I was almost home by the time I realised that my phone was still charging in Liam’s apartment.

“Shit,” I said, prompting his chauffeur to tap the brakes as we approached Clapham Common.

“Everything okay?” He looked at me through the rear-view mirror and indicated to pull in. He had a thick grey moustache and reminded me of a Mario Brother. 

“Sorry. I think I left my phone.” I tapped my non-existent pockets; the universal signal of having misplaced something. “I think I left it on his desk. I’m so sorry.”

“S’alright, love,” the driver said, indicating off again, “we can go back.”

“Are you sure? Thank you. Sorry to be a pain in the arse.”

“It’s no problem.”

I sank back into the heated seat, mortified by my chauffeur drive of shame, longing to be on the couch with Claire and Bec, buried under a duvet and elbow-deep in a tub of Celebrations.

Here I was, a week before Christmas, sailing through London in a blacked-out Range Rover, after a night of debauchery, wearing Liam Hale’s hoodie over my Herve Leger bandage dress and looking like I had been dragged through a hedge. I wondered if the driver was used to taking Liam’s one-night-stands home on Sunday mornings; he certainly seemed very discreet. He hadn’t even asked for my name.

Outside, the streets were crowded with Christmas shoppers and tourists wrapped up in hats and scarves and laden with shopping bags. I shut them out and closed my eyes, thinking back to the previous night. I had committed the worst professional breach imaginable; a probation officer having sex with her client, not once, but several times over the space of twelve hours. There was surely no coming back from this. And worst of all, I was now returning to the scene of the crime to pick up my phone. I was thirty, not sixteen. What the fuck had I been thinking?

I leaned my head against the window, enjoying the contrast between the cold glass and warm leather beneath my legs. Liam had insisted that his driver drop me home, despite my weak protestations about getting an Uber.

“I had a great night,” he had said, just an hour ago as he led me out of the lift and into the underground carpark where the Range Rover was waiting.

“See you,” I said, opening the door and clambering up. In the cold light of day, standing in a freezing carpark in a mini dress, I felt like a complete idiot and couldn’t bring myself to agree with him.

“Hey, wait.” He blocked me from closing the door. “Don’t feel bad. Never regret a great night, whatever the circumstances.”

He had gone to kiss me on the lips then, but a slight turn of my head had resulted in an awkward peck on the corner of my mouth. How had the most incredible night of my life suddenly left me feeling like this?

“I don’t regret it. I just feel...” I trailed off, clipping the seatbelt in.

“I know.” He gave my bare knee a squeeze as he gently closed the door.

--

Now, standing outside his building, I was definitely beginning to have regrets. I tapped his apartment number into the intercom and waited as several long beeps rang out. Eventually, someone answered, but it was not the familiar voice I was expecting.

“Hello. Can I help you?” said a woman with a cut-glass accent. “Are we expecting a delivery?” It sounded as though she was shouting to someone in another room. To Liam.

My stomach twisted like a towel being wrung out. Are we expecting? Did Liam have a girlfriend who had just arrived home? I felt as though the polished granite flagstones were moving beneath my feet. Thinking back, he had been pretty keen for me to leave before noon.

I cleared my throat. “I’m looking for Liam Hale,” I said, holding my breath as I waited for her response.

“Who is this?”

I could hear some mumbling and then Liam’s voice, strained and thin. “I’ll be right down.”

Presumably, he had noticed my phone and put two and two together. I stood against the wall and waited, looking at the floor to avoid the stares of people passing, my legs turning blue. I signalled to the driver that Liam was on his way down.

The glass doors opened a few minutes later and he appeared, dressed in a fresh shirt and jeans, holding my phone up.

“Sorry,” I said. “Hope I didn’t get you in any trouble.”

I walked back towards the car, feeling close to tears.

“Let’s go,” I said to the driver, closing the door before Liam had time to speak.

--

An hour later, I threw my keys down on the hall table and heaved a sigh of relief. Bec and Claire were sitting in the lounge, still in their pyjamas, watching the Hollyoaks omnibus with the remnants of bacon sandwiches on the table.

“Fuck me. What happened to you?” Claire said, pausing the program and sitting up. Her brown hair was piled in an enormous mound on her head. “You look like melted shit.”

“Don’t think you’re slinking off upstairs,” Bec said, getting up and grabbing the cups and plates from the table. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

“Yes. Full de-brief required,” Claire said. “We need to know who owns that top, for starters.”

“Believe me, you don’t want to know,” I said, opening the door that led to the second floor where my tiny bedroom was. “I’ll just get changed. Put me some toast on.”

“So let me get this fucking straight,” Claire said dramatically, ten minutes later, her eyes wide and shiny. She was gesticulating wildly for added effect. “Let’s make sure we’re on the same page here... you fucked one of your criminals?”

The way she said it was too much; we all collapsed with laughter.

“Don’t put it like that.” I hid behind a cushion.

“You’re next level, Nat,” Bec said, shaking her head. “Next level.”

“I didn’t mean to. Some random was harassing me and he happened to be there. He helped me out of a sticky situation.”

“And then into a sticky situation,” Bec said, collapsing at her own joke.

Claire took a sip of her tea and warmed her hands on the mug. As usual, the heating was off to save money. “And you fucked him to say thanks? Cos that's perfectly normal.”

We shared a narrow Victorian house with beautiful high ceilings, exposed wooden floors, and a boiler that broke every other week. The windows almost always had a thin layer of condensation on the inside and our landlord was a pervert, but it was home.

“How was it?” said Bec. Her pyjamas were covered in pink sheep and she looked at least ten years younger than she was; her flawless dark brown skin was completely unlined. She worked as a teacher at the local primary school. “How many times?”

“Christ. Is nothing sacred around here?” They stared at me and shook their heads in unison. “Fine. Four times.”

“Four!” Claire pretended to faint and wiped her brow with the edge of the throwover. “And you didn’t answer Bec’s question. Was it earth-shattering? Do bad boys do it better?”

I hid my face again, laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation and their questioning. “It was unbelievable. Like unbelievable.”

“How fit is he on the Tom Hardy scale?” Bec curled up in the armchair and wrapped a fleece blanket around her shoulder.

The Tom Hardy scale was the rating system we had developed after three years as singletons in London. Zero being our landlord Richard, five for Leonardo DiCaprio’s level of hot, and ten for Tom Hardy.

“He’s off the scale.”

“Girl! No chance. Better looking than Tom Hardy?” Bec arched an eyebrow and looked at me as though I had just pissed on her favourite dress. “Fuck off. You’re lying.”

I set the cushion aside and pictured Liam Hale; his tanned skin and muscles against the crisp white bedsheets just a few hours ago, his tousled brown hair and his chiselled jaw and sexy, knowing smile. I felt a pang between my legs as I remembered how cool and in command he had been; turning me over like a rag doll and sliding into me like we were two puzzle pieces, making me come, over and over, like no one ever had.

“I’m being serious. He’s a solid twenty out of ten.” I shuddered, archiving the memory.

“Well, when are you seeing him again? This can’t end here. A sexy bad-boy that’s off the scale... this can’t be the end.” Claire crossed her legs and turned to face me, shaking her head solemnly, like it would be a tragedy of biblical proportions if we didn’t fuck again.

“Apart from the fact that it’s highly unethical, I think he has a girlfriend. It’s over.”

--

Christmas came and went. Fortunately, the probation centre closed for two weeks over the holiday period, which meant I didn’t have to face Liam Hale until the following week. Or so I thought.

It was that period between Christmas and New Year, when time has no meaning and one day bleeds into the next. The three of us were lazing on the sofa, dressed in our comfiest clothes, with a box of Celebrations on the coffee table and the curtains drawn. Rain hammered against the window pane, crashing down in angry bursts before slackening off for a few minutes. Bec had wheeled an electric heater into the lounge and we had plugged up the gaps beneath the door frames with cushions to keep the drafts away. After four consecutive nights out, we were all suffering.

Around four that the afternoon, there was a knock on the front door. We looked at each other, no one moving. In this day and age, an unannounced visitor was usually a debt collector or a Jehovah’s Witness.

Bec, who was closest to the window, slid a finger between two slats in the blind and looked out. “Black Range Rover. Anyone order drugs?”

Claire laughed, but I froze, feeling myself sink into the sofa as though the shabby cushions were quicksand.

Bec was already on her feet and bounding down the hall before I could move my lips to speak. My tongue suddenly felt too big for my mouth.

I heard a few mumbled sentences and then Bec reappeared at the door, eyes wide and her mouth open like a goldfish.

“Who is it?” Claire said, pausing the TV.

“Him,” Bec whispered. “She was right: he is off the fucking scale.”

“Where is he now?” I said, standing up, panicked. I was wearing an over-sized Harry Potter T-shirt and tracksuit pants that had seen better days.

“In the hall. Waiting to speak to you,” Bec said, shrugging. “Go out.”

--

The sight of Liam Hale standing in my cramped hallway, next to the overflowing coat rack and Bec’s bicycle was surreal. His hair was damp from the rain and he was dressed casually, wearing a thick navy jumper and jeans, with a pair of dark Nike running shoes on his feet. His coat was draped over his arm, dripping a little on the black and white tiles.

“Nat, hi,” he said, hovering near the door. He looked as though he was trying to hold in a smile, no doubt amused by my outfit. “I hope you don’t mind, but I was in the area.”

“How do you know where I live?” I said, closing the door to the lounge behind me, knowing that the girls would be pressed up against it.

I pulled my cardigan across my chest, covering the Slytherin crest, but it was too late; he had noticed it.

“Slytherin, eh? Surprising,” he pressed his tongue into the side of his mouth and nodded to himself as though he was weighing me up against every Hogwarts house like a sexy Sorting Hat.

“You didn’t answer my question...”

“My driver dropped you off last week. I asked him where you lived,” he reached for my arm but I backed up and his hand fell back to his side. “Look, the girl you heard... it’s not what you think.”

I was embarrassed now. Liam obviously thought I was a jealous psycho. I stared down at my feet, which were covered up by sparkly pink socks. I wanted the ground to swallow me up and never spit me back out.

“It’s none of my business,” I said, picking at a loose thread on my sleeve. “Honestly. Let’s forget about it. It was a mistake.”

“Can we talk? Just for five minutes? Please.”

I took a deep breath, part of me wanting to send him away, mortified at the state of the house and my appearance, but part of me longing to be in his company, and wanting to hear his explanation. The realisation suddenly hit me that I had missed him this week. I had seen him every week for a year and almost two weeks had passed since the night at his place.

“Five minutes.”

I opened the lounge door and heard Bec and Claire jump back on to the couch. I motioned at Liam to follow me.

“Ladies,” he said, smiling politely as he walked a few steps behind me. I couldn’t bring myself to look at the girls for fear of laughing, but I knew exactly what kind of expressions they would be wearing.

“We can talk upstairs,” I said, kicking the draft excluder to one side and opening the door which led to a narrow staircase.

--

My room was the smallest of the three bedrooms; just large enough to accommodate a double bed, clothes rack and dressing table. As Liam sat down on the tiny stool in the corner, I silently congratulated myself on tidying up earlier. The bed was made and there was a jug with flowering lilies on the window sill. It was no penthouse suite, and the view into next door’s yard wasn’t impressive, but at least it looked half civilised.

I perched on the edge of the bed and placed one of the scatter cushions on my knee, like a shield.

“I just wanted to explain,” Liam said, bending forward and leaning his elbows on his knees. He let out a light sigh. “That girl works with me; I didn’t spend the night with you and then get rid of you before my girlfriend came over. I don’t have a revolving door, if that’s what you think.”

That was exactly what I thought.

“I didn’t think that,” I lied. “Anyway, I thought you didn’t have a job.” I had accidentally slipped into probation officer mode with the last question.

He briefly met my eyes and then looked down at his hands again. His fingers were pressed together, like someone trying to make a difficult decision or solve a puzzle. Suddenly the penny dropped. It obviously wasn’t the kind of work a probation officer should know about. He didn’t seem keen on elaborating.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me. Honestly,” I said, fiddling with the tassels on the cushion, “it was one night. You hardly know me.”

He scoffed at that. “I hardly know you? Really?”

I swallowed and focused on the tassel again, smoothing all of the strings down. In the tiny room, my knee was almost grazing his and I felt like a weak iron filing drawn to a magnet.

“You know me in a professional capacity.”

“I know you, Nat. I know you’re kind, beautiful and sexy as hell. I know you don’t judge me on my past, despite your job. I know you sacrifice your goals for other people,” Liam said, tracing my knee with his fingers.  “I know you live for the weekend because you hate your job; spending money on expensive dresses and letting your hair down so you can forget about Monday to Friday. I know I look forward to seeing you every week...”

My stomach cartwheeled up and settled somewhere near my chest. I met his eyes properly for the first time since he had arrived. Sparks had flown with people in the past, but the electricity that zinged through my veins in Liam’s presence was completely alien to me; the ever-present ache of longing between my legs and the desire to be in physical contact with him which was overwhelming. I was a deep-sea diver and he was my oxygen tank. I felt as though my body had been in hibernation for the last five years, and now here was Liam Hale, breathing life into each cell and waking me up again.

We stood up at the same time, lips meeting with a sense of urgency even greater than the previous week. His hands were suddenly everywhere, moving from my hair to my top as he nuzzled my neck. He slipped my top off and gently sucked my nipples before moving back to my mouth. My hands moved to his jeans, grazing his erection before quickly unbuckling his belt. I needed him inside me. There was no point even trying to deny it or let my head lead me; chemistry like this would always win.

He backed me against the wall and tugged my pants off, then lifted me up as though I was a feather-light. I wrapped my legs around him as he thrust into me, bouncing me up and down on his cock, my back slamming on the wall behind and breasts pushing against his chest.

He carried me to the bed, not even slipping out of me for a second, and then laid me down, fucking me harder and more urgently than I’d ever been fucked in my life. With every grind, I could feel the full length of his cock moving against the wet walls of my pussy and his body.

“That’s so good,” I whispered, lacing my fingers through his hair as I felt the orgasm building. “So good.”

He pulled back slightly and moved his hand between us, feeling himself moving in and out before turning his attention to my damp and throbbing clit. He rubbed it steadily, sliding my juices over it. His mouth was next to my cheek, lips brushing my hair and ear as his breathing became more intense.

I arched my back and came seconds after him, closing my eyes as he pulsed against me. The thought of his cum filling my pussy again sent waves of pleasure through my body. He pulled out, his wet erection dampening my thigh. His mouth moved down to my clit and he sucked me until I came for a second time.

“Come here,” I said, resting his head against my breasts. I stroked his neck and surprised myself by instinctively kissing the top of his head. Why was it that a kiss on the head felt more intimate than fucking someone senseless?

I could hear the TV blaring downstairs and suddenly remembered how well sound carried in this house. I wasn’t going to hear the end of this. I closed my eyes and tried to savour the moment; his body pressed tight against me, cock resting against my leg and his stomach on my damp pussy.  

“Are you busy tomorrow?” he asked, tilting his head up. “I’d like to take you on a date.”

“A date?”

“Yep. You know... romance, conversation, wine, good food, possibly more sex. A date.”

I laughed and turned into my pillow, embarrassed that Liam might see my stupid expression of sheer delight.

“Sure.”

“For what I’ve got in mind, we’ll have to leave early," he said, threading his fingers through mine and pulling my hand to his mouth. “Are you okay with flying?”

“Flying?”

“I want to take you somewhere special, on a date that’s fit for a princess.” He paused for a moment before adding, “Don’t worry, it’s within the UK. I’m not breaching my parole.”

Deep inside, I knew this fling was bound to end in burning flames, but I also knew, without a doubt, that tomorrow was going to be the best day of my life, and you should live every day like it’s your last, right?