter pours out two glasses of Malbec. I think of the last time we were together, over ten years ago; me, with a tear-stained face, wanting more than he could give me, and Mark, stepping out from behind his desk to plead with me, telling me he wasn’t what I needed or wanted.

“Are you married?” I ask, crossing my legs and enjoying the heat of the fire on my ankle. I sit back in the armchair and watch him.

He leans forward and brings his chair closer to mine. “No.”

I nod and smile, pushing my lips together, amused. “Course you’re not. No one could tie you down, eh?” I wait a few seconds and then go in for the kill. “Are you still breaking the hearts of your students?”

He’s caught off guard and splutters a little, then laughs. “You were always straight to the point, Cat. I’m glad that hasn’t changed. It’s what makes you a bloody good writer.”

Mark supervised my creative writing MA at university. I was twenty-two and he was thirty-five, and for one glorious year, we spent our time fucking, reading poetry and drinking red wine.

I stay silent, so he continues, “And the answer is no, you have the honour of being the only person in that category.”

“It ended pretty badly,” I say, laughing, because now I’m old enough and wise enough to know that he’d been right back then.

“It was amazing while it lasted, but it’s hard to make student-teacher relationships work.”

“Unless you’re the President of France,” I say, jabbing my glass at the air like it’s a ruler.

 He laughs and says, “True.”

“Anyway, it’s not illegal for university professors and students to get together.”

He nods and fiddles with the label on the wine bottle. “Just frowned upon.”

“I never felt like you took advantage of me, in case you’ve ever wondered about that.” I tap his arm to make my point. “Your conscience is clear. I was old enough to know what I was getting into.”

“I appreciate you saying that,” Mark says.

His eyes feel like lasers, burning through my retinas, and I look away.

Memories that I’ve suppressed for years bubble to the surface now. I suddenly remember what the ornate light-fitting above his desk looked like; how I’d focus on it when I was lying back and he was eating my pussy; how I’d beg him to fuck me between lectures; how I’d sit in class, enjoying the damp feel of his cum on my underwear.

I remind myself that on paper my life now is amazing: a high six-figure book deal, handsome husband, cottage in Cornwall, my new-found celebrity status. Things are good, and until this morning, Mark Loxley was a distant memory. But I also know, now, that I’d trade it all to go back. Being successful lines your bank account and makes restaurant reservations easy, but it doesn’t make you feel alive in the way that a hot university professor eating your pussy does.

“I’m proud of you,” he says, lightly nudging my knee with his, “but not surprised. I knew you’d make it. Cream always rises to the top and you, Catriona March, are cream.” He clinks my glass.

“It’s surreal.” I snap my attention back. “I’m still getting used to it.”

“Have you sold the film rights?”

I nod. The rights to my first novel sold a few months back. My husband took me to Barcelona to celebrate, and my friends and I made a drunken wish-list of Hollywood actors that we wanted to see in the lead role.

The feel of Mark’s knee brushing against mine makes my pussy ache now. I drain my glass and stand up, smoothing my shirt down.

“Do you want to see the view from my room?” I ask, my eyes on his. “It’s stunning.”

He looks up at me and nods, slowly. “I’d love to.”

--

I close the door and within seconds we’re tangled up. His hands grip my face as he caresses my tongue with his and I can feel his erection hard against my pelvis. I unbuckle his belt and tug his jeans and pants down, feeling his cock spring free. I slip my shirt off and his mouth moves to my breasts, dampening the lace and closing around my nipples.

“Fuck me,” I whisper, my lips against his ear now as he unbuttons my jeans and slides them down, pausing for a second to run his hand between my legs.

We move to the bed and I position myself on my hands and knees, back arched and arse facing him. My clit throbs as I feel him behind me, thighs warm against mine. He slips his hand through my legs and covers his fingers in my juice, then rubs it onto his cock. I hear him lick his fingers and groan as he spreads my cheeks and guides himself inside.

I lurch forward with the force of him entering me. My pussy surrounds him, grips him with her contours like she’s welcoming an old friend back. He holds my hips as he drives into me, over and over. I push back, slamming against his torso, physically pleading with him to fuck me harder and deeper.

“God,” he moans, his voice husky as he works up to climax, pulling almost the whole way out and then slipping back in to enjoy the feel of my pussy running the full length of his cock.

I reach between my legs and rub my clit so I can finish in time with him, and he comes inside me a few seconds later, shuddering as his cock pulses against my walls.

We take a bath together and I order room service: another bottle of wine and some junk food.

“You’re still as beautiful as ever,” he says, tracing a line down my spine and running his finger between my arse cheeks. “And as perky.”

We’re lying on top of the bedsheets, naked, with the heating up and a bowl of French fries between us. It’s midnight and I have to be up at six for a breakfast radio interview, but there’s no way I’ll sleep tonight. We’re greedy for each other, and I know it’s only a matter of time before we fuck again. Sleeping’s out of the question.

“Will you stay in touch?” he asks, turning onto his side and leaning his head on his hand.

“Would you like me to?” I kiss him tenderly; the way I used to.

He nods and I watch the steady rise and fall of his chest. His body is perfect; unchanged by the years. He strokes my face with his spare hand.

“Touring gets lonely,” I say, feeling my pussy flutter at the thought of this being a regular thing. “Maybe you could join me every now and then.”

“I’d love to,” Mark says, reaching down to the room service tray. “Just tell me when and where, and I’ll be there.”

He picks up the small pot of melted chocolate from the churros I ordered and dips two fingers into it. I know what he’s going to do.

“Is it time for dessert?” I ask, rolling onto my back and opening my legs.

Mark moves between my thighs and carefully spreads the warm chocolate over my clit and lips. He dips his fingers again and slathers another layer on top, working it right down towards my arse and my star.

I gasp as he starts to lick me clean, hungrily scooping the chocolate out of my folds with his tongue and unhooding my clit as he drinks it down.

“Sorry. I should really share,” he says, briefly moving up to kiss me, before going back to my pussy.

The taste of chocolate mixed with my own juices turns me on as I close my eyes and arch my back, waiting for more. He doesn’t disappoint as he thrusts his tongue into me, keeping it taut and fucking me with it.

He flips me over a few minutes later and a wave of pleasure grips me as I realise what’s coming next. It’s clear to me just why he’d been so irresistible in my student days. The boys in my class seemed to think a quick fuck in the missionary position was acceptable, yet there was Mark, fourteen years older, eating my pussy out and fucking me in ways no one had even dared to before; taking time to shower with me, massage me and lick and suck every inch of me. He ruined me for every other man that was to follow.

I get onto my hands and knees as he bends behind me and parts my arse cheeks. I’m sticky from the chocolate, but he cleans it up, sweeping his tongue over my star and back down towards my clit. Nothing is off-limits with him. My body seems to open up for him in a way that it doesn’t for any other man.

“Fuck me again,” I say, imagining myself like a clam that’s been sealed shut for ten years.

“How?” He peels my arse cheeks apart again and licks me.

“Anal.”

He groans at this and then probes me gently with his finger. “And what exactly would you like me to do?”

I raise my arse towards him like a cat stretching out.

“Professor Loxley,” I say. My voice is husky and I can smell sex in the air. “I want you to fuck me anally and cum inside... and I want to feel it dripping out of me. Please, Professor.”

My arse closes tight around his cock as he drives it into me. His breath is jagged and heavy now and I arch my back so he can plunge deeper. Ever the gentleman, he moves a hand between my legs and finds my wet clit, rubbing it as he slaps hard against me.

He comes a few seconds before me, pulses once inside me and then pulls out, leaving the rest of his cum in between my cheeks. I moan as he spreads it over my arse and pussy, enjoying the silky feel of us mixing together.

We lie back, our limbs tangled, and talk about contemporary literature and the state of the British publishing industry. I’m a bee; his words and ideas are nectar to me and I could listen to him speak for hours.

He stops, mid-sentence, then kisses my head.

“I’m sorry, for the way things ended,” Mark says. “It’s haunted me a bit over the years. I did care about – love – you, but I couldn’t see a way forward.”

I reach up and put my finger to his lips. “Shush. We had to finish it. And anyway, we’ve found each other again, so...”

“All’s well that ends well.”

--

There’s a tap on my door at half six. I open it to find Emily standing there, clipboard in hand. She smiles brightly and tells me that our taxi will be outside shortly. She missed Mark by just ten minutes.

“Right. I’ll be down in a sec,” I say, my voice hoarse. I must look like shit.

“And there’s a surprise for you.”

“Oh?”

She steps to the side and raises her hands as if to say ‘taa-daa’. I feel the ground beneath me shift as my husband steps into the room and wraps his arms around my waist.

“I flew up!” he says, looking pleased with himself. “Neighbour’s looking after the dog. I missed you.”

“Right,” Emily says, smiling like a Cheshire cat, “I’ll see you in the lobby.”

I quickly enter fight-or-flight mode, scanning the room for evidence. I catch sight of the room service tray and glasses in the corner, but he doesn’t seem to have spotted them. My heart rate is soaring. Mark and I had sex for a third and final time just minutes ago, and now my husband is here. It’s too much to take in.

“Greg, I can’t believe it,” I say, hugging him and doing my best to sound pleased. “This is amazing.”

“I couldn’t go another day,” he says, nuzzling my neck. He lifts my robe up at the back and runs his hands over my arse. “I need you. Please say there’s time for a quickie.”

He presses my hand against his erection and unties my belt. Panic paralyses me as I realise my pussy is still soaked and sticky from Mark.

“Hang on, I need the bathroom,” I say, gently pushing him back. “We’ll have to make this quick.”

I quickly wipe between my legs with a damp towel and flush the chain, before walking back to Greg who’s already tugging his jeans down. I toss my robe onto the room service tray. For some inexplicable reason, the thought of my husband fucking me straight after Mark kind of turns me on.

I kneel on all fours and close my eyes, thinking of Mark Loxley as Greg slides inside.